by Peter Corris
‘We’d better get organised. Peter’s having a last brush-up of his speech with Bolton. He’ll want to talk to Martin too. Have you seen him?’
‘He went out for a walk.’
‘You’d better get him, Cliff. I think Peter’ll want to talk to us all before we go.’
She squeezed my arm again and left. I nodded to the big guard with the big gun and we went out onto the street. Nothing to the left; I looked right, saw the crowd of people clustering on the footpath a hundred yards away and broke into a run. The crowd parted as I came pounding up. My jacket was open and my gun was showing; I had my operator’s licence in my hand. It didn’t mean a thing here but it caused people to move back and let me see what had drawn them.
Martin lay on the ground on his back. His head was tilted at an odd angle and there was an ugly gash running from above his right eye up into his hairline. His smashed glasses were in the hand of a small man who was bending over him. He had blood on his shirt.
‘He’s alive,’ the man said. ‘Stunned real bad though. Concussion.’
‘Anyone call an ambulance?’ I said.
‘Hey, an Aussie,’ someone said from the crowd.
The man with blood on his shirt handed me the glasses. ‘I told someone to get help.’
‘Thanks.’
Martin groaned and lifted his head. ‘Who’re these people? What happened?’
I put my hand behind his head which looked like falling back. ‘Don’t you know?’
He tried to shake his head and winced as the pain shot through him. ‘Nothing. Where am I?’
‘Ain’t no mugger,’ one of the on-lookers said. ‘Lookit, his wallet’s still there.’
No ambulance ever came but the hotel doctor arrived and pronounced Martin fit to be moved. We got him back to the hotel where the doctor stitched the gash, gave him a sedative and advised hospitalisation. By this time Spinoza had arrived so six of us congregated in January’s suite.
‘It’s looking bad, sir,’ Spinoza said. ‘The harassment’s intensifying. I think you shouldn’t go today.’
‘No!’ January slapped his palm hard against the window. We were all standing up, nervous and uncertain. ‘I’m going. They’ve been cancelling me right, left and centre. I’m not cancelling myself.’
‘Private dwelling, lots of people, neighbouring apartments.’ Spinoza checked the points off on his long, thin fingers. ‘Very hard to protect you.’
‘I don’t care,’ January said. ‘None of the rest of you have to come, though.’
‘I’m paid to come,’ I said.
‘I’ll need it for my memoirs,’ Trudi said.
‘What?’ January spun away from the window and stared at her.
‘I’m going to write my memoirs. I need to experience everything.’
January grinned; his ego was still working even when he was under threat. ‘Memoirs, Jesus,’ he said.
Gary Wilcox genuinely had another appointment and Bolton contrived one so it was just the four of us that set out for Georgetown in an unassuming white Mercedes, Spinoza at the wheel.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked. We were outside a tall building, one of a number close together along the tree-lined street. The buildings were widely enough spaced to allow the trees and courtyards between them to look comfortable.
‘Mrs Amos Clephane,’ Trudi said.
Big cars were drawing up and dropping people outside the condominium. A uniformed motorcycle cop was helping to sort the traffic out. Spinoza showed him a card in a plastic folder and the cop pointed to a parking space, if you can call a spot squarely across a driveway a parking place. Spinoza slipped the Merc into place. ‘She’s the widow of a Judge,’ he said. ‘A very young and very liberal judge who got himself shot. Very rich Judge. Mrs Clephane now works for liberal causes.’
‘A young, rich, liberal widow,’ January said. ‘That must be interesting for her in this town.’
We got out of the car and Spinoza locked it carefully. ‘I believe she enjoys it, sir. She’s very popular. Well, folks, you won’t see me for a while but I’ll be around.’
I grinned at Trudi. ‘What did I tell you.’
Spinoza heard me but ignored it. ‘You must have done this before, Cliff. You look is all.’
‘Right. I assume there’ll be a few guys around who’re on our side?’
‘Not many. Mrs Clephane isn’t exactly on the Administration’s guest list this season.’
‘How many.’
He smiled and did the first bit of coloured-man patter I’d heard from him. ‘Jist me,’ he said.
We went through a gate which would normally be a security device except that it had been neutralised for the occasion. The courtyard in front of the apartment block was bigger than I’d expected—big enough to hold a trestle table covered with glasses, bottles and plates and a marquee under which a long table with six or seven chairs was placed. There was a microphone on a stand at the end of the table. People were mixing in the courtyard; there were more dark faces than I’d seen so far in the official parts of the city I’d been in. Also more young people, although there were middle-aged and old liberals as well.
January was snatched away by a 40-ish blonde woman with elaborate hair and an ornamental face. I was left standing with Trudi.
‘What d’you do?’ she said.
‘Check exits and entries. Sniff the olives in the martinis. How about you?’
‘Try to stay close to Peter. Keep his drinks watered and get him a few minutes to look over his speech.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Agreements with the Russians in the Pacific.’
‘Whose agreements?’
‘Ours.’
I looked around the courtyard; there were 50 or more people in it now and the noise was going up. Most were sipping drinks and a few were smoking cigars. The women wore their expensive clothes as if they’d just stepped into any old thing. Trudi’s loose white dress was right; my linen jacket, slacks and slip-on shoes would have been okay if I’d paid ten times as much for them. ‘Don’t see any friends of the USSR here,’ I said.
Trudi shrugged and drifted away to look for the boss.
I got a glass of wine as a prop and cruised around doing what I said I’d do. The kitchen staff were all black and all busy. The waiters and food dolers-out were all bored but polite. I checked doors and windows through the apartment which ran up for three floors and had balconies and a dumb waiter and a dozen other things I managed to live without. I didn’t see anything to worry me and I was challenged twice by men who identified themselves as ‘friends of our hostess’. We managed to convince each other that we were on the same side.
When I got back to the courtyard it was full almost to the point of discomfort. I saw Creighton Kirby chatting to a tall black woman. I looked around for Mike Borg but couldn’t spot him. The wine had got warm. I took a sip and found a woman standing beside me trying to look into my eyes. It wasn’t too hard for her—in her high heels she was almost as tall as me.
‘He-ello,’ she said.
‘Hello.’
‘You part of the Oss-tralian party?’
‘That’s right.’ She was wearing a tight dress with a cut away top that gave her nowhere to hide a gun. If it was under her skirt I thought I could get to mine faster. ‘Why’re you here, Miss…?’
She waved her hand. She was carrying a long thin champagne glass, nearly full, but she didn’t spill any. I guessed she practised champagne glass waving a couple of hours a day. ‘It’s Mrs, but don’t let it worry you.’
‘Okay.’ She leaned closer; I could smell expensive perfume and see the fine pores in her skin. Her eyelids and lipstick were purple. Her dark hair was drawn back tightly and her cheekbones were accentuated. She was perfect, if you like spider women.
‘I’m anti-nuclear.’ Her voice was low and breathy. ‘And I’ve never done it with an Oss-ie before.’
‘You don’t know what you’re missing. We’re the best.’
‘Yeah. It’s from living on the underneath side of the world.’ I dropped my voice and got closer to her ear. She wore hooped gold earrings in her pierced lobes. ‘The blood rushes to the right place and stays there, if you see what I mean. Well, nice talking to you. I’d better go and skin a kangaroo.’
I left her looking glazed and uncertain. Trudi pushed towards me through a press of tall blondes and redheads of both sexes.
‘There’s nothing happening down here at five foot four,’ she said. ‘How’s it up at six foot one?’
‘You’re half an inch too high. I’ve had one offer of meaningful adultery.’
‘The spider woman?’
‘Yeah, that’s her. She’s after an Australian. Lucky Martin and Bolton aren’t here, she’d eat them. I suppose Peter might oblige.’
‘He hasn’t got time, he’s on in a few minutes. I’d better get up there.’
Things were taking shape up at the front table. There were carafes and glasses of water; chairs were being pushed into place. Peter January, the hostess and a couple of other dignitaries were chatting in front of the microphone. I couldn’t hear anything which made me look around for the PA set-up. In the corner of the courtyard near the gate a man in blue overalls was working with electric cables and a loudspeaker. He glanced up at the table and nodded; someone tapped the microphone and a loud sharp noise rose above the din of talking, drinking and laughing. People heard it and the noise began to subside.
People formed groups and drifted to the sides; space opened up in the courtyard and I got a clear view to the table where January, the woman I took to be Mrs Clephane and two other men were seated. January was in the middle; an old man with a creamy white mane of hair and a luxuriant white moustache was at the end in front of the microphone.
‘Who’s that?’ Someone near me whispered.
‘Judge Calvin Clyde,’ came a hushed reply. ‘He had a triple by-pass and a change of heart at 78. He’s a liberal now.’
They were almost ready. It looked as if Judge Clyde was going to speak first. He shuffled some notes. I caught a movement to my right and looked across at the sound technician. He was looking tense and still fiddling with something although the slight hum from the microphone sounded steady and right. I edged closer and saw three things in one overloaded glance: he was holding an object like a electrical junction box in one hand and in the other he held another wire poised to make contact; the French cuffs of an expensive business shirt poked out an inch below the sleeves of his overall; and he was wearing one of the $3000 watches I’d seen in the gift shop that morning.
I yelled something and made a rush towards him. He saw me and panic seemed to jolt through his body. He shoved the wire into the box and dropped the apparatus as he backed away. Heads were turning towards me but the old man with the white hair was on his feet now and reaching for the microphone.
‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t touch the mike!’ I bullocked my way towards the electrics. Maybe the judge was near-sighted and deaf. He touched the microphone. There was a deafening crack and a flash of intense white light blazed in the courtyard. People screamed, tables were upset and water jugs crashed. That was bad—enough electrically charged water splashed around and a dozen people could fry. I brushed the last person out of my way, bent and yanked out every plug and socket I could get my hands to. The Judge and at least two others were down; men were swearing and women were screaming. I saw Trudi propping up a sobbing fat woman. I ran for the gate.
18
BILLY Spinoza had joined me before I reached the gate and he went through it first.
‘The car!’ he yelled.
We ran for the Mercedes and he had it moving before I could get the door closed.
‘The Electra,’ Spinoza said. ‘You see it?’
I didn’t know what an Electra was but I didn’t like to show my ignorance so I nodded and drew in several deep breaths. The Merc was really travelling now, barrelling down the wide, straight tree-lined street but heading for a roundabout which had a small forest growing on it. Spinoza slewed around a small, slow car and I caught a glimpse of a big, blue car ahead. I decided it was the Electra; I also decided that if it got to the roundabout too far ahead of us we could lose it. Spinoza seemed to think the same. He floored the accelerator and the Mercedes went faster as if it was suddenly going downhill.
We gained on the Electra. Spinoza threw the car into the sweeping roundabout, bluffing other contenders for space and racing through the gears. His dark, lean face was set in a grin as if this was the only kind of driving he really liked. Out of the last lurching, tilting turn and the blue car was less than a hundred yards ahead but drawing away.
‘Super-charged,’ Spinoza said. ‘Shit!’ He gave the Mercedes all the power available but the Electra gained. Spinoza hammered on the wheel and hissed his disgust through his teeth. ‘He’ll take a bridge and be long gone. Sorry, man, we lose.’
‘Slow down,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He eased back and the trees and posts started to whiz past less frequently. ‘Guess not. Did you see the cocksucker?’
I told him that I’d been looking at other things like shirts and watches and he nodded as he took a turn. ‘I think there were two of them, though,’ I said. ‘There was someone up front giving him the nod. Tall, blonde guy.’
Billy grinned. ‘There’s so many just like that. If you ask me, the world’s over-stocked with tall, blonde, bad guys. Did you ah…, see what happened?’
‘No. January could be in an ashtray now for all I know.’
We had to leave the car more than a hundred yards from the condominium and flash our IDs and talk fast four or five times before we could get through to the courtyard. The fire engines were there and the police cars with the flashing lights and the TV news trucks. We shoved people aside and fought our way through to the table where paramedics were squatting dealing with shocked people. Bits of glass from the broken bottles and jugs were strewn around behind the table which was blackened at the end where the microphone had been. A large pot plant standing near was scorched and there was a smell I hadn’t had in my nostrils for a long time—burning flesh.
Spinoza registered it too. ‘Like ’Nam,’ he said.
‘Malaya.’
Trudi broke from a group and dived towards me. ‘Cliff! Cliff! Oh, God…’
I practically had to catch her. Her dress was smeared with blood and dirt but she was intact. ‘Where’s Peter?’
Her wide smile threatened to turn into an hysterical laugh but she checked it. ‘He’s gone to hospital but he’s fine. He was the hero of the hour. He calmed people down, organised everything. He gave a Senator mouth to mouth resuscitation and brought him back.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Spinoza said softly.
‘The old judge?’
‘He’s dead. He was deaf and confused. But you saved the rest of us. That water from the jugs…it was everywhere!’
‘I wish I’d been quicker. So what’s the damage, apart from the Judge?’
‘The Senator. I think he must’ve touched the Judge when he was live. Some people got burns. Peter did. And cuts from falling on the glass.’
‘Could be worse then,’ I said. ‘You’re okay?’
‘I suppose. I was giggling a while ago. I suppose that’s shock.’
Spinoza moved a canvas chair forward. ‘Better sit down, Ms Bell. I’ll look see a bit, Cliff. Send you a drink?’
‘Two.’ Trudi sat and grabbed my arm. ‘Make it three,’ I said.
‘You didn’t catch them, did you?’ Trudi wiped her face with her sleeve and transferred some blood. I got out a handkerchief and wiped it off. Somehow I felt strange being at the scene and not having any blood on me.
‘No, we didn’t catch them.’
‘How did you know?’
I told her how and a waiter arrived with some Scotch in a decanter, a pitcher of ice and some glasses. We drank and sat quietly while the paramedi
cs tidied up—a couple of people went out on stretchers.
‘What happened to them?’ I said.
‘There was a bit of a panic. Some people got trampled.’
The courtyard was emptying when Spinoza came up with a policeman, Mike Borg and another man who was holding a video camera.
Spinoza made a drink for Borg, the man with the camera and himself. ‘You all right, Ms Bell? Good. We got us a very useful gentleman here, Cliff.’
The useful gentleman turned out to be one Robert Klip who had filmed the proceedings in the courtyard from a balcony above with his Sony TV camera.
‘At Mrs Clephane’s invitation,’ he said quickly. ‘You can check with her.’
‘I have,’ Spinoza said. ‘She asked you to give us your fullest cooperation.’
Klip was a tall, thin man, almost bald and with devoted eyes and a sensitive mouth. ‘For her,’ he said, ‘anything.’
We experts who hadn’t managed to prevent an old man from being fried, exchanged glances.
‘Just give us the film, Mr Klip,’ Borg said. ‘We’ll give you a receipt and make sure your property is returned to you.’
Klip ejected the cassette. ‘Is that all?’
‘You’ve been a great help.’ Spinoza took the cassette. ‘I’ll leave the receipt to you. Mr Borg.’
Borg scowled and dug into his jacket pockets. Spinoza handled the cassette reverently. ‘We can go and look at pictures now, Cliff.’
‘Right. I want to take Trudi back to the hotel first and find out what’s happening to January. Where is she?’
Trudi came out of the apartment carrying her empty glass. She was pale but looked composed. ‘Peter’s staying in hospital until tomorrow. He’ll go straight from there to the Senate hearing and straight from that to the plane.’
‘God,’ I said. ‘Can he walk?’
She laughed. ‘He could run if he wanted to. This is all theatrics.’
‘It’s fine,’ Spinoza said. ‘We can mount real good security at the hospital. Keep everybody out.’
‘Except the TV and the reporters.’ Trudi said.
I drained my glass. ‘We’ve got business, Trudi. Want to go back to the hotel?’