The first person I saw the next morning looked worried and guilty-it was me, in a mirror, and I didn’t have to be a detective to know why. I hadn’t sent Helen her postcard. My stomach felt off after the bad red wine and I didn’t want any breakfast. I was in the corridor intending to go to the lobby where I remembered they had a gift shop. I bumped into Martin and immediately felt better because he looked worse than I did.
‘What happened to you?’ I poked the button to call the lift; Martin was shaking, polishing his spectacles and not looking up to the job.
‘Got drinking with some of the press boys last night.’
‘You don’t look the type.’ We got into the lift and had the chance to examine both our images in the mirrors. Mirrors don’t lie: he looked much worse than me.
‘I’m not really. A couple of beers down the Canberra Rex on Friday night’s my speed. Bit of wine with dinner. I don’t know how it happened.’
‘I daresay there’s more sin here than in Canberra. Don’t worry, you’ll recover. You can have a hair of the dog at this Georgetown bash. You going?’
We arrived at ‘R’, which meant the ground floor, and he stumbled leaving the lift. ‘That’s not the worst of it. They cancelled another meeting with the Minister this morning.’
‘That’s not bad news for me.’
‘It is for him. He feels he’s getting the cold shoulder.’
‘What did he expect? Excuse me, I have to buy something. Where are you going?’
‘For a walk, to clear my head.’
I thought of telling him to be careful and then cancelled the thought. He was over 30 and he had a job in Canberra; he could look after himself.
I bought a postcard of the Washington monument at the news-stand and wrote on it that I’d tried to contact her and that I missed her and that if she didn’t phone me in Sydney when I got back I was going to come up to Kempsey and fix it so that she and Michael and me and the kid all had our say. I got stamps at the desk and mailed the card to the radio station where she worked. Trudi came into view as I was dropping it in the box.
‘Helen?’
‘Right.’
‘What’s happened to you? You got all shirty last night?’
I hadn’t spoken much after we’d left the restaurant. I did the strong, silent stuff with Spinoza and said goodnight to Trudi and January in the hallway.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s crazy. I had no right but it’d been a hard day. I was sort of jealous about you and January. Jet lag. Dumb.’
She squeezed my arm. ‘That was dumb. I’m more interested in Spinoza. C’mon over to ye olde gifte shoppe.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanna get a diamond-studded collar for Gunther.’
I hadn’t noticed but the gift shop was that sort of place. There were trinkets with thousand dollar price tickets on them; $500 gold lighters, Cartier watches for three grand. I did notice the wiring of the glass cases and the uniformed guard who stood by the door with what looked like a Colt Frontiersman on his hip.
‘Bit rich for the blood,’ I said.
Trudi peered at a case. ‘It’s got diamonds from one to 12.’
‘Not very big ones. What time are we due at Georgetown?’
‘Bit after 11.’ She’d washed her hair and smelled fresh and good. The fine eyebrow lines were still enticing. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Think Spinoza’ll be there?’
‘Hiding in the shrubbery. You won’t see him.’
‘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 harassments 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. ‘Just 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.’
‘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.