Free Winterland by Alan Glynn

bangs out the number and waits.
    Voicemail.
    He doesn’t leave a message. He tries another number. And waits.
    ‘Good morning, the Depart –’
    ‘The Minister, please. It’s Paddy Norton.’
    ‘Just a moment, please, Mr Norton.’
    With the phone cradled on his shoulder, he reties the belt around his dressing gown.
     
    ‘Mr Norton? The Minister is unavailable at the moment. Can I –’
    ‘No. It’s OK. I’ll call again later. Thanks.’
    Norton should have known. With that Paloma announcement on the news, there’s no way Bolger wasn’t going to be tied up.
    He puts the phone down, then picks it up again almost immediately. With the Oberon Capital Group now firmly in the picture, Norton is pretty sure negotiations with Amcan will be stepping up a gear or two. There are several people he needs to talk to.
    But as he stares at the phone in his hand, he realises he’s not in the right frame of mind, that his celebrated ability to compartmentalise has – for the moment at least – deserted him.
    A while later, at nearly eleven o’clock – and on the jittery side of four cups of coffee – he grabs his mobile from the table, walks out of the kitchen and wanders down the hallway towards the rear of the house.
    Once inside the large reception room, he starts circling the snooker table again. This time he falls into a slow, steady rhythm and tries to empty his mind. What he can’t get out of his mind, though, is how reckless he has been. The thing is, he panicked last night, he overreacted, he left himself exposed – and that’s something he wouldn’t have done when he was younger, or even a few years ago. After Rafferty showed up at the hotel, direct involvement of some sort was unavoidable, and he did his best to limit that involvement, but the question remains: How much damage has he done? Has he compromised Richmond Plaza? Has he compromised Winterland Properties?
     
    Or is it even worse than that?
    After another lap of the table, Norton finds himself wondering if he shouldn’t give in and call Fitz. As before, they agreed no contact, but by this stage of the morning he really needs to know what’s going on. Because until he gets word from someone, Fitz or whoever, or hears something on the radio, he simply won’t be able to shake off the feeling that things are spinning out of control.
    He’s a few paces into the next lap when his mobile rings.
    Spring, winter, whatever.
    He stops and fumbles at the pocket of his dressing gown. When he eventually gets the phone out, he stares at the number on the display for a second, then presses Answer.

5
    Gina has her phone on the table, neatly lined up beside her cappuccino and her notebook. Willing the damn thing to ring, she glares at it every chance she gets. But she’s not getting too many chances, because Tom Maloney, sitting opposite her in this small café on Dawson Street, is one of those intense people who insist on maintaining unbroken eye contact as they speak. He also has bad breath and an even worse habit of using it to state the obvious.
    ‘Look, it’s OK if your version one point zero is a little rough around the edges: what’s crucial is to get it out there, get it launched, get it known –’
    How could he think she doesn’t know this?
    ‘– and then you can work on landing the marquee customers.’
     
    Gina realises that what they’re talking about – strategy, the future of the company – is important, but at the moment she couldn’t care less about any of it.
    ‘And of course,’ Maloney is saying, ‘it may even turn out that your best customers aren’t the ones you expect them to be –’
    Her phone rings. She whips it off the table. It’s P.J. She’s disappointed, but doesn’t show it. She looks at the time: 11.25.
    Short meeting.
    ‘Hi, P., listen –’
    ‘Hey, Gina, so that was pretty useless, and I –’
    ‘Can’t talk now, P.’
    She says it so firmly that P.J.stops in his tracks. ‘OK.’ He then says, ‘You