Rock Solid

by Paul Slatter

  “An underground dentist?” the guy on the other end of the phone answered.

  “Yeah—that’s how we operate, keep everything off the system, ya know off grid, that’s the way we work it.”

  And the voice on the other end of the phone said, “It’s just a tooth.”

  And Archall said, “Yeah, but I don’t need to be explaining how any of this happened okay or where it happened. You know what I’s saying.”

  “Just say you did it playing ice hockey.”

  Then Archall said, “Just find me one and as we go along with things, I’ll teach you how the system run, alright—I got to be careful, some private eye guy been sniffing around here, drives an Aston Martin.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “Not sure,” Archall said, lying through his missing front tooth. “He’s just been looking around; guy probably be working at the mall on the weekend.”

  “Why’s he gonna be working at the mall if he’s rides an Aston?”

  “Might not be his?”

  “What’s his name?”

  Archall thought about it but couldn’t remember, so he said, “Didn’t get it.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Old?”

  “How old, forties, fifties—sixty plus.”

  “Yeah, he was getting up there,” Archall said, still not having a clue. Then carried on saying, “Older than me and you yeah.”

  Then Steven asked, “He have on a loud shirt?”

  “Yeah a cool one.”

  “Was his name Chuck—Chuck Chendrill?”

  “Yeah that’s it, how’d you know?”

  “The guy’s a legend. Was driving about in a Ferrari, must have got an Aston now though—he ain’t no mall cop for fuck’s sake.”

  “You know him?” Archall asked again, now getting nervous.

  “No, I know of him, like I say he’s a legend, used to be a cop but now he’s out there on his own in the corporate world, still likes to solve murders for fun though. You know that cop woman was burned to death last month downtown?”

  Archall didn’t know. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Well they said it was him who caught the guy and cut off his head.”

  Archall said, “Sounds like bullshit—was the woman cop hot?”

  “So they say. Anyway you know that old saying, a Mountie always gets his man?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they say that’s true, but if Chendrill’s involved, he gets him first.”

  “Oh yeah,” Archall said, shitting himself, his mind racing now, and was about to carry on as his driver butted in, “But you got nothing to worry about? You ain’t been killing anyone, have you? And why would he be interested in a small fry like you, ecstasy and shit ain’t his thing.” Then he laughed, saying, “You just need a dentist ’cos you got your tooth knocked out. But if you’ve been stupid and murdered someone—then you’re fucked man.”

  And that’s when Dennis got the call, which came a few hours after, just as Alla had called out from her bed again with a feeling of relief she, for some time now, would have never thought imaginable. She’d woke after dreaming she could move her feet and as she’d lifted the covers to look, she’d realized it was true.

  “Oh my God, Oh my God.” She screamed out to her husband who was halfway through the phone call from Archall, listening to him going on about his tooth and hearing his wife call out in the background about how she could move her feet, and, as he blanked out Archall, he knew it was the best news—and the worst news—he had ever heard.

  ******

  Two hours later, he opened the door to his basement suite to see Archall Diamond standing outside with two guys with black eyes in fighters’ shirts and a low rider Mercedes with a dented roof parked in the neighbor’s driveway. Dennis said, “You can’t park there, that’s the neighbor’s driveway.”

  And Archall Diamond replied, “We can ’cos we gangsters.”

  They stepped in and looked around. Archall Diamond saying, “I thought you dentists were rich.”

  Dennis asking, “How can I help?”

  They passed through the living room, all three of them staring at the beautiful girl sitting on the sofa watching TV and entered the surgery Dennis had set up in the back room, where he had a small recliner, some tools, an old dentist drill he’d kept from his student days, and a lamp he’d reappropriated from a movie set after everyone went home and left him to do the clean up. Backstreet dentistry paid well, but only half the price of front street. But it was better than humping sandbags in the movie business and would do until his licence came back again.

  Sitting himself down on the recliner and half looking through the crack in the door to Alla watching the TV, then around to his two heavies who couldn’t fight standing there trying to look cool, Archall said, “I was playing ice hockey and the bat, stick thing took my tooth out.” And smiling, he showed Dennis what he’d seen as soon as he’d opened the front door. Washing his hands and putting on a pair of gloves, then pulling the tooth out with his fingers, Dennis said, “You’ll be needing surgery to fix it.”

  And heard Archall say, “I’s not growing back in then?”

  Dennis looked at the guy, taking in what he’d just said, then looking to the heavies staring at the tooth, shook his head and answered, “No—you’ll need a prosthetic built and since we’ve got the tooth, it’ll be easy. I’ll get the diamond set in it as well if you want to keep the look.”

  “Right bang in the center?” Archall Diamond replied and looked again to Alla sitting on the sofa. Then Dennis carried on saying, “I can do it for you right here if you’d like. Have the prosthetic made, the diamond set in it, and fit it back in right here and when I’m done, your smile will light up the room.”

  Archall looked around the room. It was pretty dark in there. He said. “In here?”

  And Dennis told him, “You can go to some shopping mall practice with all the glitz and glam and chances are you’ll have a smile that looks fake—with me you won’t. It’s not the chair you’re sitting on or the fancy store front that fixes your teeth, it’s the guy holding the tools.” And he wasn’t wrong.

  ******

  Mazzi Hegan stood in the bedroom of his swishy penthouse suite and put on the tightest pair of shorts he could find so as there was no way he could hide his banana, and picking his loosest, shortest top, he grabbed his rollerblades, sunglasses, and headphones and headed out the door.

  It was Sunday, it was sunny, and he was in Vancouver. Stanley Park would be beautiful and the seawall buzzing and he was going to just rock it all the way around the peninsular park, listening to eighties music as loud as he could and roller grooving all the way.

  God, he was happy. The fireworks had been sensational and for once he’d put his camera down and spent the evening with the guy from the coffee shop who’d given him a couple of these pills made up by a Swedish doctor that were floating around. Apparently, the guy’d been a rugby player and spent almost five years studying herbs and the male reproductive system in Papua New Guinea and was onto something—because wow, were they great.

  Lucking out, he parked the Ferrari right under a huge maple, slapped the blades on, and hit the path, tucking and floating and grooving as he sung out to the soundtrack to Flashdance. Wow, what a feeling it was, he thought. What was in those things? His bedroom was a mess, his living room was a mess, his hair was a mess. But who cared because he’d just had the best sex ever and still he had a chubby going that wouldn’t go away, so why waste it and who cares if it scares someone’s grandma because he was roller grooving baby and that’s what roller groovers did.

  He hit the pathway that led down the hill to the pool at Second Beach and tucked, reached the bottom, swirled round twice by the swings, and took a sharp right, then a left through the tunnel that took him under the road, shouting ‘weeeeeeee’ with his arms up as he went through; and as he came out the other side, he saw him coming towards him in the distance, crossing the small bridge at the
end of Lost Lake, disappearing for a moment behind some long reeds and then reappearing, twirling on his blades in a perfect pirouette, the sun lighting up his blonde hair as he roller grooved, his top large and loose, his tight shorts squashing his banana beneath the spandex fabric.

  Mazzi Hegan carried on towards him, their eyes meeting as they neared each other, the pair slowing and locking eyes as they passed, freewheeling Mazzi cruised to a stop, looking back at the guy as he did the very same, coming to a halt just before the tunnel entrance and staring back at him. Wow! Sensational, he thought, and feeling the sun on his back, he turned and set off again towards the guy who was now coming towards him for another pass, and as their eyes met again, for a second, it was electric.

  With a quick double spin, Mazzi Hegan stopped and watched as the man did the same, spinning in around with the grace of a figure skater on ice, and stopping with both legs parted and waiting a moment before slowly cruising back along the path and coming to a halt, standing there in his blades and fluffy socks with what looked like a banana down his pants. Staring at Mazzi, a carbon copy of himself, he said, "You look familiar?"

  And that's how Mazzi Hegan met Einer.

  The next morning, with a sore ass and throat, Mazzi burst into the office with so much energy he may as well have still been in his rollerblades and announced to all and sundry, "I think I'm in love."

  "You've said that before, I think," Sebastian said as he passed him in the corridor carrying a small water dish for Fluffy, and asked, "I take it it's the guy from the coffee shop?"

  "No," Mazzi replied, "I was out blading in my shorts and bumped into this guy from Zurich. He's a photographer."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah and he looks great in shorts. He was blading. I was listening to Flashdance and he was listening to Donna Summers. We passed each other and it was just electric. We went straight back to my place and he fucked me all night because he'd taken these new pills that are floating about that make you look cool in shorts—some Danish rugby player/professor designed them after studying herbs and tribal mating rituals of male elders in Papua New Guinea. They are saying it's the guy’s life's work.”

  "Really?" Sebastian said, as he carried on and wondered what the guy, who'd put his entire life to such good work, would think if he knew Mazzi Hegan was popping them like candy and whacking his sword around like Errol Flynn.

  He said, "Well be careful if they’re not legal Mazzi. Your body's a finely made tool and you don't want to do yourselves an injury with these things. You know, go too far."

  You couldn't not go too far in Mazzi's book, Sebastian thought, that's why he had such a huge selection of oils and power jets in his shower; and he wanted to carry on, saying just that, but thought the better of it right as Mazzi said, "You know we have a great attraction to each other."

  Sebastian nodded and understood exactly what Hegan was saying. The first time he and Alan had met in the corridors of the Royal College of Art in London it had been the same for the two of them, except they'd just gone for coffee. But this was Mazzi. Wondering how long this relationship would last, he said, "I'm glad you’ve met someone."

  "Oh same—he's bi and so über cool, he's got blonde hair, cut just like mine. Dresses just like me, same height and build, but not down there though—he's bigger and loves sex."

  If that’s the case, stay in and stare in the mirror, Sebastian thought, and walked to his office and placed the dish down for Fluffy and wondered how long it would be before he heard his personal secretary tell him Patrick was here or on the phone. And before Fluffy had even began to get his ears wet, he had heard just that. By the time Patrick had reached his office, he had already heard all about Mazzi Hegan’s new guy and, sitting down in his linen suit, said to Sebastian, “That must be the most Mazzi has ever said to me?”

  “He’s in love Patrick—don’t worry, tomorrow he’ll be bored with the guy and he’ll go back to ignoring you again.”

  “He just hated seeing me every day on the back of the bus I think.”

  “It’s not just you, Patrick. It’s the way he is.”

  “It is, he’s said as much, said he told me the other day, ‘you’d never see me in a sweater my granny bought me for Christmas’.”

  Neither would I, Sebastian thought, not for all the tea in China. He wouldn’t advertise himself on the back of a bus either for that matter, but to each their own. Somehow though it worked for Patrick and here he was now, trying to escape from the years of piling on the bullshit by doing just that—except now in fancier clothes. Wondering what the man’s next move would be, he said, “So, what surprises have you got for me today?”

  Patrick had plenty, but if the years of doing deals had taught him one thing, it was timing, so he simply said, “Everything’s cool.”

  Everything’s cool, Sebastian thought, cool; in the fact, you’re sitting here smiling first thing in the morning in full knowledge you have a terrible script you’re getting the flower child to repair, a director who’s been sent packing by an aging lead, for whom we’re going to have rent extra floor space to fit her ego into—and that was just for starters. God knows what would be coming their way for the main dish. He looked to the window and for a moment wondered what Chuck Chendrill was doing, then turned back and said, “Well that’s good news. It’s all getting exciting though, isn’t it? Have you put any thought into how you’re going to deal with the fact you’ve got new talent?”

  He hadn’t, despite the fact that the two people on whom he’d been selling the show had no actual acting experience—although he had no doubt some of Marshaa’s tantrums were Oscar worthy. But this side of things were someone else’s problem. After all, he didn’t bake the cake—he just delivered the ingredients and someone else mixed them. Besides, they’d be at least a year before they’d get found out and by then, he’d have another project fired up and ready to go. Not lying for once, Patrick said, “Marshaa’s going crazy about the film—she’s so glad she’s signed with Slave.”

  “I’m glad she did too, Patrick, that was a great coup. Tell her when you next speak to give me a call— there’s a few projects I’d like her to take a look at and it’s important she’s happy.”

  Then Patrick asked, “What about Dan?”

  “Dan’s different, Dan needs nurturing. We don’t want to foist him on the world or they’ll get bored. What we should do though is put out a campaign with just Dan, Marsha, and Adalia Seychan’s with nothing other than their pictures together, perhaps with them in a bed or something, get them doing something sexy together, give everyone a taster and get the gossips talking—you know as they say, less is more.”

  Patrick begged to differ. In his experience, he’d found the more photos he had of himself in a pressed shirt or a nice sweater with his teeth shinning, the more the phone rang—and it did ring. But for once, he kept quiet and stood and walked to the window and looked out to some young hotties finding their way to work in their nice clothes and sexy shoes. He said, “This guy Mazzi met isn’t an actor, is he?”

  Sebastian laughed, the guy who used to sell homes now not able to sit still—always thinking. He said bluntly, “Patrick, worry about the script darling please, or pretty soon you’ll be standing there with a jar full of nothing and have a leading lady who’s looking for the exit sign. And on that subject, you’ll need to let Megan know never to put Adalia Seychan and Marshaa on the same page or they’ll be a cat fight and both of them will have a breakdown.”

  Then Patrick said, “It’s okay, they can’t be. I’ve spoken to Megan and we’re changing the script again. Adalia Seychan’s now going to be a space traveler from another universe.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Despite the fact his girl had left him and he had a hot-shot private investigator on his tail, Archall Diamond was feeling good. He missed his girl yes, but that was just because he liked looking at her showing herself off when they went out to the hockey and the like. But that was about it. When it came to her, she smelled
good yeah—but so did he with his coconut hair crème. This girl though, the one at the dentist, she was something else and there was a connection—he’d felt it, seen it as he’d kept his mouth wide open and caught her looking at him through the crack in the door in Dennis’s back room surgery, sitting there with a blanket on her lap, looking like one of them women you see on TV hosting a dance show or something.

  She’d looked at him, he’d seen it, her blue eyes meeting his as he tried not to dribble. Who the fuck was she, he thought, as he stuck his tongue up and into the groove where his missing front tooth used to be. Couldn’t be the backstreet dentist’s woman, he was too ugly and old to have a chick like that. Could be his daughter or niece or something. She’d be good, he thought, and I bet she’d like hockey. He’d have her stand there with him at the interval in a pair of high heels and tight jeans and a signed Pavel Bure jersey.

  Standing up he walked up to the bedroom and opened the door to the wardrobe that still smelled of his girl. He picked up a Canucks jersey signed by one of the team’s superstar twin brothers, and headed off towards Burnaby to see if she wanted to go.

  It was just after four when he arrived, parking in the neighbor’s drive like he did and covering his mouth with his hand. He rang the door to Dennis’s place and, hearing Alla call out for him to come in, entered to find her sitting alone at the dinner table in a wheelchair eating a salad. With an accent that made his dick stir, she said, “Dennis is in the back with a patient. He’ll be done soon.”