Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  “I’m having a good day,” he replied. “I can’t remember your name, but I recognize you. I can’t name this place, but I love it like no other. And I can also remember your own personal theory of existence, which is pretty fucking cock-eyed itself.”

  The Guru smiled and poured some more wine. Max heard the half-empty bottle make a pleasant clinking sound against what was obviously a companion vessel.

  “Max, you are a mischievous man to go provoking a venerable and infallible guru such as myself.”

  Max saw that his friend was grinning. Their gazes met and they laughed until the Guru’s eyes grew teary.

  • • •

  With a mixture of dread and confusion, Max allowed the Guru to escort him back up the path to the Beacon Arms. The sight of Purple Hair reassured him for some reason. She bolted out from behind the reception desk and gave him a long, wordless hug, pressing her face into his chest. Max squeezed her back.

  “I told your colleagues Max was safe with me,” the Guru said.

  “I know,” she said. “I missed him, that’s all. All these cops and arson investigators got me worried. I just wanted to see him again.”

  She told the Guru that in the end investigators decided to drop the matter, including the idea that the Guru had aided a fugitive. Max stood quietly, taking in all the excitement and emotion.

  “You know,” he said to them, “I can’t shake the feeling that — somehow — all this has something to do with me.”

  1995

  The Campaign:

  And They're Off!

  MAX LOOKS AROUND the Cobra’s new office. It is a monumental step up from the large supply closet he occupied in the old building. One wall is a long curve, with a window of glass blocks specially shaped to match. He has decorated the sill with his most expensive Formula One models. The teak desk is ornately yet tastefully carved. It is said to have belonged to a former premier and obtained quietly from the government surplus disposal agency. The wall opposite the grand desk is lined with books purchased wholesale by an interior decorator. This, Max thinks, explains the presence of the complete works of Pierre Trudeau, or any books at all for that matter.

  To the side is another “bookcase” that’s really the door to the publisher’s plush new private bathroom. It swings open and the Cobra emerges. As usual, the toilet is still flushing.

  Max fears there’s another clash about the Archbishop on the agenda.

  “Just had a meeting with the Premier,” the Cobra says. “He’s calling the election tomorrow, and he doesn’t want any trouble from you.”

  “Tough shit,” Max says, relieved.

  The Cobra’s hood flares. “He’s the head of the province, for Christ’s sake.”

  “True, but he doesn’t edit this newspaper,” Max says calmly. “I do.”

  “No, you don’t,” says the Cobra. “I do. You report to me.”

  Once again, Max explains that he’s answerable to the Cobra only on business matters. If the Owner decides someday that he doesn’t like Max’s work, he — not the Cobra —will fire him. Max knows this is not 100 per cent true, despite the Paper’s success. If the Cobra makes enough noise, then the Owner will swing his axe. The question is: whose head will be on the chopping block?

  “The thing is,” Max says. “The Paper has been in the black since I became editor and the Premier actually worries about what we’re going to write. The Owner likes that.”

  In response, the Cobra grabs a sheaf of paper from his desktop and waves it at Max.

  “Have you seen the demographics? Our readers are all conspiracy theorists and Buddhists.”

  “Bullshit,” Max replies. “But, that said, there’s nothing for them in the Other Paper. And why shouldn’t Buddhists and conspiracy theorists have a paper of their own as long as they help pay our bills, which they do?”

  The Cobra stands up and glides the length of the Formula One display, slowing twice to adjust one of the cars. In time, he slides outside Max’s peripheral vision. It’s game on: will Max turn toward him to hear what he says next, or will he wait him out?

  It’s a busy day for Max, especially now that he knows the Premier’s going to drop the writ, so he swivels his chair around to face his tormentor. The hood, made more obvious by more than a decade of comfortable living, expands dramatically. The Cobra’s beady eyes converge on Max. He smiles and licks his lips.

  “Max!” he says sharply, and then allows his voice to descend to a low monotone. “You don’t have the professional training that we engineers use to understand the order of things. The Premier is at the top. He tells me what he wants, and I tell you what I want, which is the same as what he wants. That’s democracy.”

  The Cobra’s hood deflates as he relaxes and slithers back to his desk. He looks at Max intently, trying to discern whether his words have had an effect.

  “Message received and understood,” Max says.

  “And?”

  Max raises his eyebrows, expels a breath and shrugs, as if to say that no one really knows.

  “Well, let me be clear. I don’t want to see another story about Father what’s-his-ass.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because bad news makes people vote against governments, and the future of this province depends on the Premier and his party.”

  Max remarks that the economy has stagnated under the Premier’s leadership and the provincial debt has set a new record.

  “That,” the Cobra says, “was necessary for the strategic positioning phase of the economic plan. Now we are positioned for a new era. If the Party is defeated now, it will all have been for nothing.”

  Max surmises that the Cobra has just explained the broad outline of the re-election campaign.

  “How can you say something like that,” Max asks, “and then tell a Rotary Club luncheon that you’re non-partisan?”

  “Because I am non-partisan. I support the party in power, no matter who it is.”

  “Of course,” Max says. “Anything else would be irresponsible.”

  For Max, one of the joys of working for the Cobra is that he’s deaf to sarcasm and irony. Still, on this occasion, his boss senses that something is wrong.

  “Let me be even more blunt,” he says. “Any story about the election campaign that you like, I don’t want to see in the Paper.”

  Max clicks his heels sharply, bows slightly, and strides purposefully toward the door.

  He heads straight to the City Editor from the Cobra’s office.

  “I need Mother Mary to get something new on Father Peter,” he says.

  “Max, that story’s dead,” she says, brushing aside a lock of neon green hair.

  Max raises an eyebrow.

  “However, I can see that you have a brilliant master plan too complex for me to understand. I’ll get her on it.”

  Max walks the ten feet to his new office, which has a single window overlooking the parking lot. The “restful” motif has already been fouled by piles of paper and sticky-note mosaics. For reasons unknown, one such note reminds him about the election call. He grabs his phone.

  “City Desk.”

  “I forgot to tell you the preem’s going to drop the writ tomorrow. Get someone to start work on the government’s shitty economic record. Um, please.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t respect me in the morning.”

  “As opposed to now? Do you want an election story for tomorrow?”

  “No. I can’t trust my source that much.”

  1995

  Service with a Smile

  MAX IS FEELING “goodish” as he pulls into the parking lot at the Paper. At home the previous night, he got a call from Montreal saying that he would keep his job despite the Cobra’s latest allegations of insolence.

  “The Owner thinks you’re an aggressiv
e prick, but your boss is an asshole,” the Montreal Daily’s new Editor-in-Chief says. “If he keeps it up, you could be the publisher in six months.”

  “Really? But I thought the Mother Ship would never turn back for me.”

  “This isn’t turning back,” he says. “You’ll always be in the minors. But listen, there’s one thing the Cobra does right: he knows how to get along. We want you to work on that.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. Me and the Owner.”

  As Max strolls into the lobby at the Paper, the receptionist nods toward a nondescript man in a London Fog raincoat.

  “You have a visitor,” she says.

  It doesn’t feel right. Max’s stomach begins churning. Usually these morning visitors bring banker boxes of paper documenting Workers’ Compensation abuses, certain that Max is duty-bound to set it all right with a series of blockbuster stories. This guy is travelling light, though, and seems sensible.

  “Are you Max?” says the guy says as he stands up, his voice friendly and free of guile.

  Max realizes the guy is a bailiff, but greets him with a friendly handshake. There’s no point in antagonizing people who are just doing their jobs. The bailiff recognizes the gesture and smiles with relief.

  “I just need you to sign here, acknowledging you have received this Notice of Intent,” he says.

  Max doesn’t have to look to know he’s being sued for libel. He doesn’t care who. He signs the notice and slides it into a jacket pocket.

  “Listen,” the guy says. “There’s something going on with you at Bentley & Steele. There was a kind of excitement when I picked this up, like there’s more to come.”

  “Thanks,” he says, not feeling especially grateful.

  Max heads for the newsroom without reading the document. Bentley & Steele is the Party’s law firm, which tells him all he needs to know for now.

  • • •

  The City Editor is styled in punk today, complete with black army boots and fishnet stockings with big ragged holes in them.

  “Anything going on?” Max asks.

  “Nah. We need a murder,” she says. “You know we’re being sued, eh? The liquor board chair.”

  Max closes his eyes. He hasn’t even looked at the document yet, but the City Editor knows who the plaintiff is.

  She answers his question before he can ask it: “I know because I dated that process server for a while.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought he was your type,” Max says.

  “That’s how you find out what your type is — you try them on for a while,” she says.

  The law requires a plaintiff to give newspapers seven days’ notice before he can sue for libel. That’s the Paper’s opportunity to apologize, which usually kills the suit.

  The chair of the liquor board is one of the province’s many “fine men”, men who have been steered to wealth or influence by a grateful political party. They are presumed to be above reproach but, when caught, are judged to have “suffered enough” merely by virtue of their arrest and are usually given suspended sentences.

  Max gets the Lawyer on the phone. She, of course, already knows about the notice.

  “He’s claiming that your editorial said he’s unqualified to be the chair,” she explains.

  “He’s not qualified, but we didn’t say that,” Max says. “We just said the board needs new leadership. I could have said he’s still working on his high school diploma. Anyway, it’s opinion.

  The right to express an opinion is the standard defence for claims like this.”

  “You’re right,” the Lawyer says, “and eventually we’ll win.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Yeah. But our legal bill will be $60K or higher before it’s over.”

  Max knows this is chump change for the Board Chair, but serious money to the Cobra, who, in the first place, never sees any point in defending a libel suit. His motto is “apologize, apologize, apologize.”

  “You mean your legal bill,” Max says sourly.

  “That’s not fair, Max.”

  “Sorry. Bad day. What do you recommend?”

  “Our best strategy is to stall until election day and hope he loses interest,” she says. “But rest assured that meanwhile he’ll be doing everything he can to goose up your costs.”

  “OK. I’ll go tell the Cobra.”

  “He already knows.”

  Good news travels fast.

  Half an hour later, the Cobra’s assistant hand-delivers a memo.

  Max:

  “Regretfully, I have no choice but to document the libel suit you have attracted from the chair of the liquor board.

  “This is typical of what has become of your carelessness about defamatory content and an apparent disregard for our legal budget. Our insurer has already inquired about our ability to manage this liability.

  “Please do your best to ensure this does not happen again.”

  It is copied to the Owner and the message is clear: The Cobra thinks he’s got Max in his crosshairs.

  • • •

  The Wife agrees.

  They have just finished dinner and the Son is upstairs doing his homework and/or trying to download dirty pictures. Max knows because he heard the modem squawking when he picked up the extension.

  Max and the Wife are in their loveseat, feet resting on the coffee table, something that is normally verboten. A spare bottle of French Merlot stands at the ready, even though it won’t help Max’s stomach.

  The Wife has placed a pillow over her midriff to hide yet another imaginary fat dome. Even in a terrycloth robe, she looks good. She is old enough to be maternal and young enough to be sexy. Her fingers continue to be the longest and most delicate Max has ever seen. Her wine glass seems more like an accessory than a drinking vessel until she drains the last ounce and holds it out to Max for a refill.

  The university administration, and therefore the Wife, knew about the lawsuit almost before Max did. Max is puzzled until she reminds him that her board, except for the Archbishop, is composed almost entirely of Party members. The other parties “have” university boards of their own.

  “The vibe was strange,” she says. “Finally the president called me into her office for a private briefing. The Archbishop is making noises about the so-called abortion issue.”

  “I can’t stand this — these partisan pissants beating up on me.”

  “Hang in there,” the Wife says. “The threat’s almost always worse than the reality.”

  Max opens the backup Merlot and they sip in silence for a while.

  “Okay,” the Wife says. “I think I can get you something on Bentley & Steele if that helps, but it won’t come from me.”

  “Hmm, my own Deep Throat,” Max says, sidling closer.

  The Wife cuddles up. “I mean it literally. Like Watergate. We will never discuss this again. But you’ll recognize it when it shows up.”

  Max, of course, is focused on the carnal meaning of Deep Throat.

  1995

  A Quiet Talk

  with Sergeant Fury

  FOR THE FIFTH day in a row, Max wakes at 4:08 a.m. This is not his alarm sounding. It’s when his roiling bowels wake him up. He cannot begin to fathom how his insides know the time so precisely. Only their two hungry cats can match that feat. Max pops a couple of Pepto-Bismol and tries to sleep, but his mind is back at the Paper. The Wife reaches out and strokes his back. He takes an assortment of meds each day before going into work now, but by lunchtime his intestines feel like they’re infested with a colony of crayfish trying to claw their way out.

  Breakfast is soda biscuits, which do not promote stomach acid. Lunch is two tuna sandwiches, whole wheat bread, heavy on the mayonnaise. These are the two daytime foods that don’t stop partway down his oesophagus, inspiring the muscles to cramp painfully around it. When that
happens he feels like he’s swallowed a softball. He was sure he had cancer until a suite of tests came back negative. “Are you experiencing any stress?” the specialist asked.

  A little, yeah.

  Max’s beloved newsroom hacks know Max is under pressure and are trying to do their bit to help. The result is that only the most egregious errors and omissions by nightside are brought to his attention during the morning litany of complaint. This has the opposite of the intended effect because now there are no easy answers to start the day off. Worse, sometimes the rite is ignored altogether, which makes Max feel out of touch or, on his worst days, that he has lost the respect of his staff.

  This is one such morning. The staff is oddly silent and the City Editor greets him by awkwardly motioning toward a large man sitting on a small chair outside his office.

  “Max,” the City Editor whispers, “it’s . . .”

  “I know him,” Max says, his gullet filling with partially-digested soda biscuit.

  He’s a police superintendent, known as Sergeant Fury since the day when as a rookie he fired a shotgun through the windshield of his own squad car at a bank robber who was pointing a pistol at him. The effect was so spectacular that three other robbers, poised to run, chose instead to hurl themselves to the ground.

  Even before Sergeant Fury’s ears stopped ringing, cops and robbers alike knew there was a new sheriff in town. Armed bank robberies dropped off sharply.

  And Sergeant Fury’s visage had come to match his moniker. Roughly the size of a restaurant refrigerator, he has a perfectly square head topped by black hair and punctuated by a Hitlerian moustache. He has Rocket Richard’s thousand-yard stare.

  Max and Sergeant Fury have met a few times at “functions”, where they enjoyed sharing their distaste for such events and making jokes about low-grade criminals. Max isn’t fond of cops in general, but he admires Fury’s ability to rise through the ranks in a society where standing out is eventually punished.