Max's Folly

by Bill Turpin

  Sergeant Fury gets up and offers a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

  “Max, it’s great to see you,” he says heartily. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I was down the street on other business and I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  Bullshit, Max thinks.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Max says, trying to sound relaxed, and escorts the big man to his office door. “Just give me a second and I’ll be right there. Make yourself at home, but don’t overdo it.”

  Max tells the City Editor to make sure there’s a photog around, just in case he’s arrested. She points to her go-to shooter, who is sitting at the copy desk a few feet away, already getting a light reading on Max’s office door.

  Churn-churn-churn.

  Neither Max nor Sergeant Fury enjoy pleasantries, so once the door is closed they get down to business.

  “Max, I’d like to know a little more about how newsrooms work,” Sergeant Fury says. “I know you’re busy, but I’m sure you of all people know you have no obligation to talk to me.”

  “I do know that,” says Max. “How can I help?”

  “Just the other day, the department’s media relations guy was saying how little our officers know about newsrooms. And I thought, he’s right. Why don’t I drop by and talk to Max. There’s a guy who’ll talk freely and won’t lawyer-up like some assholes would, even though it’s his right.”

  Max realizes that Fury is sneakily advising him of his Charter rights. He grabs one of the Pepto Bismol tablets lying loose in his desk drawer.

  “Pepto?” he asks, holding it out for Fury.

  “No thanks,” he says. “I’m a Kaopectate man.”

  Max looks at his guest, who starts to tug nervously at his ear. Something is definitely up.

  “You haven’t referred to my right to free legal counsel yet,” Max says, “but I’m sure you would have gotten around to it. That means I’m being treated as a suspect in something. Are you going to detain me in any way?”

  Sergeant Fury smiles. “C’mon Max. It’s certainly true that you have a right to legal aid, but I don’t have anything like that in mind.”

  Max laughs: “Okay. Now you’ve covered it. What’s up?”

  “The chief justice has asked us to investigate a possible contempt charge in R v Spadinsky,” he says. “The police chief wants to keep it high-level, so here I am.”

  Max is familiar with R v Spadinsky because he fought and lost against a publication ban in the case.

  The defendant, Spadinsky, has quite literally been a pain in the establishment ass for some time, being an expert in spankings and other domination services. But she’s also mouthy and something of a city hall gadfly, so someone decided to charge her with operating a common bawdy house.

  Her defence is that she doesn’t perform sex acts in her “dungeon”, therefore it is not a bawdy house. As part of that defence, she advised the court that she would be presenting videotapes of herself and her clients going about their business. This prospect likely caused considerable alarm in a variety of social circles and much speculation in newsrooms. In any case, the judge accepted the Crown’s request that the identities of the men in the videotapes be suppressed. For the greater good.

  When Max asked the Lawyer to fight the ban, the Cobra countermanded him, so he went to the courthouse and intervened himself from the public side of the bar. He made a hash of it and annoyed the judge. Other journalists accused him of showboating, but he got his objections on the record.

  “But we’ve been scrupulous about the ban,” Max tells Sergeant Fury. “Actually, we have no choice — we don’t even know who these people are. And I don’t care. But if it’s illegal for Spadinsky to be there, it must also be illegal for her customers. They’re found-ins. What’s saucy for the goose, is saucy for the gander, if I may say so.”

  The massive cop grins: “I don’t disagree. But the court is concerned that your descriptions of the tapes are so detailed that the clients will recognize themselves, which violates the ban.”

  “That’s crazy. It could hardly be a surprise to them,” Max says.

  “Again, that’s not the point. As part of my investigation, I have to know who is responsible.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  Sergeant Fury selects a copy of the Paper from the pile on Max’s desk and points to the first byline he sees.

  “This is called a byline, right?” he asks. “And it tells us the name of the writer responsible for the story, right?”

  “Not exactly,” Max says. “Stories get changed all the time without telling the writer or changing the byline. And memories fade quickly, so it would be pretty hard to determine who might have changed any particular story and what they did to it.”

  Max is well pleased with himself. If they can’t tell who did what, they can’t charge anyone.

  Sergeant Fury leans back and strokes his chin.

  “Let me put it this way, Max. If there’s a pattern in the ban being violated every morning in this newspaper, who would be responsible for correcting that?”

  Max clears his throat of regurgitated soda biscuit: “That would be me.”

  “And is it possible that an editor like yourself would direct his staff to come as close as possible to violating a ban without crossing the line?”

  Max raises his eyebrows, expels a breath and shrugs, as if to say that no one really knows: “Jeez, look at the time. It’s been very pleasant, but I’m afraid I gotta go.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to detain you,” Sergeant Fury says, extending his hand. “At least not yet.”

  As they walk into the newsroom the photog gets four quick shots, just in case.

  Sergeant Fury turns back before leaving: “I’m sorry, Max.”

  Back in his office, Max knows that if he crunches any more Pepto Bismol his stomach will turn to concrete. Instead, he closes the door, eats four soda crackers and speed-dials the Lawyer.

  “The cops are investigating me for contempt of court,” he tells her.

  “That’s interesting. Spadinsky?”

  “Yep. But I’m . . . in the clear, right?”

  “Max, it’s contempt. The judge can hang you by your thumbs if it suits him, but jail’s more likely. Did you say anything?”

  Oops, Max thinks. “Jail?”

  “It’s a possibility. Did you say anything?”

  “A little, maybe.”

  “Shit. Can you come over this afternoon?”

  1995

  The Campaign: Cartoon Shocker

  Boosts Soda Biscuit Sales

  MAX ARRIVES FOR work thirty minutes early, catching dayside unprepared, and makes it all the way to City Desk without fielding a single complaint.

  The City Editor crushes this small triumph.

  “There’s something you should see,” she says, handing him a note. “Nightside left this for you.”

  “If it’s for me, why have you got it?”

  Max sees the City Editor actually blush for the first time since they met.

  “It was dropped off at my place last night,” she says.

  The City Editor’s outfit makes her look professional and attractive. There is nothing in her hair-colour or jewellery to suggest wacky or wild. Her only jewellery, in fact, is a modest string of clear glass beads. The effect is unprecedented.

  “It was dropped off, you say,” Max says. “Interesting use of the passive voice. It’s like Nixon saying ‘mistakes were made’. True, but it doesn’t tell us who made the mistakes or what they were.”

  Max pauses for effect.

  “Was it the Indonesian who dropped it off, by any chance?”

  “Do you have to call him that?”

  “Aha! So it was him. Where can I reach him?”

  “I’m sure he’s at home,” is the answer. Her ton
e is a trifle arch.

  “Excellent,” says Max, taking the note and starting for his office. “And here I was thinking the two of you would never get together. Finally, some good news.”

  The City Editor calls him back to the City Desk: “Don’t forget to read the note. It’s really important.”

  “Yep.”

  “And Max . . . do you think I’m making a mistake?” The tough-babe façade is gone for a moment.

  “You mean with the Indonesian?”

  She rolls her eyes: “Yes. I mean the Indonesian, as you insist on calling him.”

  “Well, it’s hard when your shifts don’t line up,” Max says. “But I was thinking it’s time we moved him to dayside anyway. I need someone to handle the morning complaint-litany.”

  “What about the Cobra? He’s not still after him?”

  “Water under the bridge,” says Max.

  “And you’re not worried about conflict of interest between me and him?”

  “On the contrary. Productivity will shoot up, and nobody has to be murdered.”

  “Although a homicide is always welcome,” she adds.

  The City Editor returns her gaze to her computer. She’s extremely happy with the way her day has begun. Her expression is identical to one Max often saw on the Wife, a long time ago.

  Max is happy for the City Editor and the Indonesian, so he saunters into his office. He closes the door and opens the note from the Indonesian: “Max, those three assholes in the composing room who call themselves the Collective were bragging last night that it’s their job to ensure you don’t slip anything past the Cobra.”

  Better get your game-face on, Max, he thinks. He picks up a fat envelope from his incoming mail tray. The return address bears the imprint of the despised law firm, Bentley & Steele, and the words “delivered by hand”. This is never good and, indeed, the first page is headed by the dreaded phrase “WITHOUT PREJUDICE”.

  The words are supposedly intended to protect the contents of the letter from becoming evidence in a trial, but Max has always suspected the secondary purpose is to scare the crap out of people like him.

  Max feels something gurgling below his beltline. Mission accomplished. Another day, another $60k, he thinks.

  This time his tormentor is the Premier. He and the opposition leader both appeared in a cartoon in the Paper the previous day. The Premier wants to deregulate gasoline prices, saying it will reduce costs for drivers. The opposition leader vigorously opposes the idea, saying “regulation always means high prices”. The Premier instantly called his opponent’s position irresponsible. The news cycle was half over before the Political Reporter parsed their statements and realized they had said the same thing.

  This is juicy chum in the water during an election campaign and the feeding frenzy was intense and gleeful.

  The Cartoonist’s contribution was to draw the two politicians sitting unsteadily on the ground with a jerry can marked “high-octane gasoline” between them. The implication is that they’ve been sniffing gasoline. Lest anyone miss that point, the cartoonist has drawn a word-balloon with the pair simultaneously saying: “We gotta cut back on this this stuff.”

  Alas, it’s also chum in the water for Bentley & Steele.

  The phone rings and it’s the Lawyer.

  “So, where are you planning your vacation this year?” Max says.

  “Well, I was thinking Florida, but now I’m looking at the Riviera and then Greece,” she says.

  “So, you’ve seen the latest from Bentley & Steele?”

  “Yes. They’re suing, of course. And the Human Rights people . . . Max, something’s wrong with the line . . . I can’t hear you.”

  Max has karate-chopped the speakerphone button, sending the apparatus six inches into the air. Nonetheless, when it comes down the speakerphone is engaged, allowing him to continue the conversation with his forehead on his desk. From this vantage point he can speak to his feet.

  “I’m ready now,” he tells her. “Go ahead.”

  “The Human Rights people say the opposition leader looks like an African Nova Scotian in the drawing and it’s hate-speech against African Nova Scotians because there are no African Nova Scotians running. It’s bullshit, of course.”

  “Sixty thousand dollars worth of nonsense.”

  “For the libel case, yes. We’ve got more options with Human Rights. Their big hammer is wasting your time. I suggest you agree to their mediation process.”

  “Oh, good,” says Max. “Because, if there’s one thing I’ve got, it’s time, right?”

  Max wishes he’d had the discipline to eat soda biscuits for breakfast instead of bacon and eggs.

  • • •

  Stomach churning, Max pulls into his driveway. The cats, who routinely rush out to challenge the familiar sight of his car and then flee in terror, are already stationed where the gravel meets the lawn. They calmly hold their position.

  They are furry lawn-Buddhas sleek in the evening sun, watching small grasshoppers jump in front of them. Every few seconds an insect hops too close, provoking one of the cats to snap its jaws on the flying morsel, making a hollow crunching sound. This is followed by thoughtful chewing, and a thorough licking of the chops before the ready position is resumed. Nothing in the mien of either animal suggests anything out of the ordinary.

  Max leans against the fender to watch for a while. The animals give him the slow blink of feline welcome and resume the feast.

  “This is life, Max,” the laid-back one says between grasshoppers. “Sometimes, all roads seem to lead to Hell. But other times, on a warm day, fresh delicacies just jump into your mouth. Either way, everything is fundamentally okay. Just be, Max.”

  But the neurotic one wrecks the moment: “Max, these are great. You really should really try some. You won’t be able to get them in jail, you know.”

  1995

  The Campaign:

  Flacks' Night Out

  STANDING IN THE centre of a hotel ballroom, drink in hand, Max is miserable. He is surrounded by hundreds of people murmuring like extras on a movie set. “Rhubarb” is what the extras actually say, over and over again, a friend in the film business told him once. For Max’s purposes, the ballroom crowd might as well be doing the same, because he goes deaf in crowds.

  The men are all puffed up in tuxedos or expensive suits. Penguins fluffing their feathers. They exude a certainty that they are the right people in the right place. Movers, shakers, power brokers. They talk loudly and laugh even louder at any provocation. You could slaughter a lamb on the stage and they would still be laughing, Max thinks.

  The women, who likely have been preparing for weeks to fit into their favourite evening clothes, seem largely ignored. Except for two.

  There are two notable clusters of men, each surrounding a woman. One Max knows to be the Wife, although she is too short to be seen in the group. She is wearing a strapless green gown with her dark brown hair styled high, but not too high. She is glowing because on this evening she will receive the Communicator of the Year Award. The men are attracted to her like mutts. A few are curious about her professional ideas, but Max knows that most are wondering what might happen if Max left the party early or, even better, passed out drunk in the men’s room, or was hit by a bus. Would any of these events propel the distraught Wife into their arms, they wonder.

  The Wife pokes through the crowd to point out Max. She waves her “stay where you are” wave. Max is fine with that. A couple of the men turn toward Max to check him out and assess their chances with his wife. He waves to them, thinking “hands off, slime balls. She’s mine.”

  Max looks around some more.

  There is a half-cluster of fawning silver-haired men and women around the Archbishop. Nothing interesting there.

  But he notices the head of glorious red hair at the centre of the other, slightly older man-cluste
r. That hair, too, is piled high. Max can see it clearly.

  One of the men detaches himself from the pack and walks confidently over to Max.

  “You must be Max, spouse of the guest of honour,” he says, and introduces himself as the CEO of GCPR, a public relations firm.

  “We’ve got a small but rapidly growing communications and public relations firm. I’ll be blunt: I’ve heard a lot of good things about you and I like your paper. You should join us — I’d love to work with another member of the advisory board.”

  Max is stunned. It has never occurred to him that he would ever meet another member of the Dancer’s advisory board.

  “You’re on the advisory board?” is all he can manage by way of reaction.

  “Yep. I’m at her table tonight.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Maxie!” someone say behind him. He sees a red-haired woman head peek out in his direction from inside the circle of would-be hound dogs.

  The mongrel horde parts, and Max recognizes the Dancer.

  “Maxie! It’s been so long. You stay right there!”

  She pats the hands of a few of the grey-templed executives and busses a couple of clean-shaven cheeks before making a beeline for Max.

  They have talked many times since that memorable meeting in Montreal, but there’s been no face-to-face. The Dancer is older, of course, but as sexy as a barn fire. Max notes that her backside has not fallen, despite her pragmatic prediction of 25-plus years ago.

  She, too, is wearing a strapless green dress, but hers is sequinned and considerably tighter than the Wife’s. Max’s special male sense makes him wish the Dancer and the Wife weren’t wearing strapless gowns of the same colour. Actually he wishes the Dancer was wearing a muumuu. He thinks this is not the best time for them both to be in the same room.

  But Max is surprised by how good his old friend’s embrace feels. He holds her tight for a moment. Despite himself, he is flooded with warmth and near tears. My two favourite women in the world are here together, he thinks.

  In the grip of knee-jerk male guilt, Max’s next thought is that it might be wise to somehow keep those friends separate. But that horse is out of the barn. About half the room heard the ruckus when the Dancer spotted Max; the half that included the Wife and her gang of two-legged sniffers and snorters. She is making her way over.