by Paul Slatter
Then he could have carried it on, looking cool and tough, staring at all the sexy nurses as he went marching down the corridor crashing through as many double doors as he could with his badge shining brightly on the front of his lapel.
If he’d really thought it through he could have had two squad cars pull up full of cops and formed the diamond formation as he had on big occasion’s such as the Olympics, when they’d moved through BC Place like a flock of geese heading for warmer climates—him in the centre flanked by burly officers with attitude and dark glasses.
They reached the car and, opening the rear for himself, Ditcon got in and pulled out his phone, waiting for the young female officer to get in and thinking that what he needed to do now was avoid another sexual harassment issue like the last time and play it cool with this beauty.
He found Chendrill’s number on speed dial and, putting himself on speaker phone, began to rub his neck and shoulders; despite the huge traffic problem the car was causing, he signaled for the young police woman settling into the driver’s seat to hold off a moment on starting the car.
This time around he hit the button with no hesitation and, on hearing the legend that was Charles Chuck Chendrill answer, he said so that the young girl in the driver’s seat knew exactly who he was talking to, “Chendrill… Chief Superintendent Ditcon here, thanks for the enquiry earlier. We have Detective Sargent Daltrey fully secured at St. Paul’s but request that you hold off on making contact with her at this time while we deal with this border fugitive issue.”
“Really?” was all the girl heard Chendrill say as she sat in the driver’s seat of the squad car and played with her computer pretending not to be listening. Then she heard Chendrill follow it up with, “You’re telling me Daltrey was fine and working on this issue with the illegal border crossing two nights back—you’ve known this all along?”
“This is Police and Government Border Security business and I’m not at liberty to say at this moment,” was all Ditcon replied with the usual air of superiority he kept in reserve and pulled out whenever he had no idea what he was talking about.
“But I presume you know the identity of the suspect currently at large?” Chendrill asked.
Ditcon gave the officer a knowing look as their eyes met in the rear-view mirror and turned to look at the congestion he was causing outside, and said, “I can let you know yes, that we’re fully aware of the individual and his whereabouts.”
Then they heard Chendrill say, “Fuck me you’re good,” and begin to laugh, slowly at first, growing louder with each guttural roar building from deep within. Then settling himself, Chendrill said, “Are you going to continue to be a complete and utter cunt all your life?”
***************
Chendrill stood on the opposite side of the road and watched Ditcon pull away from the hospital and disappear through a red light in the distance with the siren blaring.
He’d wondered what the hold up in the traffic was on the way to see Daltrey and, after switching back, had parked the Aston alongside the forecourt of the Wall Centre Hotel. He slipped the concierge a tenner and spotted Ditcon sitting in the back of the squad car. Then his phone rang.
Fuck, the guy was so full of shit, ‘yes, we’re fully aware of the individual and his whereabouts’ when in fact he was talking to the very same person to whom he was referring.
He crossed the road and found his way to the room where Daltrey lay in bed recovering as she should have been doing two weeks prior. He opened the door to Daltrey’s room and sneaked a look inside to see her lying there all bandaged up with her eyes closed and heard her say, “You’re supposed to knock.”
He was—he knew that only too well—and suddenly embarrassed by his own behavior, ran his hand across the top of his head and then his neck, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Daltrey said, “you look more tired than me.”
She was right; he was. It had been a busy week and he was hurting all over, but more than anything he was hurting inside from the spat he’d had with Dan’s mother earlier that morning. He said, “You’re the important one right now.”
Then lifting herself up, Daltrey said, “Ditcon was just here.”
“And?”
“And he woke me up with his presence, then when he saw I was awake just gave me a standing ovation, said some shit about me being great, doing a great job, and left.”
“You tell him you’re out?” Chendrill asked as he sat on the end of her bed, and saw Daltrey look away towards the window as if the problem was somehow just outside.
“It’s hard to do anything with that man the way he takes over the room.”
“Take your time,” Chendrill said. “Don’t go crashing the door down like I did.”
And he had done just that when he’d had enough of Ditcon and left the force, crashed the door open with his right foot and stuck his resignation letter straight to the front of Ditcon’s sweaty forehead.
But that was years ago.
Daltrey said, “I don’t think I could carry on now, you know I’d always be that girl.”
“What girl.”
“The one that ran away and left a girl to die.”
Chendrill looked at her, this girl who was as tough as old boots but who was now distraught beyond belief with herself for doing nothing other than acting on basic instinct and surviving. He walked across to the small chair at the side of the sterile room and sat down, taking his weight off of his lower legs and said, “There’re only four people in this world who know the truth and two are no longer with us. For one, this is a blessing; for the other, a tragedy—which was not your fault. And if anyone ever hears about it it’ll have come from you and not me, and that’s a promise.”
“There’s this guy, though. I was up in his place watching before that Russian guy attacked me, maybe he saw?”
“Patrick, the realtor?” Chendrill asked butting in.
Daltrey looked up at him, “How did you know?”
“I’m a detective, you know that. As soon as I’d heard you were gone, I was all over it and was onto the fucker within a few days.”
“Which fucker?” Daltrey said, showing the slightest bit of her old self before sitting there staring into nowhere for what seemed an age. Chendrill noticed and gave her time, looking at the floor.
Then she asked, “So, you met him then?”
“I met them both. The Russian in a café where he got away and Patrick—along with his teeth—except he wasn’t smiling a few days back, he was shitting himself.”
“Why?”
“Because he saw you in trouble and didn’t pick up the phone.”
Daltrey looked up, the news of this guy she’d kind of liked betraying her seemed to hit a nerve. Then she said, “Worried the bad press would hurt home sales no doubt.”
And Chendrill looking up smiling said, “No. Houses are not his thing anymore. He saw a picture of himself looking back at him like an idiot and didn’t like what he saw, so now he’s a film producer and they’re making his film over at Slave and your old boyfriend Dan’s in it.”
Chapter Four
Patrick DeSendro, who used to be a realtor, walked thought the now crowded offices of Slave Media teeth first with a smile saying, “Hey how you doing?” and “Hey here he is! Here she is!” He reached Sebastian’s office without a clue as to who the people were or what they did—all that mattered was they were going to be helping him in his quest to be famous. Opening the door to Sebastian’s office as though it was his own, he saw Sebastian holding his dog Fluffy up towards the ceiling and held out his hands and said, “Put that dog down, you don’t know where he’s been.”
Ignoring him, Sebastian simply said it as it was, “I think he’s got worms Patrick, what do you think?”
Patrick moved closer and joined Sebastian staring up at his little dog’s backside, then said, “Is he rubbing himself on the carpet?”
He had been, that’s what had been bothering Sebastian. He replied, “Maybe, yo
u have experience with dogs do you Patrick?”
Patrick didn’t; in fact, many a multimillion dollar property he’d been ready to show had been disastrous because of them, despite having his team go over the place, cleaning from top to bottom, getting rid of miscellaneous furniture by stuffing it into a truck that parked miles away—getting the place perfect, only to have some prospective buyer step in a stinky coiler left out on the lawn to ruin the magic.
“A little, and, trust me, you need to be careful!”
“I think I’ll call the vet, Patrick,” Sebastian said.
Patrick nodded in agreement, as though it was the most important decision of the day. And to Sebastian it was.
Patrick walked to the window and looked down.
“Did I see Chuck here awhile back?”
He had and had been coveting the guy’s car. Sebastian had been in such a generous mood lately that Patrick was up here hanging about, not knowing what was going on around him, but still fancying one for himself because they looked so cool. The fact he could easily afford to go to the showroom and smack down enough cash for two was beside the point—there’s no fun in that.
Putting his dog down and watching Fluffy walk, Sebastian said, “Why?”
“I just thought it would make us all look so cool if we all had a sports car.”
“How’s the script Patrick?” Sebastian asked without looking up.
It was a good question, and one Patrick was still unable to answer because he had yet to read it. Megan Rawlis, his friend the writer, who used to be a cocktail waitress, had said it was incredible, though, so what was wrong with that? Yes, she may have been a raving lunatic flower child from LA, but she looked hot with no clothes on and seemed to like working him and milking his dick as much as she enjoyed living the dream. So who was going to upset the apple cart with that one? Not him, that was for certain.
Holding his hands out in a gesture impossible for Sebastian to ignore, he said, “Trust me—it’s fantastic.”
Sebastian stared at him and said, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to offer? No plot points, story line, perhaps, even, possibly an idea of your own?”
This line of questioning wasn’t what Patrick had been expecting. Maybe it was a bad time to come in and mess about with the man, especially since he was worried about his stupid dog’s ass. So he said, “Oh, trust me Sebastian, I know the script from top to bottom. I just don’t want to ruin it for you when the latest draft comes through. Why kill the magic hey? If you want though, I’ll have Megan come over and sit down for an afternoon and break the whole thing down after she’s given you a personal reading.”
That’ll do, Patrick thought. He knew how much the Joni Mitchell-singing hippie chick drove everyone crazy in the office with her long skirts and wild hair and Sebastian would rather put needles in his eyes than suffer that. And right on cue after just a moment’s thought, Sebastian said, “Sure, bring her in and all three of us can sit down and go through it together.”
************
Ditcon was still rubbing his neck and shoulders when he’d arrived back in his office on Main Street and turned the heat up. His driver de jour still with him, now wandering around the large room with her fingers unconsciously trailing across his large wooden desk as she looked at all the photos of the big guy receiving medals and playing golf with celebrities.
He’d left the hospital and had her gun it right through town with the lights on all the way to his favourite Italian restaurant near Boundary Road. They’d stopped off for an early lunch with some wine, at which he’d told her how good a driver she was and how her handling of the corner earlier on Burrard was so precise he’d cricked his neck—not her fault of course, his entirely for not having expected such acumen. She’d just been too good for him—taken him by surprise.
Now they were up in his office, waiting for an important phone call coming in that she could listen in to as long as she didn’t let on that she was there. After all it wasn’t often that you’re on a conference call with the head of the CIA. In the meantime, she could watch him work, see how the big boys do it, learn some stuff that the ego maniacs at cop school, with their fuck you attitude, can’t teach you because they don’t know it themselves.
Oh, and if she was getting hot, she should take off that tight-fitting jacket and fix them both a drink from the bottle he had stashed at the back of the mini bar.
Ditcon watched as the young police woman unzipped the front of her jacket and let those titties out. Fuck she was nice this one, apart from her ass being a little too big, he thought. She seemed to like him, giving him that little look when they were eating at lunch, laughing at his stupid jokes. Him not touching her, her getting tactile with him instead after the glass of wine, grabbing his arm and punching him really hard when he teased her, telling her she was going to make detective.
Looking up as he watched her pour them both a vodka from his little minibar, he said, “I’ve got some blow if you want?”
“Sorry?”
He smiled at her.
“You’re kidding, right?”
He wasn’t. Blow was easy to come by when all the alleys that surrounded your police station sold drugs—and women, but that was another matter. It was the moment of truth with this one, either she was going to start to play or she was out the door with the knowledge that her superiors may hear about her drunk driving—which was not good, especially since it was in front of the boss.
Ditcon looked at her with that big, stupid grin on his face, trying to remember the girl’s name. Dorothy—that was it, he thought. He was good with names, it was his strong point and partly the reason he’d moved up the ladder so fast—that, and meeting, by chance, the then teenage boyfriend of a now long-forgotten Mayor.
He said, “What do you think Dorothy, am I playing with you?”
He heard her say back, “My name’s Stephanie.”
Shit.
“Just playing with you Steph, I knew that,” Ditcon confessed.
Then he heard her say, “I never thought I’d be offered that up here.”
Ditcon leaned back in his chair and, still feigning his neck injury, said, “Yeah well, life’s strange.”
Then she looked at him and totally serious said, “Is this a test?”
“Maybe?” Ditcon said back with a smile.
Stephanie stared at him, unsure of what to do. The guy she’d seen walking around the station with purpose, looking all serious and kicking ass was not the same man who was sitting there grinning like a fifteen-year-old and rubbing his shoulders. Yeah, she’d done a bit of coke in her day, back in her late teens during Stampede week in her hometown, Calgary. She’d been trying to be cool, then lied about it in her confidentiality report when she applied to be a part of the Vancouver Police Department. She’d even taken a line an hour before the polygraph test they put her though to straighten herself out.
The wine had already been going too far, but now vodka while on duty—and cocaine? Jesus. But who knows, she thought, the guy is the top dog around here and partying with the boss could do no harm. After all, he’s the guy who’d be firing her, either out the door or further up the ladder if she played it right.
Turning to him and holding both glasses to her chest, she said, “How do I know you’re not a cop?”
Ditcon laughed, that was a good one. He said straight back, “How do I know you’re not a cop, hey? Could get dangerous, here in my office, both of us carrying guns and all.”
Your office. Stephanie thought, your office on the top floor, away from it all with its huge desk and sofa and view of the mountains.
Then taking him by surprise as she handed him his large vodka with a little piece of lemon, she said, “When you take this call later from the big shot in the U.S. about this guy who stole one of their cars and crashed it across the border, why don’t you tell them you’ve heard from a good source that it’s Charles Chuck Chendrill they’re looking for? That’ll set him straight for disrespecting you th
e way he did this morning.”
***********
Megan Rawlis sat in the chair opposite Sebastian with Patrick flanking them both from the side in a manner that showed without a shadow of a doubt that he had absolutely nothing to do with this read through meeting.
Moving his chair out purposely, making a circle, and holding a notepad and pen, Sebastian looked at Patrick and said, “Patrick before we start, why don’t you give us both your thoughts on the script, and then tell us, maybe, how the plot points could be strengthened and, possibly, if you think there are any weaknesses in the plot or sub plots.”
Patrick stared back at Sebastian sitting in the middle of his office in his yellow trousers like a king. His ass was still aching from the working Megan had just given it, the way he liked her to do. Megan milking him onto the nice clean sheets on her king-sized bed in the suite Sebastian was paying for at the Sutton.
For once, he had gone over there to go through the script as they had a meeting that afternoon and the flower child had surprized him with the offer of giving him what he liked. And this time she hadn’t gone easy.
He said with a grin that had sold a hundred condos, “Trust me Sebastian this script is just fantastic! Adalia’s going crazy about it.”
Asking in a clear and precise manner that left no doubts in the mind of anyone in the room that it was Sebastian who was paying for this project and in charge, and definitely not Patrick, despite the man’s front and bravado, Sebastian said, “Like I asked before. Tell us how maybe the plot points could be possibly strengthened and if there are any weaknesses within the plot or sub plots?”
And Megan piped up for the first time since she had sat down and despite being nervous ever since Chendrill had given her a talking to regarding her behavior said, “I think we should scrap the ray guns altogether and put all the emphasis on love and bringing peace to the world, let’s be different.”
