Arthur closed his eyes, tried to sleep, but DiPalma, keyed up, wired on the want of nicotine, lurched into a ramble about Albania. “Money will have to be the big mediating factor. Everything and everyone is for sale over there, politicians, government officials, but you have to break through the layers of the old Commie bureaucracy.”
Then came a primer on rendition practices: the Lear 35 the vehicle of choice, the victim encased head-to-toe in a black jumpsuit, diapers, sleeping drugs. Torture by proxy. Electrodes to the genitals, mutilations, mouths without teeth, fingers without nails.
Not for the first time, Arthur reconsidered the wisdom of this mission, this leap into the unknown. But he would heed the Bard: Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
Many hours later Arthur awoke to DiPalma’s snores and the sun streaming through his portside window, land below, Germany maybe, or Poland. It took a while for him to shake off a chilling dream of lying shackled on a cold concrete floor, Anthony Crumwell snipping off his fingers, leaving bloody stubs.
Crumwell had earned this role as the black hat of Arthur’s nightmares through the fear and revulsion he’d provoked by prying into Arthur’s every intimate doing. If the gods are just, revenge will be delicious.
22
Slimed with mucky oil, slipperier than the greased porker he’d outclassed at last year’s Garibaldi Summer Games, Stoney crawled from under the Fargo and washed up at his outdoor sink. Job done, he was free at last, free of Arthur Beauchamp’s constant, heartless grousing. It took a while, but so did the Sistine Chapel.
He’d tie a ribbon around this baby, park it in Arthur’s driveway for when he returned for the holidays, a reminder it was Christmas bonus time. Heartbreaking to lose the old girl, she’d been in the yard so long she was like family. No sense letting her sit idle. A master mechanic must always break in any rebuilt trannie, and there was excess herbage to be ferried to friends at undisclosed border crossings.
Now he could go back to getting his latest business venture off the ground. Hot Air Holidays. His main task: sticking a broom up Dog’s puckered ass — his test driver insisted on tethering the balloon to the ground. Made it only six feet up last time.
The phone was complaining again from the house. Probably that grasping witch from the collection agency — she’d been hanging on his heinie like a Rottweiler for the last three weeks. Herman Schloss, the world’s worst poker player, had committed the highly unethical lapse of not disclosing the lien on his cabin cruiser.
An energy transfusion was needed. He fumbled through his eight-pack for a Lucky. The tab released with a comforting phsst, and he cranked it back, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
The phone again. He went inside, waited as his machine reeled off his powerful new greeting: “Garibaldi Taxi, Loco-Motion Rent-a-Car, and Hot Air Holidays, offering twenty-four-hour-a-day prompt and efficient service. All our lines are tied up, so please leave a message.”
A male voice, whiney and pleading. “Mr. Stonewell, please pick up, this is my third call this afternoon.”
Which didn’t make sense, it wasn’t even noon. “Customer service,” he said, disguising his voice in case it was some other leech from the collection agency. “I’m sorry, our establishment has been experiencing heavy traffic today. Whom may I inquire is calling?”
“Is this Mr. Stonewell? Robert Stonewell?”
“Mr. Stonewell is busy with other customers at the present moment. May I be appraised as to the nature of your inquiry?”
“I am calling from Ottawa, sir, with some news he’ll be delighted to hear. I’d like to speak with him personally.”
Stoney suspected a trick, but he called, “Mr. Stonewell on seven!” then switched the phone to the other hand, returned to his normal voice, but gruff. “Stonewell here. Sorry, I’m up to my neck, can you make it short?”
“Mr. Stonewell, my name is Burton, from the federal Department of Small Business. Your name has been chosen from a list of a dozen outstanding entrepreneurs who have made unique contributions in the start-up of —”
“Hey, man, I don’t take junk calls, eh, so stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Wait! This is totally legitimate! I’m calling on behalf of a program to honour a select group of achievers. You will represent the West Coast. We’re inviting you and your wife to spend two nights in Ottawa, all expenses paid.”
“Come on, man, who is this? Honker, is that you?”
“Bear with me, please. We’re offering gratis two tickets first class, a luxury suite in our finest hotel, and a thousand dollars to cover expenses.”
Stoney sipped his Lucky, jiggled his cigarette pack, picked one out with his teeth, lit it. The guy sounded sincere enough, and Stoney was in fact an outstanding entrepreneur. How did they get his name? “This isn’t a gag?”
“No, sir, this is the real thing — a courier package with the tickets and vouchers has been requisitioned and you may expect delivery within the day. It’s a rush, but the election call has upset our timetables, so we’d truly appreciate it if you can fly out tomorrow — I hope that’s not an imposition. You’ll be back two days before Christmas. Arrival Ottawa International at six p.m., but take a later flight if that suits you. All we ask is that you and your spouse keep our program absolutely confidential until we make a formal announcement.”
“I don’t have an actual spouse right now …”
“Your girlfriend, partner, companion, whomever you wish to share this opportunity with.”
For a moment, Stoney thought he was hallucinating, maybe the brewmeister at the Lucky Lager refinery had been dropping tabs of acid in the canned goods. He studied the phone, but it wasn’t melting in his hand or anything.
“As an essential part of the program, we want to hear your views on how we, the government, can help small businesses work better for the country.”
“You want an earful, you got the right man.” Stoney stubbed his cigarette, he was buoyant, a believer now. “Number one, your environmental regs are killing business, you got to pull back on your emissions limits, and while you’re at it take a look at all them restrictions on hot-air balloon travel.” An emphatic knocking at the door. “Just a sec, I got a customer.”
“Allow me one second more.”
Stoney called: “Coming! Just a sec!”
“Can we count on you?” Burton said.
“I’ve got a dozen clients to service tomorrow, I hate to let them down …”
“Perhaps the following day …”
“But I can’t let my country down neither. Okay, I’ll cut ass outta here tomorrow.”
“I can’t emphasize this enough, please keep it between us.”
“You bet, you can count on Bob Stonewell.” He disconnected fast. He’d just seen an unwelcome sight out the window. Maybe he was the butt of a good news—bad news joke, because the bad was standing on the welcome mat: Constable Ernst Pound. No time to hide the five K’s of product sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d have to brazen it out.
He slipped outside, backed Pound away from the door. He was holding a sealed envelope, probably with another summons over some cheesy hassle or other. “Yo, Ernst, you caught me at a bad time, I been on the phone with the big boys in Ottawa, they want me to hop a plane there. I been chosen as an outstanding example of entreperennial spirit.”
“In what? Growing dope?”
“I find that hurtful. I got a reputation. I been nationally recognized as an achiever. That’s my new project over there.” Indicating his big striped balloon, neatly folded, on a tarp
“I hope you’ve got a licence to operate that there thing.”
“Yeah, it’s in the mail. You got a Christmas present for me there, Ernst? I feel real awkward, I didn’t get you nothing.”
“This came by dispatch, personal for you. They got me running around like I was a delivery boy.”
Stoney ripped the envelope open: a letterhead from Ottawa,
the Department of Small Business, signed by this same guy, Burton. He was pleased to nominate one Robert Stonewell as small-business entrepreneur of the year representing British Columbia. Two first-class return tickets, hotel vouchers, ten hundred-dollar bills so crisp you could pick your teeth with them.
Pound’s eyes went huge. “Holy Jesus, I thought you were shitting me.”
Stoney was goggle-eyed too. “Mom lied, there is a Santa. Hey, I’m gonna tell my Ottawa connections about the splendid work our local constable has been doing here. About time we considered a promotion.” Before closing the door, he added, “Oh, and keep all this under your hat, eh, until we’re ready to go public.”
“Yes, sir.”
By ten the next morning, Stoney was in Ottawa, critically examining the Château Laurier as it loomed beyond the taxi window. All peaks and turrets, a grand, sprawling structure equal to the standards he expected. “I hope you have change for a hundred, my good man. I usually don’t carry nothing smaller.”
The taxi driver made the change, from which Stoney, feeling brotherhood with a fellow cabbie, tipped him fat. The doorman was already at the trunk, hauling out the suitcases Stoney had borrowed from Honk Gilmore because his own was mildewed. A porter was wrestling with Dog for possession of his ratty, patched duffle bag, but Dog won, and they entered an elaborate, bustling lobby, some kind of Christmas brunch starting, three-piece suits and designer dresses — these had to be the heavy-pocketed civil servants Stoney was supporting with his tax money.
He stationed Dog by a pillar to guard the luggage from thieves, then joined a lineup of people checking out. He didn’t complain about not being rushed to the front — it was his own fault, he hadn’t let his sponsors know he was making his grand entry earlier than expected. A quick call to Air Canada had got him first-class seats on the overnight flight, so why waste a day in the service of Her Majesty?
When Dog had finally showed up yesterday to do his test flight, wearing an old army flak jacket and carrying about fifty metres of tether rope, he hardly reacted, except with relief, to Stoney’s announcement of a change in plans.
After a pit stop to pick up the suitcases — and regale Honker on what was going down — they’d packed up, got the late ferry, hightailed it to the airport, parked the Fargo in the short-term lot, and boarded in time for the first serving of champagne.
It was the first time Dog had been on a plane, and he’d sat there like a frog on a log, bulb-eyed, clutching the armrests as they took to the air. Stoney had done his best to explain what this trip was all about, but Dog still didn’t seem to grasp it, just nodding, no questions. Dog never asked questions. Stoney couldn’t remember when he’d last strung three words together.
The stewardess had thought they were rock stars, and Stoney almost didn’t have the heart to correct her. Her expression said she didn’t buy his being a select achiever; she obviously pegged him as a major international drug dealer, which he kind of slyly confirmed. She was hip, they got on pretty good.
The day’s excitement had taken a toll, Stoney falling asleep on the plane before he could finish his last after-dinner liqueur. But as a fortunate result he wasn’t too hammered this morning. Neither was Dog, who’d been too shy to ask the stewardess to keep the beer flowing.
Stoney finally gained the front desk and the services of a snotty-looking stiff with a carnation in his lapel and a name badge, “Fortesque.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Stonewell.” Studying what looked like a government fax. “A little early for us, I’m afraid. We can have a suite ready for you and your wife in about two hours. One of the porters will be pleased to store any luggage …”
“I got my own porter.” Stoney beckoned to Dog to come forward with the bags. “This gentleman here ain’t exactly my wife. He’s my companion.”
Dog got flustered under the clerk’s frigid gaze, and took off his ball cap, twisting it in his hands. Fortesque studied the fax. “Companion, yes, of course. My instructions may be incomplete … I see we are to charge a government account. Room, meals, refreshments …”
“The whole assload, yeah. We’re on government business.”
Fortesque looked at him sternly. “You are Mr. Robert Stonewell?”
“Well, I ain’t Mother Goose.”
The clerk’s neat little moustache twitched when he tried to smile. “One moment, please.” He disappeared into an office, people in the lineup sighing and grumbling. Fortesque then hurried back with a letter-size envelope, suddenly all apologetic. “I’m sorry, this should have been, uh, presented to you immediately on registration.”
It was embossed with the name Charley Thiessen, Office of the Attorney General. Stoney ripped it open and shook out two tickets to the National Ballet, the next night. The handwritten note he pulled out was from this Thiessen guy, wanting to meet tomorrow at half past ten for brunch. Probably some lawyer with contracts to sign so Stoney could collect the honours being bestowed on him. He showed the note to the snot behind the desk and got instant reaction.
“My deepest apology for any confusion. Corner suite on the sixth floor, it’s almost ready, the maid is doing final touches. If you will please sign here, for yourself and your companion …”
“Yo, Dog, what’s your last name?”
A massive throat clearing. “Zbrinjkowitz.”
“Yeah, I can never remember. That’s why we call him Dog. It’s got two beds, eh? Dog’s feet get kind of cheesy.”
The suite was skookum, stuffed chairs everywhere, bureau, wardrobe, fancy lamps, a bed that could sleep half a dozen without trying, an extra bedroom with its own TV and private bath with a tub, shitter, and a weird urinal for pissing while you squat. A view out over a snowy park and a frozen river. And to top it off, a little fridge full of the necessities of life.
Dog was like a frozen statue, looking like he was afraid to touch anything or the dream would end. “Wake up and smell the good life, Dog. The queen slept here, along with Mick Jagger and Madonna and the biggest names in Hollywood.”
“Arnold?”
“Yep.” Schwarzenegger, his hero. Stoney tossed him a Heinie, twisted the cap off a miniature V.O. rye. “Kick off them boots and relax. They got a pool here, you remember to bring your bathing suit?”
“Bathing suit?”
“Wear your gonches, no one’s gonna mind. Hey, man, we got a shitload of time, so let’s finish unpacking and then go see if we can sell some of this dope.”
The Honker was ten years retired, but he’d worked Ottawa and still had good contacts. Like the older couple Stoney invited to the room that afternoon, quality buyers, purveyors to the top class of civil servants.
He popped some bud into a hookah his customers brought along as a Christmas gift, got a good burn going. “This is radically mellow, a hybrid of Garibaldi Gold and my own specialty, Purple Passion. Normally it sells around five centuries a pound, but for the favoured few, afictionados of the finest, I got a special on at three-fifty, comes with a guarantee you’ll be walking home in a winter wonderland. Goes good with some early Led Zep. Dog, get the lady a glass of champagne.”
“Blithe,” the guy said after his sample toke. “Truly blithe.”
A big sale resulted, a merry Christmas for all, these old pros would be quadrupling their money. Stoney was wishing he’d brought more than thirty pounds.
Another guest who called up from the lobby was the hip flight attendant. Stoney almost forgot he’d invited her. She did a taster, bought two lids, one for her boyfriend, a pilot.
By midnight, his luggage was twenty pounds lighter and his entire suite smelled like a cannabis fart, but he was in hog heaven, a good day even by the standards of an outstanding achiever.
Dog was lying on the bed, stoned beyond normal human capacity, watching a TV movie, a tearjerker, you could hear him snuffle. “Come on, Dog, the night is young. Let’s hit the bars. This town’s full of needy, lonely women.”
It was time to party.
23
Charley
Thiessen paced about his office, waiting for Crumwell — he was unsettled, he hadn’t been sleeping well. Big speech next day in Windsor to kick off the area candidates, but he hadn’t read it yet, couldn’t get past the first page. Then Sarnia, London, Kitchener. Charley, as one of the all-stars, had to blanket Ontario.
Headquarters had issued a directive: no media blitzes, no blatant in-your-face door-to-door stuff until after the holidays — the voters would be resentful. So the Tories had settled for a series of kick-off rallies, then Thiessen would spend Christmas week shaking paws on the main streets of Grey County and recording TV and radio spots in a Toronto studio.
This morning he had other business, vital in its own way, a duty that had to be discharged so he could get his campaign in gear. Operation Beauchamp, the bringing down of the put-down artist, his descent into ignominy.
Thiessen had pulled into Ottawa late the night before, after learning that Robert Stonewell had checked in at the Château. Easy-going, joke-telling Charley must be at his beguiling best. Brunch at ten-thirty, in forty-five minutes, over caviar and eggs Benedict in Stonewell’s suite, away from the gaze of the public and the omnivorous press.
Reception buzzed to say Crumwell had finally shown up, hopefully with his promised backgrounder on this character. “Send him in.”
“You’re aware, sir, that Privy Council is meeting in the cabinet room at noon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I have it on the calendar. Don’t put anyone through for the next half-hour.” There’d be no notes taken, no record of this tête-à-tête with the spymaster.
Crumwell slipped like a ghost into the room, looking unhealthy, pallid. The Bhashyistan business had got to him big time, the continuing cyber attacks: some big hotels had been hit, a grocery chain. Everybody was exasperated at Canada’s show of impotence. Which is why the Privy Council would be meeting, to chew over another scheme the PMO had come up with, something called Operation Blow Job — that couldn’t be it. Snow Job.
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