by Jim Stark
"Thanks,” said Victor. “By the way, I'm just doing six-hour shifts, and just days, okay?"
"Fine,” said Ram without eye contact. “Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind."
Victor picked the keys from the hook marked “#16” and beat his retreat from the elevated perch of the Blue Line dispatch and bribe office. Number sixteen was a good car. He'd often requested it when seventeen and twenty were already out.
As he left the outer door of the Blue Line office, he threw a “thumbs up” across the street and walked over to the familiar Ford. He got in, donned the earpiece he'd been asked to wear, and fired up the engine. He wasn't even out of the lot when a call came through from Ram. “Number sixteen—twelve twenty-nine Bronson—apartment five-one-four—a Mrs. Van Grinven—to the airport. Say thank you to the nice man."
"This is sixteen—copy, twelve twenty-nine Bronson—apartment five one four—thank you to the nice man,” said Victor into the doorknob mike that clipped to the dash. “That's the thanks I get for the five bills,” he said into the air after replacing the taxi mike on its hook. “The airport is good money. You got to be in tight with the dispatcher to get airport runs, or generous with the payola."
"Gotcha,” said Helen as she pulled her blue BMW out behind him, a respectable distance behind. “It's Helen here. I read you clear, and I'm picking up the radio traffic fine too. Number twelve twenty-nine Bronson, apartment five-one-four, right?"
"Jeeze, high-priced help!” said Victor. “How are you, Helen? How come you're doing this yourself?"
"Because you're such a swell guy?” she said, with a clear, teasing question mark in her voice.
"Yeah, right,” laughed Victor.
On the way over, Victor and Helen chatted back and forth. He even lied to her once, to see if she had a LieDeck, and was surprised to find that she didn't. They settled on a plan as to how Victor could tell her the verdicts of his own LieDeck without giving the game away to his fares; a short whistle for a lie, no signal for the truth; a whistle if she guessed something wrong, no signal if she guessed right; and a cleared throat to request a response from Helen. Victor wasn't sure he'd remember all that, but he'd give it a try.
At 1229 Bronson Avenue, an attractive thirty-five-year-old woman was in the foyer, waiting. She opened the door and beckoned for him to come help her with her luggage. “That's usually good for a big tip,” said Victor as he turned off the engine and pocketed the keys—company regulations.
"Bet she stiffs you,” he heard in the plastic earpiece.
"Nah, these apartments go for three grand and up. She's got to be pretty flush to live here. It's a ninety-five dollar flat rate from downtown to the OIA these days.” He got out of the cab and slammed the door. “I'll get a twenty-dollar tip, minimum."
"Jeeze, Victor,” warned Helen from the shadow car fifty yards further down Bronson, “don't talk out loud when people can see you. They'll think you're crazy."
"Me? Crazy? Are you crazy?” said Victor, without a lot of mouth movement as he walked up to the apartment door.
"I can handle the suitcase,” said the woman curtly. “You take the cello. Put it in the backseat, carefully. It'll fit."
"You're Mrs. Van Grinven?” asked Victor, as required by strict Blue Line policy.
"Yes,” she answered frostily. “Now please, handle my instrument with extreme care. That's my livelihood in that case."
Interesting, he thought as he let out a little whistle, as per plan, assuming the woman would think he was doubting whether it would actually fit or not.
Helen was intrigued. “You whistled?” she asked into Victor's earpiece.
"Yes,” said Victor as he smiled at his fare. “I'll be very careful."
"So ... her name is Mrs. Van Grinven?” asked Helen. She'd guessed right, so Victor did nothing in response to this question. “She was lying about the cello then,” Helen said, and again there was no response. “Okay, so either it's not a cello, or it is a cello but it's not hers, or it's her cello but she doesn't play professionally. How am I doing, Victor? Don't answer that."
"This is really light,” Victor said to his fare. He opened the back door on the street side and placed the cello case as directed, sliding it across, fat end first. Mrs. Van Grinven got into the passenger seat in front as Victor put her small valise in the trunk and closed the lid.
"OIA?” he asked as he turned the key.
"OIA?” she repeated.
"Ottawa International Airport,” he explained. “You never heard it called that?"
"No,” she said distractedly. “I don't fly much. It scares me."
Victor let out three whistled tones as if he were absently starting some musical ditty, then he picked up the radio mike on the dash. “Number sixteen to OIA,” he reported to the dispatcher.
"I'm not sure I followed that,” said Helen over the air. “She has heard it called the OIA?” She paused, and Victor's silence told her she had that one right. “She does fly a lot?” Again there was no reply. “And ... what was that third thing?"
"How come flying scares you?” asked Victor.
"Oh, it just makes me a bit nervous,” said Mrs. Van Grinven. “Ever since nine-eleven and all those terrorist things. How did you bust your arm?"
"Parachuting,” lied Victor nonchalantly. “I'm a writer, actually. I'm doing a novel set in a parachute club, and I was out at this club in Kemptville doing research. They talked me into trying it ... ‘to understand the attraction,’ they said. Well, I found out, all right!"
"So if you're actually a writer, why are you driving a taxi?” asked the fare.
"Oh Christ, you can't make a living writing in Canada unless you're Mowat or Atwood or ... what's-her-name ... Devine,” he said. “I drive part-time, to eat. I write to feed the soul."
"I read A Change of Season last year,” said his fare. “That was her first one, right? Earleen Devine? God, she's terrific!"
Victor pulled up to a red light, and felt a need to check that his security was still in place. He cleared his throat, the agreed signal for a confirmation.
"I'm three cars behind you,” said Helen into his earpiece. “Jeeze, you really are a bastard, Victor."
"Also, I get lots of story ideas from my fares,” he said cheerily.
"Really?” said Mrs. Van Grinven as she reviewed her make-up and hair in a compact mirror.
"Oh yeah,” said Victor. “I practice on every fare. I pretend that I have this psychic ability, that I can tell when people are lying. I make up stories about who they really are, what they're really doing. It's a good way to exercise my writing skills, or at least my imagination. I always end up with a pile of notes at the end of my shift."
"You don't say,” said Mrs. Van Grinven coolly. “And what wild and woolly story ideas spring to mind from a woman with a cello?"
Victor picked up the microphone from the dash and, without pressing the “on” button, pretended that he was dictating a novel. “She said that her name was ... what's your first name?"
"Make one up,” suggested Mrs. Van Grinven.
"She said her name was Elizabeth Van Grinven, but the baggage tag on her patent leather suitcase read Lucia Fagroni,” pronounced Victor in his best mystery-story voice. “The cab driver felt an electric current run the full length of his flabby frame. This had to be the daughter of the infamous Pablo Fagroni, the undisputed crime boss of New Jersey. As the taciturn woman held up her compact mirror, ostensibly to repair her face, the hack glanced over. The angle was wrong. She was trying to see behind, to see if she was being followed! Followed by whom? And why? What was really in that cello case? A cello, probably, but not just any cello. No. It had to be a hiding place ... for drugs perhaps, or diamonds, ingeniously implanted into the polished neck of the instrument, below the cold brass tuning knobs, above the seasoned sound box. It would be awkward for the airport security to X-ray a cello, and efforts to pry would be discouraged by the danger of ruining a prized Guarnerius, the equivalent of a St
rad in the esoteric world of celloing.
"It was too dark to see, but the trembling cabbie wagered himself that the tips of the fingers on this woman's left hand were smooth as liver, not the callused jackhammers one would find on a professional musician. And this obviously wealthy non-cellist was far too sophisticated to not know the term ‘OIA.’ She had lied about that. And she probably lied about not flying much, as well. The odds were she had a briefcase full of frequent-flyer points. Although the terror she had confessed was palpably real, the cabbie could sense that this paranoia had nothing to do with the perils of aviation, as she had spuriously claimed.
"As the swarthy driver coaxed his aging chariot out to the airport, a black rain was pounding mercilessly onto the—"
"Okay, okay,” surrendered Mrs. Van Grinven. “You've convinced me. You write ... sort of. And I play the cello, sort of. I'm working as an editor for the CBC right now, but this Saturday I'm auditioning for the Vancouver Symphony. I think I could make it. It doesn't pay much, but I'll quit the CBC in a New York minute if I get accepted."
Well, the truth was out. Her little white lies were just that, nothing more. There were no drugs, no diamonds, no underworld conspiracies. Victor could hear Helen cackling away in his ear, an improvement on the petrified silence he'd heard a few seconds earlier. He knew what her trained mind had probably been thinking: What if this woman really was a Mafia mule?
Nonsense, he thought. There were millions of LieDeck-certifiable jerks in the world, but only a few real bad guys, and besides, the bad guys used limousines to get out to the airport ... if they were any good at their profession.
Chapter 24
BOMBS AWAY
Randall Whiteside brought Doreen to Ottawa with him for the press conference ... plus the three kids, and Michael's girlfriend, Becky. Cam was already at the United Nations, ready to carry out the plan, but his wife was also with the Whiteside clan in the National Press Building. Dr. Laurent Gauthier had brought his entire family to see his handiwork unveiled. Steve Sutherland wasn't there because he had decided to watch the proceedings with Annette, in her hospital room. Senator Joe Cadbury came, and he was in a state of wonder at the events that had been set in motion following his April 16 meeting with the inventor of the LieDeck, only five days earlier. The one person who wasn't there and who should have been was Victor Helliwell.
Randall placed a call on his secure cell phone. “How's it going down there?"
"All set,” said Cam from his hotel room in New York. “I had a good meeting with the Costa Rican ambassador last night, and I'll be seeing the UN Secretary General at exactly one p.m. Deliveries to the missions are set to start at one fifteen p.m. How are things up there?"
"Okay, I guess,” said Randall. “Well ... I'm a little ticked off at Victor. I mean, we're announcing his invention and he's out driving a freaking taxi?"
"Go figure,” said Cam.
With Victor out of the picture, the task of launching the LieDeck era had landed by default on Randall. He stood behind the curtains in the anteroom of the main theater in the Press Building, across the street from the Peace Tower. The two blocks of seats were filled by 12:30 p.m., and reporters huddled against the back walls and sat on the steps of the center aisle. This venue was supposed to be solely for Members of Parliament and high government officials, not private citizens, no matter how rich or famous they might be. But the Press Gallery had made an exception this day, at Senator Cadbury's insistence, and on his solemn promise that they would be well rewarded with a blockbuster story.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” bellowed the senator into the buzz of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we'll get started if you'll just..."
Randall made his entrance from stage left, and kept his eyes on the senator as he walked towards the chair behind the pyramid of microphones. He heard the shouted questions and wanted to scold the pack. It wasn't that he didn't sympathize with their frustration of recent days, but he was determined to deal with questions only after he had said his piece.
"Before we begin,” he said, “I've asked my chief engineer and my son Michael to pass out these things that look exactly like Dictaphones. Just hold onto them. Don't fiddle with them until I explain what they are.
"And while they're doing that, I can tell you that Annette Blais, the Patriot agent that was shot in the attack, is speaking now, and it looks like she'll be okay. Also, we're rebuilding the lodge at Wilson Lake, using almost a hundred workers. We hope to have it completely rebuilt in a matter of days."
As Dr. Gauthier and Michael handed out LieDecks, the atmosphere in the room changed. The media hadn't been told what this was about, only that it was “hellish fucking important,” and that they would remember it the rest of their lives. Now they had something tangible to hold on to, and they immediately started whispering to each other about what might happen if they pushed this or that button. Asking a journalist not to pry is like asking a cow to hold the methane, thought Randall.
"Give ‘em hell,” whispered Cadbury to his old golf buddy as he took the chair beside him.
"You bet,” replied Randall quietly. “We've got all the LieDecks set on the flashing light mode. Even if they turn them on, they won't know what the light signifies."
The cameras were rolling, and the buzzing in the room intensified as Dr. Gauthier and Michael filled the last few outstretched hands.
"Ladies, gentlemen,” said Randall, “the attack on the lodge is under ongoing police investigation, so I will have nothing to say about that. I will tell you, however, that the motive behind the attack is the small machine that is now in your hands. I will also tell you that by five o'clock this afternoon, one of these instruments will be in the possession of the ambassador of every nation at the UN. You'll understand why in a moment.
"Hold the device like this, with the WT emblem facing you.” They did as they had been told, and looked up for further instructions.
"To turn it on, flip the on/off button there,” he continued. “A red light should flash. If it doesn't ... did everybody see the light? Okay. Now, watch your device, where the light is. I'm going to make some statements. Don't watch me—keep your eyes on the device.
"First, my name is Randall Byron Whiteside,” he said in a clear and carrying voice. “Did anyone's light blink?"
There was a consensus that nothing had happened anywhere in the room, and Randall prepared himself to drop the bomb. “Okay, now let's try a few more,” he said. “My name is Joseph Cadbury."
Blink.
"I am fifty-six years old."
Nothing.
"I'm a pro football player."
Blink.
"The moon is made of rock."
Nothing.
"The moon is made of blue cheese."
Blink.
"Inflation in Canada is—"
"This is a God damn lie detector,” shouted one of the journalists. “I don't frigging believe it."
"Flip the blue button to the ‘bell’ position,” instructed Randall. “Now put the device in your pocket, or your purse ... well, best to leave your purse open for it to work.” When everyone was ready, he began another series of statements.
"I'm flat broke,” he said, and seventy LieDecks beeped, in perfect unison. “There are four quarters to a loonie,” he said to a silent room. “There are four dimes to a quarter,” he said to a chorus of beeps.
"This remarkable device is called a LieDeck, which is short for lie detector,” said Randall. “And it's spelled capital ‘L,’ small ‘i,’ small ‘e,’ capital ‘D,’ small ‘e,’ small ‘c,’ small ‘k.’ It's one hundred percent accurate, and it will be on the market very soon. And as you can imagine, it will change the world ... profoundly."
"How does it work?” came a shouted question.
"Oh, by magic,” said Randall to a room full of beeps, and a few tentative laughs.
"Why did you pass them out at the UN?” several reporters asked.
"For the same reason I passed them out here,” s
aid Randall, “to get the ball rolling.” He had forgotten that even white lies were now verboten, and seventy “beeps” surprised him. “I respectfully refuse to answer that question on the grounds the damnable LieDeck might incriminate me,” he said playfully.
"How much will it cost?"
"We're advertising them for direct sale only, at nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents,” he said, “...plus tax, of course. There will be absolutely no sales at the Whiteside plant or though any stores. We will only take prepaid orders, on our 800 line, but I'm afraid supplies will be limited for a while."
"Is it really a hundred percent accurate ... all the time?"
"When exactly will it be made available to the public?"
"How does it work, really?"
"Who invented it?"
"What impact will this have on Cold War II?"
"Can this be used to identify terrorists?"
"Will the LieDeck be used in the courts?"
"Will the police have them?"
"How will anyone ever keep a secret in future?"
"How is the government going to respond to this?"
"Will they be allowed in the House of Commons?"
"Does the LieDeck work over the phone or off a TV or radio?"
"Can we keep these things?"
"Ladies, gentlemen, please,” implored Randall. “One at a time."
One at a time, their questions were answered, briefly, at least those questions that were appropriate for Whiteside to field. For the first time in decades, the men and women of the media were on the hinge of history. This little device seemed to be right up there with the invention of the printing press, the Bomb, the Pill. This was a day that literally everyone would remember, like 9/11.
"One more thing,” said Randall as he gathered up his notes and made signs that he was leaving. “In a few months, we'll be releasing a microminiaturized LieDeck, built into a digital wristwatch. These are Dictaphone casings, as you can see. What you have here is just an early model ... and yes, they're yours to keep. Please, try to use them wisely."
