by Jim Stark
"Keep your fuckin’ voice down, furchrissakes,” said Geoff Farley. “I gotta think."
"Oh jeeze,” whispered Bobby. “Check out the broad that just walked in."
Four teenaged eyeballs undressed Nancy Ferguson as she entered Ray's, and her two adult eyeballs stared them down, told them without words that they didn't have the first notion of how to please a real woman.
"Excuse me, Miss? Could I have a chicken sandwich to go, and a milk?” she asked.
"Sure thing,” said Claire.
"And if you don't mind my asking, how come the sign outside says ‘RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT'? I've seen it before, but I never really noticed that—"
"Oh,” laughed the waitress, “that was Merrick's idea, Merrick McFee over there. He owns the garage out back. You tell her, Merrick."
"Well,” said Merrick after a rather dramatic puff of tobacco, “it's ‘cause this here is Québec, and under Bill 178, outdoor signs gotta be in both official languages, as long as one of them isn't English."
"I'm ... not sure I understand,” said Nancy, turning to the waitress for help.
"That's sort of the whole idea,” said Claire, crossing her eyes.
"Oh,” Nancy managed with a confused half-grin. “Do you ... have a pay phone?"
"Sorry honey,” said Claire, “but there's a phone just inside the kitchen door. It's okay to use it when Ray's not here, if it's not long distance. It's just to your left as you—"
"You just watch,” warned Merrick, pointing at Claire with his lit cigarette. “Ray's gonna come back with one of them LieDeck thingies and ask if anybody used the phone when he was out."
Nancy stopped in her tracks, uncertain of what to do.
"Don't pay any mind to that old reprobate,” said Claire. “Ray pulls a LieDeck on me and all's I gotta do is threaten to tell his mother about them young ladies he brings in here after hours. Go ahead, use the damned phone."
Nancy smiled her appreciation for the waitress's courtesy and wit, and found the black wall-phone just inside the kitchen door, shiny and wet with molecules of grease. She called her own number. After three rings, she concluded that her husband wasn't home and decided to retrieve her messages. She entered her security code, and as she waited for technology to catch up with reality, she eavesdropped on the ruckus in the restaurant. Everybody was arguing and joking about “that LieDeck thing that just got invented."
There were two calls from people wanting information and prices on puppies; her perpetually worried mother had called to see whether she had arrived from Vancouver in one piece; and ... what's this? Tom's voice? Leaving a message on our own answering machine? How could that be? Why would ... ?
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Nancy,” said Tom's voice, “but with this new LieDeck device, you were bound to find out sooner or later. I have to tell you ... I do love you, but there's another lady in my life, for the past year or so, and I'm in love with her.
"She's married, but her husband works in the north and only comes home every eight weeks. I'm at her place now. I'm calling from over there. We talked about it, and she and I ... well, we want to be together, you know. There's no sense making a scene with you or with her husband. I know you never suspected a thing, and I'm glad you didn't because it meant that our time together was good, or at least as good as—"
Nancy hung up the phone and stood there like a pillar of quivering Jell-O as the tears dribbled down her face. Claire couldn't help but notice, so she came over and put a big arm around her waist.
"You okay, honey?” she asked.
Chapter 31
I'LL BE MEETIN’ GOD THIS YEAR ... IF'N THERE IS ONE
In the early evening, Steve Sutherland headed out to meet Buck Ash at the British Hotel in Quyon for a beer, as planned. He didn't have a car because he didn't know how to drive, but he knew he'd have no difficulty getting there. In Norway Bay, the trick was to go down to Henderson's, the only store in town, shoot the breeze for a while, and wait. Sooner or later, somebody headed for Quyon would stop in, and sure enough, someone did, and now here he was, at the British.
"How come you're in the area anyways?” asked Buck as the two men found a fairly ungrungy table near the empty stage.
"My brother Tony has a cottage out in Norway Bay,” explained Steve. “He bought it from the family estate when my dad passed on. When I told Tony about my predicament, he said I should take a few months at the cottage to get myself together and decide what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I like it up there. Nice people. Have you always lived in Quyon?"
"Four draft,” hollered Buck to the waiter. “Oh yeah ... ‘cept for my hockey years. Born and bred, I guess you could say. So, have you made a decision yet, Father ... or I mean Steve? Jeeze, I still can't get my brain around just calling you Steve. Anyways, did you figure out what's next for you, or are you gonna just sort of take your time on that score?"
Steve paid for the four drafts and tipped the waiter as he pondered how to answer Buck's question. It had been a long time since anyone had inquired about his current state of being from the point of view of plain, ordinary curiosity and caring. Every priest and bishop should be compelled to take a rural sabbatical once in a while, he thought.
"I haven't really figured that out,” he said. “I feel like praying a lot. That's what I always used to do when I felt a need for guidance. But praying doesn't seem to work for me any more. When I get the urge to pray, I write, pages and pages. I'm not exactly sure why, but it sure beats sitting around doing nothing and getting nowhere."
"I pray,” admitted Buck as he pried his glass from the fiber coaster. “Been praying up a storm lately, but like you say, it don't seem to work so good for me neither. O’ course it never did work for me, Steve, which is maybe why I didn't do much by way of church stuff all my life ... one reason anyways. I guess you must have figured praying was like helping you sort things out, I mean back when you were the bishop and all."
Steve smiled at the frankness of their discussion and tried hard to remember the last time his ecclesiastic colleagues had jumped into the pudding like this. He couldn't—not because his memory was failing, but because they never did, not even in the shadowy privacy of the confessional. “Maybe my writing is a kind of praying, Buck,” he said. “I don't know. Maybe I'm writing a long letter to God. Do you believe in God, Buck?"
He was a mountain of a man, Buck was, an enforcer during his stint in the NHL. He had more hair on his forearms than some men had on their heads. His face never quite looked like it had been shaved—at least not recently. He could have made a career in pro wrestling if he had wanted to, or so the locals always said. At the moment, however, there were salty droplets hanging shamelessly from the stubble.
"Tell me what's the matter,” said Steve.
Buck's eyes were glued to his beer. His lips moved slightly, but nothing came out, and Steve decided he'd best just wait this one out.
Finally, Buck spoke up. “I'll be meetin’ God this year ... if'n there is one,” he said softly.
"I beg your pardon?” said Steve.
"I'm ... d-dying, is what's the d-damned matter, Father,” he stuttered as he lit another cigarette. “I got fuckin’ lung cancer. It doesn't even hurt, except when I cough up at night. I been coughing up blood for a year. Never did nothing about it. Tried to quit these things. Never could. They told me to go in the hospital for chemo and all that stuff back in January, but I never went. I'm dead meat in a month or two, and I'm...” He turned his head away as if to prevent himself from seeing Steve, or to prevent his new friend from seeing him break down, or to not break down. “I'm..."
"You're afraid,” said Steve soothingly. “It's okay to be afraid, Buck. Everybody feels afraid of dying, even the pope."
Buck signaled for two more beers and collected himself. “Yeah, but the pope there, he's gotta be pretty sure of making it, eh? But me, I led a pretty bad life. I did stuff, you know, bad stuff, and like I know a lot of stuff, bad stuff,
that I never told nobody."
So that's it, thought Steve. He wants to confess, probably for the first time since third grade. What terrible secrets are troubling this simple soul? Why does it take the prospect of imminent death to bring a man to deal with the requirements of life? And ... and what business is it of mine, now that I'm no longer a priest? And what can I tell him, anyway?
"Look, Buck,” he said, “I'm not a priest any more, and I'm not sure I could help you much even if I was still a priest, but if you want to talk about it I'll listen, and if you want me to keep it confidential, to not tell anybody, I'll do that, just like I was still a priest."
Buck paid for another round and threw back his shoulders to perk up his courage. “I've got to talk to somebody,” he said quietly towards his glass, “and I guess I wouldn't mind talking your ear off for a while. If you'd rather not, it's okay, eh? I just figured..."
"Go ahead, Buck,” invited the former bishop. “Tell me what's bothering you ... I mean, besides the cancer."
"Well, first off, there's this guy, Fatty Crosbie, and he used to grow grass, you know, dope, marijuana, up near Shawville. There's a cop lives over in Bristol; his name's Jake; he caught him, and when Fatty tried to run away, Jake shot him, killed him. Nothing ever came of it, but the thing of it is, Fatty was paying Jake off for years. Gave him thousands of dollars to keep quiet, eh?"
Buck felt the burden lift as he finally made himself tell, and Steve felt the burden land on his shoulders.
"What really happened is Fatty got born again,” explained Buck. “Is that how you say it? This old preacher up in Shawville got a'hold of him and convinced him to change his ways, eh? So Fatty, he comes to me and he tells me he's gonna tell the Sûreté like about everything, you know, about the dope, and about giving all that money to Jake."
Buck stopped long enough to take a fortifying gulp of beer, and told himself to keep going, to get right through it.
"Well, I know Jake, eh?” he said. “I figure before he killed Fatty, he got him to say who he talked to, and even if he didn't, now with that LieDeck thing that Mr. Whiteside's making, he's gonna find out, eh? All's he's gotta do is ask me, and if I say I don't know nothing, he'll know I'm lying, eh? I figure Jake already knows that I know, and if other people find out, he'll shoot me too, sure as shit, just like he shot Fatty, even if it wasn't me that told on him."
There! He'd done it. He swallowed the rest of his glass and took a preliminary guzzle out of its waiting twin.
"Kinda funny, eh?” he said as he tried to smile and make a tiny bit of eye contact, “me worrying about getting shot when I already know I'm gonna kick the bucket pretty soon anyhow? So I figure maybe you could tell me what to do, you know, like whether I should tell anybody before I ... before I..."
Steve watched “the Buck” throw back the last of another draft and light yet another in his never-ending string of cigarettes. “I can go with you to the Sûreté if you want,” he volunteered. “I can't tell you much about God and heaven and forgiveness and all that, but I think the law is important, and you could help justice to be done before you—uh—before the lung cancer catches up with you. You'd feel better, and that would be one big problem off your conscience, and in the hands of the right people. We can go right now if you..."
"Two more,” bellowed Buck at the bartender. He'd have said four more, except he was in need and Steve wasn't. “Okay,” he said. “But there's more, a lot more I gotta say."
Buck became less eloquent and more verbose as the minutes went by and the glasses of beer disappeared behind his lips. Between trips to the can, he talked about his secret employment with Patriot Security, about his duty to report all the local gossip—to “rat on my friends,” was the way he put it. He told Steve about the stolen cars he and his buddies would drive up from the States and sell to the locals. He told all about the smuggled-in cigarettes that most everybody near the poverty line smoked. He told about the women in his life, the two failed marriages, the under-aged girls, and the many housewives he had “borrowed” over the years.
"Christ, this one time, ‘bout twenny years ago, I even did it with...” Steve watched as the end of that sentence got buried in amber dope. It seemed there were some things you just don't confess, no matter what.
"Plus,” added Buck in a loud afterthought, “plus ... you gotta come with me to talk to this old lady, Barbara Farley. She's the widow of that guy Joe Farley they charged with assault on Bishop Malini. You gotta remember that ... I mean from when you was the bishop? Well, this old gal Barbara, she's been tellin’ lies to them government people that are looking into that case of them kids at St. Dominique's Boys School, and she's gonna die from her heart just like her Joe did unless somebody talks some sense into her head ... ‘specially if they trip her up with one of them LieDecks."
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 2014
Chapter 32
JUST CHECKING
Prime Minister St. Aubin adjusted his tie in the mirror and hoped he could get through the press conference without a blunder ... or a stroke. It had originally been scheduled for 6:00 p.m. yesterday, but he'd cancelled it, ostensibly for political reasons, but mostly for psychological ones. Now, twenty hours later, after a divisive cabinet meeting that almost led to a revolt, announcements had to be made. The signing of the Russian wheat deal out in Winnipeg could have been handled by the Minister of Agriculture, of course, but this depressing UN situation ... well, he had to deal with that one personally, so he'd decided to take the plaudits for the wheat deal too.
"Am I a thing of beauty?” he asked his chief of staff.
"You look fine,” said Ralph Dellaire. “Just remember, there's no rule says you have to take questions. If it gets rough, tell them you're late for a meeting or something."
"You know I can't lie,” scolded the PM. “They've got LieDecks.” He gave his image one last check in the mirror. “Do you think I'd escape with my life if I just told them to stuff their fucking questions?"
"You should do exactly that,” said Dellaire. “What could they do?"
"Well, I'll give it a try,” said St. Aubin as he headed into the lights.
The press had always been respectful of this prime minister's habit of starting with an opening statement. It was usually boring and unhelpful, but that was a small sacrifice for them. They would have their chance to be rude and confrontational soon enough.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” St. Aubin said, “I know you have questions about all sorts of different things, but I have two important announcements to make, and I'm afraid I won't have time for any questions."
"Beep,” went dozens of LieDecks.
The Prime Minister's cheeks went pink with fury. He couldn't get used to strangers having access to his conscience, nor did he particularly want to get used to it. “Just checking,” he quipped. “Now if you don't mind, I'll ask you to turn those things off. You can always do the truth test with your tapes, later."
The reporters took out their LieDecks and reluctantly flipped switches. The request was reasonable, and there was always that new safeguard, the ability to LieDeck-verify tapes after the fact. When the commotion settled down, the Prime Minister continued.
"First, in about...” He checked his watch pointedly. “In about two hours, I'll be on my way to Winnipeg to formally sign the new wheat sale to the Republic of Russia. We're all concerned about the terrible repression that has again gripped that beleaguered state, but there's a lesson in this for Vladimir Latzoff. If Russia had stayed the course towards democracy and freedom, we'd probably be giving them wheat, or at least advancing loan credits. As things stand, we will gladly accept one-point-eight billion American dollars of their dwindling supply of hard currency. Bertha McNeil, the Minister of Agriculture, has sent a stiffly worded note to the Russian leader to this effect ... with my blessing."
He waited for the scribes to finish scribbling, and he wondered why they still did that, now that they all used tape-recorders. He cleared his throat, and unconsciously threw
a worried glance at the row of staring cameras.
"My second announcement is very serious, and will come as a shock to all of you, I'm sure. For reasons that I do not wish to discuss at this time, Canada is temporarily—and I emphasize temporarily—suspending its membership in the United Nations. I've already recalled Ambassador Lynden Jacks. Canada was a founding member of the UN, so I take this action with profound regret. I hope we will find a way to resolve the difficulties that led to this decision as soon as possible. And now, I really must go."
"Beep,” went several LieDecks.
"What's going on at the United Nations?” a reporter shouted as St. Aubin turned to leave. “Why did Canada withdraw?"
"Is it true that an RCMP officer has committed suicide?"
"It's been three days since the bombing at Whiteside's lodge. Why won't the RCMP answer our calls?"
"Was the RCMP involved in the raid?"
"Where's Jeremy Ford?"
"Yes, where is the Minister of Foreign Affairs?"
"Why did you arrest General Brampton? Doesn't he have diplomatic immunity?"
"Why don't you allow LieDecks in the Commons for Question Period?"
"When are we going to get some God damned answers?"
Chapter 33
THOU SHALT NOT BORROW
Stuart Harper had been the Whitesides’ chauffeur for more than twenty years, and yet few people in the family, or at Patriot, knew his real name. Six years ago, Sarah—then only eight—had nicknamed him Jeeves. He thought it was perfectly silly, even demeaning, but Sarah was such a sweet child, and Harper—Jeeves—let it be. That was back in 2008. This was 2014, and not a good day.
