of selling advertisingon squeegee kids' t-shirts! He's heavily supported by private security outfits-- he makes Darth Vader look like a swell guy. That slicked-down, blow-driedasshole --"
Hershie cut him off. "OK, OK, I get the idea."
"No you don't, Supe! You don't get the half of it. This guy isn't your averageLiberal -- those guys usually basic opportunists. He's a _zealot_! He'd like tobeat us with _truncheons_! I went to one of his debates, and he showed up with a_baseball bat_! He tried to _hit me_ with it!"
"What were you doing at the time?"
"What does it matter? Violence is never an acceptable response. I've thrown piesat better men than him --"
Hershie grinned. Thomas hadn't invented pieing, but his contributions to the artwere seminal. "Thomas, the man is a federal Minister, with obligations. He can'tjust write me off -- he'll have to pay me."
"Sure, sure," Thomas crooned. "Of _course_ he will -- who ever heard of apolitician abusing his office to advance his agenda? I don't know what I wasthinking. I apologise."
#
Hershie touched down on Parliament Hill, heart racing. Thomas's warning echoedin his head. His memories of Woolley were already morphing, so that the slick,neat kid became feral, predatory. The Hill was marshy and cold and gray, and ashe squelched up to the main security desk, he felt a cold ooze of mud infiltrateits way into his super-bootie. There was a new RCMP constable on duty, aturbanned Sikh. Normally, he felt awkward around the Sikhs in the Mounties. Heimagined that their lack of cultural context made his tights and emblem seemabsurd, that they evoked grins beneath the Sikhs' fierce moustaches. But today,he was glad the man was a Sikh, another foreigner with an uneasy berth in theCanadian military-industrial complex. The Sikh was expressionless as Hershiesquirted his clearances from his comm to the security desk's transceiver.Imperturbably, the Sikh squirted back directions to Woolley's new office, just ashort jaunt from the exalted heights of the Prime Minister's Office.
The Minister's office was guarded by: a dignified antique door that had the richfinish of wood that has been buffed daily for two centuries; an RCMP constablein plainclothes; a young, handsome receptionist in a silk navy power-suit; aslightly older office manager whose heart-stopping beauty was only barelyrestrained by her chaste blouse and skirt; and, finally, a pair of boardroomdoors with spotless brass handles and a retinal scanner.
Each obstacle took more time to weather than the last, so it was nearly an hourbefore the office manager stared fixedly into the scanner until the locks openedwith a soft clack. Hershie squelched in, leaving a slushy dribble on the mutedindustrial-grade brown carpet.
Woolley knelt on the stool of an ergonomic work-cart, enveloped in anarticulated nest of displays, comms, keyboards, datagloves, immersive headsets,stylii, sticky notes and cup-holders. His posture, hair and expression rivaledone-another for flawlessness.
"Hello, hello," he said, giving Hershie's hand a dry, firm pump. He smelled ofexpensive talc and leather car interiors.
He led Hershie to a pair of stark Scandinavian chairs whose polished leadundersides bristled with user-interface knobs. The old Minister's tastes had runto imposing oak desks and horsehair club-chairs, and Hershie felt a moment'sdisorientation as he sank into the brilliantly functional sitting-machine. Itchittered like a roulette wheel and shifted to firmly support him.
"Thanks for seeing me," Hershie said. He caught his reflection in thebulletproof glass windows that faced out over the Rideau Canal, and felt a flushof embarrassment when he saw how clownish his costume looked in the practicalenvirons.
Woolley favoured him with half a smile and stared sincerely with eyes that werewidely spaced, clever and hazel, surrounded by smile lines. The man fairly oozedcharisma. "I should be thanking you. I was just about to call you to set up ameeting."
_Then why haven't you been taking my calls_? Hershie thought. Lamely, he said,"You were?"
"I was. I wanted to touch base with you, clarify the way that we were going tooperate from now on."
Hershie felt his gorge rise. "From now on?"
"I phrased that badly. What I mean to say is, this is a new Cabinet, a newMinistry. It has its own modus operandi."
"How can it have its own modus operandi when it was only created last night?"Hershie said, hating the petulance in his voice.
"Oh, I like to keep lots of contingency plans on hand -- the time to plan formajor changes is far in advance. Otherwise, you end up running around trying toget office furniture and telephones installed when you need to be seizingopportunity."
It struck Hershie how _finished_ the office was -- the staff, the systems, thesecurity. He imagined Woolley hearing the news of his appointment and calling upfiles containing schematics, purchase orders, staff requisitions. It wasn'texactly devious, but it certainly teetered on the meridian separating _planning_and _plotting_.
"Well, you certainly seem to have everything in order."
"I've been giving some thought to your payment arrangement. Did you know thatthere's a whole body of policy relating to your pension?"
Hershie nodded, not liking where this was going.
"Well, that's just not sensible," Woolley said, sensibly. "The Canadiangovernment already has its own pension apparatus: we make millions ofdirect-deposits every day, for welfare, pensions, employment insurance, mothers'allowance. We're up to our armpits in payment infrastructure. And having you flyup to Ottawa every month, well, it's ridiculous. This is the twenty-firstcentury -- we have better ways of moving money around.
"I've been giving it some thought, and I've come up with a solution that shouldmake everything easier for everyone. I'm going to transfer your pension to theCanada Pension Plan offices; they'll make a monthly deposit directly to youraccount. I've got the paperwork all filled out here; all you need to do is fillin your banking information and your Social Insurance Number."
"But I don't have a Social Insurance Number or a bank account," Hershie said. Ofcourse, Hershie Abromowicz had both, but the Super Man didn't.
"How do you pay taxes, then?" Woolley had a dangerous smile.
"Well, I --" Hershie stammered. "I don't! I'm tax-exempt! I've never had to paytaxes or get a bank account -- I just take my cheques to the Canadian Union ofPublic Employees' Credit Union and they cash them for me. It's the_arrangement_."
Woolley shook his head. "Who told you you were tax-exempt?" he asked,wonderingly. "_No one_ is tax-exempt, except Status Indians. As to not having abank account, well, you can open an account at the CUPE Credit Union and we'llmake the deposits there. But not until this tax status matter is cleared up.You'll have to talk to Revenue Canada about getting a SIN, and get thatinformation to Canada Pensions."
"I _pay taxes_! Through my secret identity."
"But does this. . ." he made quote marks with his fingers, "_secret identity_declare your pension income?"
"Of course I don't! I have to keep my secret identity a _secret_!" His voice wasshrill in his own ears. "It's a _secret identity_. I served in the Forces as theSuper Man, so I get paid as the Super Man. Tax exempt, no bank accounts, no SIN.Just a cheque, every month."
Woolley leaned back and clasped his hands in his lap. "I know that's how it usedto be, but what I'm trying to tell you today is that arrangement, howeverlongstanding, however well-intentioned, wasn't proper -- or even _legal_. It hadto end some time. You're retired now -- you don't need your _secret identity,_"again with the finger-quotes. "If you already have a SIN, you can just give itto me, along with your secret identity's bank information, and we can have yourpension processed in a week or two."
"_A week or two_?" Hershie bellowed. "I need to pay my _rent_! That's not how itworks!"
Woolley stood, abruptly. "No sir, that _is_ how it works. I'm trying to bereasonable. I'm trying to expedite things for you during this time oftransition. But you need to meet me halfway. If you could give me your SIN andaccount information right now, I could speed things up considerably, I'm sure.I'm willing to make that effort, even though things are very busy her
e."
Hershie toyed with the idea of demolishing the man's office, turning his lovelyfurniture into molten nacho topping, and finishing up by leaving the mandangling by his suit from the CN Tower's needle. But his mother would kill him."I can't give you my secret identity," Hershie said, pleadingly. "It's a matterof national security. I just need enough to pay my rent."
Woolley stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. "There is one thing," hesaid.
"Yes?" Hershie
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