He was, as I had guessed, un homme de loi. He gave me his card: Emmanuel Lopez, avocat, of the firm of Guelle, Lopez. He thanked me for my card, but merely glanced at it — its contents had already been relayed to him.
“I am honoured,” he said. “You are highly regarded. I read several comments on Google praising you as number one in Canada at your profession.”
I assured him that was an exaggeration, but regaled him with a few anecdotes, which he enjoyed. He in turn told me some of his own background. He was from Seville, though he took his law degree in Paris, and does entertainment law.
I admitted to my Costa Rican roots, and we were delighted to be able to switch to our mother tongue. His seemed more loosened as we went along, though that may be due to the excellent carafe of Merlot we shared.
I made no bones about why I was in Nice, and on whose behalf, and put everything on the table, except for Lou Sabatino having pirated the tape. M. Lopez had followed the Great Canadian Scandal, of course, and found it highly amusing. He reverted to French: “A peu près francais.”
I suggested that his client might not find it amusing once the press descended, as it eventually would. He shook his head sadly at that. She had no choice but to be fuerte, he said, and still her tongue.
Of course M. Lopez was forbidden to relate any of his conversations with his client. Instead, what he did, as the Merlot flowed, was pose a “fictional” scenario.
It went like this: let us assume a certain woman of the world, in return for financial favours, signed a non-disclosure agreement, and she risks all, perhaps her very life, if she whispers a word about a certain politician.
Let us also assume that no copies exist of a certain little film showing the politician taking his pleasure in unorthodox ways. That is because our hypothetical woman has rendered up her only copy of it, along with all her computer equipment, external drives, webcams, recording devices, everything electronic, as well as address book, memo pad, notes, even the calendar on the wall and stickies on the fridge.
(And here, Arthur, I footnote my earlier reference to the couple who were armed with a key to Svetlana’s therapy clinic and were seen carting this stuff off.)
Let us further assume (he went on) that this certain woman’s luggage and purse and pockets were thoroughly searched before she was escorted to the airport’s personal security screening area. And, oh, yes, let us also assume the needle of a polygraph machine did not waver when she denied having access to any copies of that video.
I asked M. Lopez whether, in his imaginary scenario, the woman mentioned to her inquisitors anything about a certain news reporter.
A shrug. “Let us presume she did,” he said sadly.
I mused over this, dispirited. Doubtless, Farquist’s team have been beating the bushes for Mr. Sabatino, hoping to silence him one way or another. They wouldn’t know about Sabatino’s pirated video, but would know he’d seen Glinka’s original version, and presumably suspected he had related the contents to Margaret. Despite all their precautions, they may be worried that a copy is floating around somewhere. Lou would be at severe risk if they discover he’d copied the video.
M. Lopez told me politely but adamantly that he could not allow me to interview his client.
You will doubtless consider the option of subpoenaing Ms. Glinka, which you know better than I would be costly, difficult, and subject to the vagaries of French law. I fear she would be a dangerous witness in any event. I don’t like to say this, Arthur, but much hinges on our finding Lou Sabatino. Everything.
These notes will go to you by Federal Express at a premium rate, so let us hope for their timely arrival. I am very sorry for this failure.
Your friend,
Francisco
PART THREE
EIGHT SECRETS TO A LASTING ORGASM
It was mid-November, and things were looking up. The second instalment of Lou’s severance pay, thirty-two K, had landed in his account at the Laurentian Bank. Hugh Dexter had come through, and Lou was almost ready to forgive the downsizing desk-sitter for being a prick.
And odds were good for recouping the thirty-two big ones the Mafia had poached from his bank account. That was one of the reasons he went to Calgary — Laurentian had a branch there. Lou drove to Calgary — he now owned a car, your basic Chev Cavalier, standard trans. He’d bought it from an auto mechanic up in Maple Creek for one grand plus setting him up with a website. Lou hadn’t yet registered the car in either of his names — he was leery of leaving a paper trail — so it was still in the name of Maple Creek Car and Truck Repairs Ltd.
The manager at the Calgary branch was a cool guy, and Lou opened up to him, showed proofs, documentation, printouts, the Waterfrontgate stories, the Mafia’s attempt on him, his status as a protected witness.
The transfer order had originated in Montreal, but Lou could prove he had been visiting in-laws that day in Rouyn-Noranda. The manager promised their security people would investigate. He would be in touch. If it all worked out, Lou would likely get his money back.
The other reason he was in Calgary was the child molester. Still on the loose. Another little girl had been approached. Lou had family in Calgary.
He was buoyed on leaving the Laurentian bank, and found the mojo to drive over to the Upper Mount Royal area, GPSing his way to the address of Celeste’s sister, Lucille. What people would call a better neighbourhood: sizable homes, mature trees, and broad, frozen lawns. Lou drove past Lucille’s sprawling house on Hope Street and got a quick peek at a modern extension at the back, maybe an in-law suite for Celeste and the kids. He parked about five houses down.
The two-car garage looked to be full — Celeste’s Dodge Caravan was parked outside. It was mid-afternoon, the kids at school: Logan, who had just turned seven, Lisa, whose ninth birthday was coming up. Lou hated himself for not being able to even send them a card. He ached to see them.
He didn’t get too close, in case someone was at a window. Mafia dread restrained any impulse to go farther. It was risky enough telling the bank manager everything, his pseudonym, his status as a protected witness. He was worried about loose lips, his wannabe assassins zeroing in on Calgary, his family being targeted.
He drove off to the nearest public school, a few minutes away, found it in afternoon recess. A platoon of adults with Street Watch was hanging around and eyed him suspiciously as he drove slowly past. His heart leaped when he saw little Logan, bundled up, romping, sliding on a frozen puddle. And just a glimpse of Lisa yakking with girlfriends.
That shithole pedophile. Lou wasn’t into extreme measures, but a little surgery to the nuts didn’t seem too over the line. But he felt assured his kids were safe.
Lou then headed off to his Travelodge, where he spent the evening composing a letter to his family. He posted it the next morning before driving back to Saskatchewan. No return address.
§
The next day found him back at work, arraying his tools beside a desktop in the storefront office of Sally Rosewell, Porcupine Plain’s combo realtor, insurance agent, and notary. He pressed the on switch. Nothing. An XPS desktop, 8000 series, only a few years old. The monitor seemed okay.
“It went on the fritz three days ago,” Sally said. Early forties, pretty face, pretty stacked, pretty good-looking generally, not too heavy.
“I’m sorry, Sally. I was away. I got your text.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just a little road trip to Alberta. Business. See some friends.” All the external inputs were in place. He hoped it wasn’t the processor.
“I like the way you trimmed that beard, Rob. Suavé.”
He’d seen a barber while he was in Maple Creek. He felt he looked scholarly, less nerdish. He figured he was beyond recognition. Robert O’Brien, but they called him Rob.
He got under the desk, had a good look at Sally’s ankles as he followed the power cord to its o
utlet, a surge protector. The plug was stiff but partly out. He jammed it in, and the computer booted up.
“Oh, shit,” Sally said.
They laughed off her embarrassment. “You owe me a drink,” he said.
“How about dinner? At my place?”
Lou was into doing that, and said so. He liked his chances, the way she was coming on. Her husband had run off to Moose Jaw last year, with the crop-duster’s wife.
Lou hadn’t been close to a woman for six months, but he saw all sorts of problems. The main problem was that he loved his wife.
“Hey, Rob, you still looking for a place to move to?”
“If something comes up.” His benefactors’ trailer was far out of town, and he had ended up doing a lot of his business in the Quill over coffee or, too often, beer. “Wouldn’t be the Johnsons’ place? Royce and Gertie are moving.”
“Exactly what I had in mind.”
A handsome brick house near the bottom end of Main Street. Royce was in his eighties, erratic ticker, murmurs. Lou had helped them do an internet search, found them a nice retirement community in Swift Current.
“I like that house.” It could double as his office. Two storeys, a full acre, garden, well maintained. A big fireplace, warm shelter from the coming gales of winter. He shuddered at the memory of his spooky flat in Montreal.
“Ninety thou’ is the asking. Fifteen down and they’ll take a mortgage back to the right guy.”
Tempting. But did he dare put his name on a property deed? Maybe just rent it long-term. He could certainly afford that. The computer-repair business had levelled off, but he’d gotten into an internet sideline that was working like hot buttered fuck. Selling Facebook-ready lists to websites, fuel for the hits that kept the ads flowing. TEN FAMOUS ACTORS YOU DIDN’T KNOW WERE ALCOHOLICS. EIGHT HOT TIPS TO WRITE GREAT FICTION. TEN BIZARRE SEX ACTS THAT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND. TWELVE HOLLYWOOD HOTTIES WHO HAD ABORTIONS. Most of those twelve were guesses, but Lou was betting that abortions were as common in Hollywood as apples in an orchard.
“Any dietary issues?” Sally said. “I can rustle up a sizzling pork roast.”
“Sounds sumptuous.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’ll bring wine.”
She gave him a big hug at the door. She smelled good.
§
Lou carried on to the Quill, returning greetings as he waded between the tables. Everyone was in a good mood, a lax time in November — the snow had held off, the granaries were full, cattle prices up. A lot of post-election analysis going on, folks suspicious of the new Liberal government — it was pretty Conservative around here.
You’d think Emil Farquist had enough going on, but he’d tossed his hat in for the Conservative leadership — even while his humongous suit against Margaret Blake headed for the courts. Lou was plagued by guilt over breaking his promise to her. But he felt handcuffed, impotent, with those Montreal mobsters bent on blipping him off. All of them were out on bail, their trial adjourned because Sergio Castellani, Mario Baptiste, and gang leader Jules “the Monk” Moncrief, who had given one-way tickets to several snitches, were on the loose.
Margaret Blake had the goods on Farquist, she was innocent — surely that would become obvious at the trial. Svetlana would be Witness One. Arthur Beauchamp would eviscerate her on the stand if she tried any bullshit.
Assuming she was alive. No one had been able to locate her. That was a concern that fuelled Lou’s drive to survive.
On the bar, a laptop was waiting for him, an older Toshiba A215, a dinosaur. “Welcome back,” said its owner, Harry Schumann, the mayor — or reeve, as they called it — a bald, rotund, cracker-barrel kind of guy. “You been gone three days, and the government of Porcupine Plain has come to a standstill.”
“Still faster than normal, Harry,” a patron called.
Lou sat down. “What’s the problem?”
“Flickers on and off ever since I accidentally sat on it.”
“You need a new computer.”
“Ain’t in the budget. As it is, we’re a hundred and twenty-seven dollars in the hole.” He looked around, lowered his voice. “You been a little derelict, Rob, in obtaining a business licence. I’m empowered to waive the fee.”
Lou didn’t want a business licence, didn’t want his name on any public document.
The mayor handed him a pint. Lou took a gulp, and ran some tests, then began opening up the Toshiba.
“So where you been, Rob?”
“Calgary. I got relatives there.” He had pictures stuck in his mind of Logan sliding on that frozen puddle, Lisa bantering with her new friends.
“Something the matter, pardner?” said Mayor Schumann. He’d seen Lou cover his face.
“Something in my eyes.” Embarrassed, he accepted a Kleenex from the bartender.
The mayor watched gloomily as Lou laid his tools down and shook his head. “Say sayonara to this computer, Harry. I can save the hard drive. I’ll fix you up with one of my spares.”
He retreated to a lone table with his beer, ordered a cheeseburger, took out his iPad. TWELVE JESUS QUOTES YOUR MINISTER WILL NEVER READ. YOU’LL BE WIPING TEARS OF LAUGHTER AT THESE KITTEN VIDEOS. He would have to scour YouTube for those. EIGHT SECRETS TO A LASTING ORGASM.
DOUBT THOU THE STARS ARE FIRE
Arthur was spreading straw over the raised beds of his garden. He’d been a week on Garibaldi, a week of hard work with spade and fork and hoe. The last of the winter pears and apples were in. The hay was in. The root cellar was well stocked, and kale, potatoes, and carrots would continue to provide from the soil. Now, finally, the garden was almost tucked in.
It was Saturday, the tail end of a week of relative peace, getting back to the routines of Blunder Bay, renewing friendships with goats, geese, and sheep, battening the hatches against the mid-November chill. A brief deliverance from the grind of Farquist v. Blake, which had been taking an emotional toll.
He had undertaken Margaret’s defence as a beau geste, driven by a volatile blend of love for her and guilt over his romp with Taba Jones. He had broken his pledge never to step again inside a courtroom and the unwritten rule against a lawyer acting for a loved one. He was consumed by anxiety about failing Margaret, torn up by that fear.
They had managed only a couple of weeks together in the summer, an uncomfortable time, with the stress of the lawsuit and a pending election. Margaret had been constantly on the phone, long distance. She’d spent all but those two weeks campaigning and had remained back East since the election. She had won comfortably, but Emil Farquist’s victory was the more impressive: Calgary’s defamed hero.
Compounding Arthur’s discomfort was the forever-looming figure of Dr. Lloyd Chalmers. Would Arthur never see the back of that man? His judicial recount was set for the day after tomorrow, Monday, in Halifax. He’d been five votes behind the Liberal candidate at the Official Count. Arthur assumed Margaret would be there, giving moral support — a victory for Chalmers would ensure the Greens the balance of power in the new Parliament.
But Arthur didn’t know how he could survive four years of his wife caucusing with him.
He briefly considered imbibing a mug of gupa, in hope of finding again the transcendental peace that had brought him such strange and misty comfort in June — a notion he quickly rejected. It would be less risky to embrace the Baba’s mantra — so he recited it aloud several times to his wheelbarrow. “Joy is wisdom, time an endless song.”
It seemed to work. He remembered where he was, on a pleasant little farm overlooking the Salish Sea, in his cherished garden, on a brisk and sunny Saturday. To complete the scene, the two young Woofers were wending their way from the goat pen with filled milk pails — a bucolic landscape by Constable or Pissarro.
The girls seemed to be fully deprogrammed — Reverend Al had spent considerable time with them, enlightening them about
the dangers of cults, and they’d not been enticed back to Starkers Cove.
But they were an exception to the growing, overpowering presence of the Transformers, whose aura had settled over the island like a warm, fuzzy blanket. Silverson had swollen his ranks by opening up Starkers Cove to children, and on weekends it seemed half the island passed under the Mission’s gate, teased into empty-mindedness by its message: “When you realize there is nowhere to go, you have arrived.”
Their latest recruit, according to bar talk, was Auxiliary Constable Kurt Zoller, whose awakening to a hunger for self-realization seemed as likely as a sudden cessation in the earth’s rotation.
Arthur’s plans were to spend the rest of the weekend reading some poetry, playing some Bach, maybe doing a little fishing, gaining strength for another pre-trial skirmish in Calgary on Tuesday. George Cowper Jr., the very able counsel for the plaintiff, was applying to adjourn the trial for six months. Farquist was too busy running for the leadership of the Conservative Party to give sufficient heed to his slander suit: that was the bald truth of it.
Arthur was in a dilemma. His instinct was to oppose the adjournment. But the trial date was only a few months away, March 2, and he was not exactly armed to the teeth with proof. Svetlana Glinka had cashed in her chips and was out of the game; Lou Sabatino was still AWOL. Francisco Sierra had doggedly collected many useful bits and scraps, but hardly enough to tilt the scales.
Arthur and his diligent investigator could use that extra six months to build their case, track down Sabatino, alias Robert O’Brien. Who, as of two weeks ago, was still alive. In Calgary, from the postmark on a letter he’d sent to his family. That good news had been conveyed to Francisco Sierra by Celeste Sabatino. Also much alive were Sierra’s chances of finding Sabatino, especially with the gift of half a year.
Without Lou to save the day, Cowper would make short work of Margaret in cross. “And where is this amateur video you claim to have watched in the dark recesses of a bookstore café? Why hasn’t Mr. Sabatino come forward?”
Whipped Page 20
