“Asshole alert,” said Jennie.
Margaret thought at first she meant Chalmers, but Jennie was indicating the heavyweight glad-handing his way along the Opposition front bench. Farquist finally approached his main rival, Clara Gracey — a favourite of the Conservative caucus, which no doubt irritated the shit out of the great man. Yet he had a slight lead in committed delegates, 43 percent to Clara’s 38, two outliers far behind.
Farquist made a show of shaking Clara’s hand, trading a bit of banter, then lowered his infamous bottom onto his seat on the Opposition front bench. It felt odd to be on his side of the aisle, getting a view of his rock-like skull.
It had been a struggle for Margaret to keep a lid on Glinka’s clandestine business with Igor Novotnik. She was seriously tempted to leak it anonymously somehow. No harm in going that far. There was proof, after all! Photographic evidence. It could be the only way to stop Coast Mountains Pipeline. They were already moving machinery into place, preparing to cut a swath through the Rockies.
But her overly cautious counsel would be furious if she even hinted at the Russian connection. Arthur had little appreciation for the art of politics. She was piqued at being held on a short leash.
She perused once again her advance copy of tomorrow’s Throne Speech. A lot of brave words, nothing hard, vague blather about tackling climate change. Coast Mountains didn’t rate a mention. She would have something to say to Marcus Yates about this. To the House, to the press.
Or she would if she could find the words. She hoped her stress wasn’t showing too obviously, her strenuously composed expression, her tight, sappy smile. Her anxiety had been compounded by Arthur’s own stress, she’d fed off it. His mood swings, his clipped way of issuing his many cautions during their long-distance calls, then, alarmingly, waxing poetic about the sweetness of life. Jekyll and Hyde. Leave the worrying to me, he would say at those moments, causing her to worry more — about him.
It was her fault for having strong-armed him into taking on this damnable case. She should never have torn him away from his idyllic life on little Garibaldi while she played the distraught victim of an assault by writ and statement of claim. Arthur insisted the plaintiff’s claim for fifty million was preposterous, but what was never mentioned between them was the fact that an award of even 15 percent of that would render them penniless. They would have to sell the farm.
This was pitiful: here she was, anticipating the worst, preparing herself for disaster. She must stop being such a weak sister. She told herself to buck up.
Across the way, taking her seat in the government’s fourth row, was pretty Francine Lafontaine, Chalmers’s current squeeze. She was scanning the Opposition bleachers, beaming a smile in Margaret’s direction. She twisted around and saw Chalmers grinning back at Francine, then offering Margaret an apologetic shrug. He’d convinced himself, if not his confidants, that he could woo her over to the Greens. What a generous man, sacrificing his body to recruit for the Party. Francine, a textile designer, wasn’t known to have green leanings.
There in the press gallery was Christie Montieth, the author of Margaret’s misfortunes while disguised as BDSmother. A charade no doubt enacted with the connivance of her editor and her publisher. Why weren’t they being sued? But of course Farquist wasn’t about to bankrupt his fawning friends in that media group.
Pierette was in the Opposition gallery, and beside her was Francisco Sierra — Margaret wasn’t sure why he’d wanted a gallery pass. He was supposed to seek out CSIS agent McGilroy today — Arthur had decided to let him to have a go at the spy.
Sierra had returned yesterday from the Gatineaus with hopeful news, though maybe of dubious value: the groundskeeper at Lac Vert had seen a blue Miata tucked beside Farquist’s carport sometime last winter, maybe January. Or at least he thought it might have been a Miata, thought it might have been blue. A drinking man who considered Farquist un snob, Sierra said.
Pierette nudged him, directed his attention to the public gallery above the Speaker’s chair. McGilroy had just taken a seat there. He acknowledged Sierra with a slight nod of his head. Moments later, Sierra rose, departed. After a few beats, so did McGilroy. Their little pas de deux meant Sierra’s invitation for a quiet rendezvous had been accepted.
Meanwhile, the House was in session. A round of applause as Orvil Legault was acclaimed Speaker. Now to be enacted was the nutty ceremony of wrestling the new Speaker to his station at the front of the chamber. A tradition with roots in antiquity, when English kings might have demanded the head of a luckless Speaker who arrived bearing bad news.
The ritual required the Prime Minister and Opposition leader to drag the Speaker toward his high-backed, ornately carved chair. Orvil, a roly-poly fellow in a black silk robe and a tri-cornered hat, had some experience in amateur theatre and was taking his performance seriously. As he resisted, his robe slipped off, and Marcus Yates had to grab him by his suspenders to prevent a fall. Those suspenders snapped, propelling Orvil forward into the arms of Clara Gracey, who was forced to grasp him around the middle to push him upright, rather like an inflated clown.
Margaret joined in the general laughter. Not smiling, though, was Emil Farquist, who turned to look at Margaret with cold hate.
PART FOUR
A VERY UNMERRY CHRISTMAS
It was the morning before Christmas and not a creature was stirring but Rob O’Brien, who was shovelling a path to his car through nearly four feet of freshly fallen snow. It was half past seven, still dark, the snow still coming down in great gobs. It had been an epic enterprise just getting the front screen door open.
Lou’s new home came with a small garage, but he’d left the Cavalier outside, plugged in, so he could get a fast start this morning. He huffed and swore as he whaled away with the snow shovel in the dim glow of his yard light, finally opening a channel to the car.
Listlessly, giving in to the sheer impossibility of going anywhere today, he brushed the snow from the windows and peered inside at the two big canvas bags packed with gift-wrapped boxes: games, books, electronic toys, a massive panda for Lisa, who was not too old for that. She loved her bears. Logan’s new bicycle was lying on top. It had come with training wheels, but Lou thought that might be insulting and had taken them off.
Much of this bounty he’d got just across the border in Havre, Montana. No problem there, he whizzed across the border both ways — though it helped that the Canadian customs guy, who lived near Porc Plain, had bought a router from Lou. From a jeweller, Lou had scored a beautiful necklace for Celeste, silver with a diamond pendant. It was still in the house, unwrapped, to be enclosed with a loving note he’d yet to write.
Other stuff, like the handcrafted panda, came from the local Christmas bazaar, in Porcupine Plain’s covered rink. He’d spent with abandon, buoyed by the news that the Laurentian branch had agreed to restore his thirty-two K.
His plan had been to make a Christmas Eve run for Calgary, an eight-hour drive, to Upper Mount Royal — a quick check to see that no one was around, drop the bags and the bike by the driveway, and scoot. But that was not going to happen. It would take days for the snowplows to clear the highways.
He trudged back to the house, defeated, trying to convince himself it was the thought that counted. This would be the first Christmas he hadn’t shared with his family, and he was haunted by memories of the kids bouncing him and Celeste awake before dragging them off to light the tree and the fire before the attack on their stockings and gifts. Then off to the park to try out the new sled or toboggan, and later back to the warmth of house and hearth and the aroma of a fat bird in the oven.
He sought solace in the comforts of his new home, a solid brick structure, a screened porch and a large attic, well heated and with a handsome fireplace and a full woodshed. The Johnsons had left him most of their furniture.
He had leased it for six months with an option to buy, but remained wary about putt
ing his name on the title — it was a mind-bending effort to avoid a paper trail. He still hadn’t got a business licence or opened a credit union account. He hadn’t even registered the car in his name, and he’d had a close call talking his way out of a traffic ticket. Everything was cash, he’d stopped using his credit card long ago.
He made coffee, lit his lonely little tree, started a fire, sat down at his desk, opened his laptop.
TWELVE ENTERTAINERS WHO DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW THEY WEAR TOUPEES. SEVEN SUPER-SENSITIVE EROGENOUS ZONES THAT WILL DRIVE YOUR LOVER WILD. EIGHT CLEVER WAYS TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF A TRAFFIC TICKET. THESE TEN ADORABLE ORPHAN PUPPIES FOUND LOVING HOMES.
That last one had paid really well. A collection of kids with puppies. Hits galore for his client, showing up on Facebook pages everywhere. Merry Christmas, everyone.
§
He didn’t emerge from the house for the rest of the day, labouring over his love letter to Celeste, studying the entrails of computers and other techno gadgets entrusted to him, then going online, checking the weather sites, cursing them, reading news feeds, wire services, the dailies. Lots of saccharine mush celebrating this allegedly festive season.
On the political pages, he came across an item about the examinations for discovery of Farquist and Blake, set for Calgary between Boxing Day and the thirty-first. Sort of ringing in the new year not with a tinkle but a gong. Lou knew his name was bound to come up. Margaret Blake would have to confess to their meeting, to having been shown Svetlana’s video. According to Reuters online, the S&M artiste had gone incommunicado in Russia after a sojourn in the south of France. That left the defence in a tough spot, but surely the legendary Arthur Beauchamp would prevail. Somehow.
It didn’t help that Ms. Blake would be in a foul mood. Reports had her being furious at the defection of a prominent Green MP: one of her stars, Dr. Lloyd Chalmers, had gone over to the Liberals, who richly rewarded him with the new ministry of Lands, Forests, and Rivers, created especially for him.
Probably an asshole, Lou figured. That also seemed to be the view of Christie Montieth in her blog, with her gossipy little scoop that Chalmers had been dating a Liberal backbencher — a hot number, as revealed by a photo of the two of them mooning over each other in a bar. The obvious inference being he’d been led by his dick across the floor of the House.
He clicked through to the Calgary Herald online. “Whiter Than White Christmas” was the front-page headline, a story about the big dump, businesses shutting early, tangled traffic. The only good news was that the prowling pedophile had not been seen for six weeks. Though that was bad news too, in that he hadn’t been nabbed. Police had released a cell-phone photo of a short, bald man driving slowly past a schoolyard, shielding his face with his hand. The car was grey, probably a Saturn Astra. Despite pleas, the driver had not come forward. No one got the licence plate.
As he had often done since arriving here, he Googled Lou Sabatino. Lots of old Waterfrontgate stories, the Mafia’s attempt to take him down. More recent, an item about the Sûreté looking for him, to serve a subpoena for the trial. There was a photo of Lou looking like a frazzled alley cat after nearly being gunned down in front of his house. Beardless, totally not recognizable as Robert O’Brien.
When he searched Robert O’Brien, a million useless hits came up, but when he added Glinka, he found a link to a Craigslist inquiry. “Seeking Robert O’Brien,” said the heading, under the personals, and it showed up in several major cities. “Urgent,” the listing said. “Please call re the Glinka tape. I am a friend. Complete confidence. Text or phone.” And a 250 number, British Columbia. Who was looking for him beside the Sûreté?
Lou stared at this scary listing, dazed. It spelled trouble in River City. Any call he made could be traced. So could a text. I am a friend. That sounded sincere, but . . . Lou understood urgent. What was urgent was not getting riddled by an AK-47 in his new front yard.
He tried to convince himself he owed no duty to anyone. He had no choice but to keep his head down, and carry on, guiltily, as Rob O’Brien, entrepreneur, of Rural Route 1, Porcupine Plain, Saskatchewan.
§
After dinner — frozen beef stew, microwaved — he added a few logs to the fire and returned to his computer. He was arousing himself with videos on a porn site — disgusting, but he was needy sex-wise — when the doorbell rang.
Sally Rosewell, bundled up, grinning, was holding a bottle of real French champagne. She dusted the snow from her parka, marched in, and kicked off her boots. She looked good, rosy-cheeked. Maybe a little inebriated.
Lou did a hasty Command-Q, closed his laptop, and helped her out of her coat and scarf. He did that with some awkwardness, his stiff joint caught in the leg of his shorts. She was wearing a party dress with optimum cleavage, which didn’t help.
“I thought you’d be at the Willards’ Christmas Eve thing.”
Lou quickly turned away from her and waddled off to get wine glasses from the liquor cabinet. “I would have bummed everyone out. Feeling kind of blah.” He dipped into his pants, tried with limited success to adjust his obstinate hard-on.
“Hey, I’m all alone too, and I’m here to bring cheer.”
She popped the champagne cork, and, as she cheerfully watched it sail over her head, Lou bolted to the couch and sat, crossing his legs, causing major groin cramp, his pecker trapped, still engorged, still under the influence of the four-way orgy he’d been watching, and now on top of that here was the three-dimensional, touchable, fuckable reality of plump Sally Rosewell.
She poured, then sat next to him, close to the hearth, warming herself, hitching her skirt above her knees, a show of slightly parted thighs. She’d been on offer for lo these many weeks, but Lou had never quite been able to close the gap. They’d almost get past the necking phase, then he’d find excuses — he really liked her but he wasn’t ready, vague hints he was recovering from a broken heart. He’d put his wedding ring away, had never mentioned a wife.
She leaned toward him, and as they clinked glasses, her hand brushed the bulge in his pants. Her eyes widened. “Well, I know what I want for Christmas.” She downed her champagne, put her tongue in his mouth, and he inhaled her boozy fumes. Meanwhile, her hands worked furiously, unbuckling him, unzipping, freeing his cock, which sprang up like a scared jackrabbit.
Her fingers circled and grasped it, and it looked like she was about to go down on him, and he was about to explode with lust, on the razor’s edge of ejaculation, and he hollered, “Wait!”
She released him, startled.
“Sorry,” he gasped. “Too fast for me. Got to slow down. I’m only human.”
“Okay, got it. Let’s hit the sack.”
It took him a while to get his temperature down below boiling point. Two refills of chilled champagne helped. Sally’s extended visit to the washroom helped. Prepping, putting stuff in her or on her, whatever women did to prepare. He zombied his way to the bedroom, tried to make it look welcoming, straightened the sheets, lit a candle.
There could be no turning back. He was going to do this without a single twinge of guilt about Celeste, who had deserted him. He was owed this, reparation for his forced loneliness.
When he went back out for the champagne, Sally was leaning over his desk, wearing only a towel, and here came the erection again.
And then she said, “Who’s Celeste?”
The jewellery box with the silver necklace. His scribbled note. My darling Celeste . . . He’d completely forgotten it was sitting there, behind a monitor, wide open. He was struck dumb.
“Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas with Celeste?”
“She’s my wife. She left me. I miss my family.”
And that was the end of that. He started to blubber, and Sally began pulling on her clothes.
ARTHUR BEAUCHAMP / THE FULL MONTY
It was December 26, Boxing Day, so called because of the Englis
h tradition of the gentry presenting gift boxes to their servants and tradespersons in gratitude for their services and sacrifices. So Arthur had brought his barber such a box, containing a bottle of Hennessy VSOP.
Though it was a bank holiday, Roberto had opened up for him, enduringly faithful to his favourite customer, a regular from decades ago, when he’d started in a storefront with a striped pole on seamy Davie Street. He was then known as Bob the Barber. Now he was Roberto, out of the closet, with a select clientele of, mostly, ladies who lunch, and working out of well-appointed premises in the arcade of a downtown tower.
Arthur saw him on the eve of every major trial, a ritual he wanted to believe brought him luck, so Roberto was confused by this appointment. “But you have no trial tomorrow, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Examinations for discovery. May as well be a trial. If it all comes out in the wash, the trial may be an anticlimax.”
“And you will finally be face to face with Satan himself. The battle of the century.”
“I’m afraid it will be more decorous than that. One isn’t allowed to cross-examine — a habit I have to keep in check.”
“We must do something with this ghastly moustache, you’re practically eating it. Something clipped, brisk, military. You are a general leading his troops into battle. And the hair! When did the cyclone hit? Over the sink, please.”
It was early afternoon. Arthur would comfortably make his flight to snowbound Calgary. Margaret was already there, being rehearsed by Nanisha Banerjee. Arthur had proposed to his companion for life that they take separate hotel rooms. “A brief divorce,” was the awkward way he put it, a jest that went flat. He explained that it seemed somehow improper to sleep with a client, that both of them would need undisturbed sleep. She protested, but finally, wearily, agreed.
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