“Jennie . . .”
“Nod or shake your head.”
“Honestly, I can’t do it. You’re my best friend, but . . .”
“Thank you, I’m honoured, but I’m also a lawyer. I’m your lawyer. Give me a loonie, and you have retained me to interpret your confidentiality clause.”
“Are you sure that’s okay?”
“Of course. Solicitor-client privilege trumps everything.”
Margaret found a dollar coin in her purse and handed it over. The fact is she was dying to tell all. “Second left drawer of my desk. It’s not locked.”
Jennie retrieved the signed agreement, read it quickly, broke into a smile. “Nice. Very nice.” Then: “Wow. Five hundred big ones.”
“And we could lose it all.”
“My lips are tied.”
Margaret forgot she was exhausted, and the words spilled out — she unloaded everything: Sierra’s interception of Lou Sabatino, the speedy assembling of expert reports, playing the video at discovery, Farquist’s dissembling denials.
“Have you got the half-mil yet?”
“Funds are being processed. Farquist was saved by his angel, Jack O’Reilly.”
“Man, somehow this has got to get out.” She grabbed her phone. “An anonymous tweet should do it.”
Margaret nearly spilled her tea.
“Just kidding. Go to bed.”
Jennie followed Margaret into the bedroom, tucked her under the covers, pulled the curtains.
“Jennie, I am politically fried. I get it that I have to stay on for a while. A year, two years, then you’re it.”
“It? Like in blind man’s buff?” Jennie’s phone rang. “It’s Pierette.” She listened for a moment. “Say what? Wait, it’s okay, she’s still up.” She turned the speaker on.
Pierette: “I just got back from a quickie press conference with Alice DePaul.” The Justice Minister. “This is good.”
Margaret struggled up. “I’m all ears.”
“The RCMP has issued an arrest warrant for Svetlana Glinka — though good luck with that. The so-called trade officer, Novotnik, is to be sent packing. The surveillance photos of him paying her off will be all over the front pages.”
Margaret and Jennie talked over each other, asking if Farquist was mentioned.
“Oh, yeah, his name came up. It was the first question the press asked. DePaul wouldn’t bite, just danced around it. She wasn’t going to compromise the investigation. But — are you lying down? — her department is seeking a court order to open up your non-disclosure agreement.”
Jennie erupted in what Margaret assumed was a Cree victory whoop. Margaret jumped from bed and hugged her. Goodbye, sleep.
PART FIVE
THE AWAKENING
Early spring had been stormy, with tree-bending, limb-splintering winds and deluges of rain: messages from the gods that Garibaldi Island was not to be spared the ravages of climate change. But in May the gods took pity, and the sun burst free. Weary locals staggered from their battened-down homes, shedding their slickers, rubbing their eyes, blinded by the brightness of daffodils flowering along the roadsides, below seas of yellow broom.
And on this halcyon Saturday afternoon, Arthur’s fruit trees were thick with blossoms and humming with bees. Barn swallows were swirling, snaring lazy flies for their nestlings. Lambs were cavorting in the field. A Swainson’s thrush was serenading its mate with its unbearably beautiful song.
The scene would not be complete without a typical barnyard divertissement: Niko and Yoki were trying to talk down a nimble escapee from the goat pen, Lavinia, who was standing triumphantly on the hood of the Fargo.
“How you get there?” Yoki demanded. “We make you into goat meal.”
Arthur waved from the driveway. “Enjoy your day, ladies.”
Niko called: “No problem!”
Arthur had just changed into his hiking togs from the formal suit he’d worn this morning at the Annual Spring Flower Show. He had won two blue ribbons, for peonies and begonias, and a few reds and whites, and was off to celebrate at the Brig.
Fortifying Arthur’s pleasant mood was the fact that just yesterday the $500,000 in reparations had finally been deposited into the Tragger, Inglis trust account. Jack O’Reilly had had little choice because the credulous fellow had signed on as his hero’s guarantor early in January, before Farquist’s swift decline and fall.
It ended in a splat at the Conservative convention, where Farquist lost disastrously to Clara Gracey. He’d been deserted by all but the most fanatical of his supporters. No one else was buying his guff, including the media. Including O’Reilly, who was said to be furious at being stuck with the bill.
But so far Emil had escaped prosecution. After a hotly contested hearing in a courtroom closed to the public — Arthur sat on his hands throughout — Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett had given the RCMP access to the discovery transcripts, but denied it to the public and the clamouring media.
Nonetheless, Margaret was assumed to have triumphed. Whether or not Farquist faced charges, his political doom would be sealed when Lou’s book came out. His publisher had slyly leaked word about an explosive videotape.
After deducting the out-of-pockets, the balance of the $500,000 was earmarked for eco-crusaders. Roy Bullingham had balked at enriching such subversive organizations as Greenpeace and the Sea Shepherds, but couldn’t deny Margaret’s wishes.
She would be returning from Ottawa in a week for the Victoria Day holiday. Don’t lay anything on, she warned. “I want it to be just you and me.”
Representing his wife had been the right thing to do. He had fully paid his debt to her, and could now forgive himself for his misbehaviour. And to think — he had almost persuaded himself to confess.
§
The bulky bottom of the editor of the Bleat was spread out on a bench outside the general store. Forbish was scribbling in a notebook while powering through a bag of corn chips. “These are organic,” he said defensively. “Low fat, says right on the package. I’m working on my interview with Mookie about her new movie.”
“Mookie Schloss? She’s back?”
Forbish pointed up at the Brig patio, where Mookie was presiding at a table of friends and freeloaders. A brunette when last seen, a fluffy blonde this time, surgically fattened lips, forty-two trying to look thirty.
She’d been a year away in Hollywood, resuming a sporadic career in low-budget movies and soaps. Married to well-heeled Herman Schloss. Their history of breakups was epic.
“Mookie’s going to do a free showing.” Forbish winked. “If you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, she got a lead role in a romantic comedy, and she’s giving a free advance screening at the hall next weekend. She was a little evasive when I asked about adult content but I got the impression it’s real risqué, with maybe nudity and worse. I don’t want to use the word orgy, but . . .” He shrugged, then added, unnecessarily, “Everyone’s going.”
He handed Arthur a flyer depicting Mookie sitting in a circle of smiling fellow actors, male and female, joined in a chain of hands, their bare feet gathered in a tangle of toes at the centre. No nudity, but lots of skin. The Awakening, it was called.
A few lines of promo: “When her husband confesses he has a gay lover, she seeks solace in group therapy. But as she searches for her inner self things go sideways.” A cast list, none of whom Arthur had heard of. Free popcorn and beer. No parental advisory, so Forbish was likely a victim of his own fantasies.
This was an event Arthur would happily miss.
He carried on up to the store and the post office counter. Abraham Makepeace was still sorting the mail.
“Something from your classical book club, it’s Greek to me. Hydro bill, your usage is up. Invitation to join the beach cleanup at Starkers Cove. Those Transformers left qui
te a mess that’s just been sitting there all winter. Spooky how they just vanished into the void.”
They still held title to the Cove. Reverend Al had gotten nowhere trying to track them down. Google had failed to do its job — just some old references to Silverson’s film career. Maybe the gupa made them invisible.
Makepeace dipped into the bag of unsorted mail, brought out a thick envelope. “I can’t help you with this one. Return address is a P.O. box in Porcupine Plain, Saskatchewan, if that’s a clue.”
This would be Lou’s miscellany of questions seeking clarifications and the filling in of holes. Arthur had spent many hours with him. He’d wanted Arthur’s every thought, conjecture, musing. He had a provisional title: Whipped.
“Oh, and this. Normally, you don’t like throwaways, but you don’t want to miss this one.” Mookie’s flyer for the screening of The Awakening. “I heard she’s in a raunchy bedroom scene.”
“Heard from whom?”
“Nelson. He got the whole scoop.”
Arthur tossed it. “My wife will be here next weekend. We have other plans.” Just you and me. Nonetheless, he would congratulate Mookie. He crossed the ramp to the patio as she and Herman rose from a table where they’d been entertaining friends. Taba among them, and Cud Brown.
“Get the bill, darling,” Mookie said. Herman obeyed like the faithful footman he was — his was a captive heart, despite their quarrels. Tradition required them to maintain the peace for at least a month after each rejoining.
Mookie intercepted Arthur. “Caught you in time.” Though they were only casual friends, he got a wrap-around hug.
“Glad to see you, Mookie,” he said awkwardly, pasted to her bosom. He untwined and offered appropriate words about her success and her new film. “It sounds . . . interesting.”
“I’m doing a special mail-out to special people.” She passed him a card, a formal invitation to Arthur and Margaret to attend the showing. Front-row seats reserved. Also a note requesting the pleasure of their company at an after-party at the Schlosses’ waterfront estate.
“That’s very kind of you, Mookie. I’m really not sure . . .”
“Now don’t get all curmudgeonly and silly. It’s not Casablanca, but it’s fun.”
“I’ll take it up with Margaret.” That was his out. She wouldn’t want to see this banal and doubtless corny flick, free popcorn or not.
Taba had seen Mookie’s big hug and gave him a saucy wink, another of her uncalled-for reminders of their brief entanglement. He wished she would stop teasing him over it.
Mookie offered a farewell salute to her tablemates. “See you on the nineteenth, darlings. Seven o’clock.”
With no more free rounds coming, Cud Brown downed his double whisky and rose. He also had a special invitation and flashed it at Arthur. “I got second row centre for this sizzler, man. Forbish says it’s got a nudity warning.”
Emily LeMay was already pouring Arthur’s tea as he hoisted himself onto a stool beside Constable Dugald, who was frowning over the Awakening leaflet. His subaltern, Zoller, was behind, hovering — though newly elected as Trustee, he’d stayed on as the island’s number two law enforcer. Dugald still treated him as a peon.
“Forbish told me it has an orgy and other scenes of fornication,” Zoller said. “Maybe we should have an advance look at it in case we have to cut some scenes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said. “Mookie isn’t about to embarrass herself and her husband in front of the entire island.”
“I have to go just in case,” Dugald said. “If it gets too specific, I’m gonna have to shut it down.”
“Sounds like something I could handle, sir,” Zoller said.
“I’ll need you outside, Kurt. Crowd control. Make sure no under-agers sneak in.”
Zoller took offence. “Excuse me, but yours truly just got elected by acclamation to the highest office on this island. Any idiot could watch the door.”
“Exactly.”
§
It was May 19, the Saturday of the long weekend. The fine weather had held. Margaret had arrived, and was in a teasing, sprightly mood, having bounced back from the stresses and strains of last year. Arthur noticed more grey hairs, but somehow she seemed younger.
They were watching Dog, their odd-jobs man, split fence railings from a pile of cedar logs. “Going to watch that sexy movie tonight?” Margaret asked.
“No, ma’am. Jesus says put away sinful things.” He went back to work. Fully recovered from the Transformers, Dog’s spiritual needs were currently being met by the island’s Pentecostals.
Margaret has maintained her upbeat humour despite the backtracking of Marcus Yates over the Coast Mountains Pipeline. Faced with the threat of a multi-billion-dollar lawsuit, the Liberal government had reopened negotiations, practically capitulated. “It didn’t take long for these gutless mice to drop the mask of being oh-so-environmentally friendly,” she’d proclaimed at a crowded press conference. Happily, she’d lost none of her old vigour.
Less chipper was Emil Farquist, who had been notoriously absent from his seat in the House of Commons but apparently not from the barstools of various Ottawa alehouses. Arthur had seen that coming, the descent into alcoholism, and actually felt for him. It was easy to forgive now.
Margaret and Arthur walked to the grassy outlook at Blunder Point to join Niko and Yoki, who had invited them for a picnic lunch of salmon sushi. A welcoming event for Margaret, who hugged them before settling onto their blanket.
Arthur wandered to the shoreline, checking out the postcard view of the islet-spangled Salish Sea and the distant, towering Olympic Mountains. He was enjoying his day, pleased with Margaret’s mischievous mood, and — he had to admit — still shamelessly revelling in his role as her Prince Lancelot.
On his return to the picnic, Yoki and Niko were urging Margaret to join them to watch a “most very hot movie tonight.” All week the pair had barely been able to contain their excitement over this Hollywood premiere.
“Too sexy for Arthur,” said Niko. “He say wild horses can’t make him come.”
Margaret tried the sushi. “So fresh and tasty. You ladies should open a restaurant.” She squinted in thought. “You know what, Arthur? I think we should go.”
“Oh, please, darling. Watching things go sideways during group therapy?”
“Maybe they mean grope therapy. It could be funny. Front-row seats, we can’t disappoint Mookie.”
Don’t lay anything on, she’d said. What happened to that plan? “If it stinks, I would be embarrassed for Mookie.” Another reason, which he dared not express, was that there could indeed be explicit scenes, and they might incapacitate him in the marital bed tonight. Others might be invigorated, but not Arthur.
“Just for a lark, Arthur. And we really should pop in to her after-party. We’ll have two full days to recover.”
Arthur felt trapped. Later, he would remind Margaret she had goaded him into this. He imposed a condition: Yoki and Niko would get the reserved seats. He preferred to be at the back for a quick exit.
HAPPY ENDING
Lou was hunkered down over his keyboard in his home office, tapping out the final pages of the first draft of Whipped, a memoir by a mild-mannered reporter who, while being stalked by the Mafia, stumbled on an explosive secret about the sex games of a high minister of state, a secret now revealed in these pages . . .
That’s what his publisher planned for the jacket copy. Something like that, anyway, maybe with a line about his epic take-down of the pedophile. The opening chapter would be a grabber, his near-death experience when drive-by shooters whacked his snowman. Then slide back in time to set that up, his digging into the Waterfrontgate scandal, the exposé, its repercussions.
Then to the abysmal life of a supposedly protected witness. Being rendered economically redundant by that dipshit Hugh Dexter. Nothing was bei
ng withheld. The love of his life regarding him as a twerp, a worm. His family taking off. Bring out the hankies, folks.
Part Two would introduce Svetlana Glinka. “You, the reporter, come.” Lou goggling at her recorded whipping of her bare-assed bronco. “I helped him through it, the back-stabbing shit.” Part Three: his lonely odyssey in search of his family. Part Four: a happy ending.
The publicist at his house had come up with a piss-cutter of a brainwave: advance review copies of Whipped would be parcelled with a small USB drive of the video.
There would be photographs, mostly culled from the press, some from Francisco Sierra: the decapitated snowman; the spiralling staircases of Rue de la Visitation; Svetlana in her sex shop in Nice; Lou waist-deep in Lac Osisko fending off a snarling schnauzer — he’d been too frazzled to see his father-in-law pointing a camera.
Whipped would be dedicated to Celeste, of course. She no longer called him a worm. She was the proud wife of Calgary’s Citizen of the Year. All eyes had been on her at the Governor General’s reception, in the stunning outfit she’d created.
Lou was relieved that she and the kids had adjusted so easily to life in Porcupine Plain, the only snag being Lisa falling in love with the neighbour’s pony. Now she wanted her own. And maybe that could happen — if Lou could swing a deal on the two-acre pasture next door. The Sabatinos now had title to their snug brick house, the advance for his book more than covering the down payment.
Celeste was away too often, in Calgary with her fittings, but always seemed happy to return to her storefront studio and the tranquility of small-town life. She’d never been a city girl — she’d come from rural roots and harsh climes, northern Quebec.
She’d had only bad memories of Montreal, and was totally not interested in returning, despite Lou’s former oily boss’s endeavour to restore him to the payroll, to his desk at CP Montreal with a bonus and a nice raise.
Apparently he was now Dexter’s bosom buddy, his “colleague and friend,” who, “dispirited that he couldn’t work at the job he loved, sought and was granted leave.” Dexter had dashed off that toadying obituary after deciding that Lou, having vanished, was as good as dead. It still rankled. Lou had told him he could stuff the job and the bonus up his ass.
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