by Mark Lisac
“None of which I knew about from the board meetings,” Jackson said. “Kennett will have some questions to answer as well. Presuming that the documents stand up. If they’re as damaging as you indicate, no amount of ingenuity will be spared to undermine them.”
“That will be a lot tougher once they’re made public,” Asher said.
“One shouldn’t underestimate their capacity for misdirection. Remember what Napoleon said: autocratic governments never have to explain and are silent; responsible governments, because they are obliged to talk, make things up and lie shamelessly.”
“Ryan didn’t have to be in government to make a habit of that. He isn’t one to let all that blue-eyed Irish charm go to waste.”
Jackson tapped the arm of his chair with the fingers of his right hand. “Are you sure you’re not letting this get personal? One of the first things you learn in law school.”
Asher froze. He hadn’t been sure because he hadn’t thought about it. Now he did think about it. “Yes, it’s personal,” he said. “I’m angry that Angela Finley had to spend her last months worried by this business. I’m angry that her brother had a leg shot off. I suspect Ryan was behind all of that.”
Jackson saw a key point there. “If he put Turlock up to killing Apson, if he so much as pushed Turlock to it by constantly whispering suspicions into his ear, then he has much more at stake than allegations about public finances.”
“Yeah,” Asher said. “I don’t think he can afford to let more corpses pile up. That’s why he’s resorted to limited methods like complaints about you to the Law Society. Making sure you aren’t reappointed to the PFAC board isn’t retaliation, though. It’s to make sure you’re not there asking questions.”
“And if Jimmy Karamanlis is involved?”
“I don’t see it. Not Jimmy’s style. But if that’s a bridge that has to be crossed, I’ll cross it.”
32
THE LEGISLATURE GROUNDS WERE GREENING UP. THE FIRST growth of spring was showing on the trees. The hundreds of annuals had been planted in the flowerbeds. Hoses lay snaked across the fake stone slabs around the reflecting pool as workers filled it with water. Asher walked in through the main doors, saying hello to the security staff and signing in for his visitor’s pass.
The main foyer was empty. Every footstep echoed. He walked past the fountain that bore a plaque commemorating a visit by Queen Elizabeth. It was full of coins, as usual. Asher knew the money ended up going to charity. But he always took the sight as a symbol of the government’s willingness and occasional need to vacuum any and all spare change out of citizens’ pockets.
He climbed the marble steps to the executive offices two at a time. The edges of the steps were rounded by decades of friction. They were like blurred footprints. The sight always made Asher think of Tractor Tom Farber lumbering up and down these steps. He had once imagined Tractor Tom leaving a record of footprints like a dinosaur in prehistoric mud. Later he thought of the marble as being malleable over large stretches of time, giving way to the weight of Tractor Tom’s ghost. Many others had used these steps over the decades. Tom Farber still outweighed and outshone them all. He was the looming presence, the source of the province’s moral code and business culture and affinity for big trucks and political attitudes and anything else you could think of, except the current popularity of divorce and drugs.
Ryan’s office was across the hall from the premier’s suite. Asher had read that Karamanlis was off in Washington, trying to convince American senators and lobbyists that the world still needed all the oil it could get.
He knocked on the door. A smiling Ryan opened it and welcomed him into the inner office. Asher realized he had never been in Ryan’s office before. It contained the standard mix of government furniture, personal photos, and bric-a-brac. The photo of Ryan’s wife showed what Asher guessed was the inevitable trophy blonde. This one had hard eyes that could put a nanny or a plumber in their place if necessary. The other knickknacks included a picture of Ryan and his wife on Mount Kilimanjaro, and souvenirs from elections and party conventions.
Ryan was gabbing about the hectic pace of work. It was always like that in the last days of a spring legislature session, he said. He stopped abruptly as he and Asher sat in leather chairs on opposite sides of a coffee table. He looked like the genial host showing a visitor the innermost sights of the government. “What brings you here?” he asked.
“Jimmy wanted any paper that Apson may have left behind. I found some. It includes some references to Devereaux and Manchester. But there’s plenty more. He dug up details of a financial deal for Oil Country. The money came from PFAC. The papers indicate that you and Turlock arranged that. I’m guessing that Jimmy was concerned about Devereaux’s paternity, but you were more concerned about anything that involved the loan.”
“You came here on a guess?”
“Here’s the paper. A copy. Don’t bother asking where the original is.”
Asher pulled folded copies of Apson’s documents and notes out of a jacket pocket and handed them across the table to Ryan.
Ryan looked mildly interested. He might have been studying a dinner menu and not finding anything appealing on it. He finished reading and looked at Asher. He didn’t speak. Asher decided not to give in and got up to leave.
“I know you won’t give these to the newspapers,” Ryan said. “Are you going to give them to the opposition?”
“I’m going to leave them in your hands and wait for you to do the right thing and resign,” Asher said. “But I won’t wait more than a week.”
“Very formal, gentlemanly. Almost old-fashioned. Like leaving the disgraced officer alone with a pistol.”
“I’m sure you’ll land on your feet, not on your back.”
“And if I don’t quit, you’ll take this to Jimmy.”
“Maybe he already knows.”
Asher tried to read Ryan’s face. He saw it gradually harden. “Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, I’m not going anywhere. This was more than a business deal. It was a province-building deal. Sure, we got PFAC in a little deeper than usual. It’s only a difference in degree from things that have gone on in the past. It would have worked if you hadn’t decided to skim off a little cream for yourself. I’m not sure how hard you tried to bring that investor on board, either. If there’s any blame to go around for this project losing money, you should take a big share of it.”
“Maybe you should sue me. I can recommend some good lawyers.”
Ryan sighed, surveyed the mementoes crowded on the wall shelves, and turned back to Asher.
“Look Harry, there’s no point in being vindictive. We can ride out a four-day storm over a bad loan. We can even ride out scaling down or scrapping the museum. We won’t hold it against you. What we can’t have is you insinuating that anyone in the government put pressure on the PFAC executive to make a loan. Or that Victor Turlock thought he might be able to take a little for himself.”
“You really don’t get it, do you, Ryan? You can’t figure out it’s your own scheming that made this mess. How was it going to help for me to deliver fraudulent artifacts to you? You think they would have stood up to expert scrutiny? The museum project would have lost them and the province would have been a laughingstock to boot. And you think I’ve forgotten that I was nearly blown in half by a shotgun and that a friend of mine is going to be walking on an artificial leg the rest of his life? Someone has to pay. I’m giving you a grade-A plea bargain. You walk away, find yourself another job, and none of this goes any further. You don’t? You’ll not only be the centre of a scandal, you’ll be investigated for being an accessory to criminal acts.”
“Blackmail.”
/> “Fact.”
Ryan swivelled his chair and looked at his photos. Asher waited. Half a minute went by. Ryan finally swivelled around again. The aggression had gone out of his face. Asher couldn’t tell if it was acting. Finally, Ryan said, “What is it you want? Are you making me pay? Or are you protecting Jimmy?”
“Are you saying he knew everything that happened? Approved it?”
“He doesn’t have to. He backs me up. You’re not his only friend. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“You’re talking like he’s your only friend.”
“Let’s try to tone this down. I won’t tell you what we did or didn’t discuss. He knew about some things — maybe more than you hope — and not about others. If you try to smear me, you’ll be hurting him, too. It won’t be my doing. I won’t say a word. But you’ll end up hurting him.”
“Then if you’re the friend you claim to be, you’ll quit. Just walk away.”
“Easy for a lawyer to say. My trade is politics.”
“So become a lobbyist.”
“I said politics. On the inside.”
“You know your trouble, Ryan? It’s the same as a lot of other people’s around here. You’re too used to working for a party that never loses. You think you’ll always find a way to get your way. You’ll always find a way to skate past any trouble. It’s like thinking you’ll never die.”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Are you going to lay flowers on my political grave when my career ends? Gerald Ryan — he did the right thing in the end. Some epitaph.”
“Nothing lasts forever.”
“You’d know all about that, too. I hear Sandra’s found herself a prospective new husband. Someone in her league.”
Asher walked quickly around the desk. Ryan jumped out of his chair but was expecting him to stop. Asher drove his right fist into Ryan’s stomach and heard the satisfying gasp as Ryan’s breathing reflex went into suspension. Probably the first time he’s had the breath knocked out of him since grade school, Asher thought.
He grabbed Ryan with both hands and found him not easy to handle. Ryan was close to his size. He was momentarily too paralysed to fight back but had his wits enough about him to be uncooperative. Asher hit him hard in the ribs twice. Then he walked around Ryan to be able to exert maximum force with his good arm, grabbed the back of Ryan’s head, and slammed his face into the desk, trying to hold him at an angle that would give Ryan’s nose the brunt of the blow.
Ryan groaned. Asher pulled him up, then settled him gently into his oak chair. Blood trickled from Ryan’s nose. Asher hoped it wasn’t broken. He didn’t want to get a doctor involved. But he didn’t care all that much. He waited until Ryan’s eyes focused and Ryan gasped enough breath back to call him a stupid son of a bitch.
“That was because you called my wife by her first name,” Asher said. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Remember what I said about just walking away.”
He left the office and closed the door behind him so that the cleaners mopping the hallways wouldn’t get a chance glimpse of Ryan’s bloody shirt.
He walked down the steps, this time without thinking about Tractor Tom Farber. At the main entrance, he said a cheery good night to the security guards. Putting on a friendly face didn’t make him feel cheerful. Just walk away, he thought. Exactly what I’m doing now.
When he got home, he looked out at the river view for a moment and then called Sandra. They talked about Amy’s gymnastic lessons and her soccer team. He promised to see a game soon.
“I need a big favour from you,” he said. “A really big one.”
“I’ll listen.”
“You said you knew Angela Finley and Orion Devereaux in university.”
“Yes.”
“I have more to ask George Manchester about Devereaux. He won’t talk to me after our last meeting. He may talk to someone who knew Devereaux years ago. How would you feel about going to see him with Morley Jackson?”
“Oh, Harry. Honestly. I’m an interior design consultant, not a private eye.”
“I’m not asking you to investigate. Just to ask some fairly straightforward questions that he probably would not want to address in a straightforward way. Morley would be there with you. He might even end up doing most of the talking.”
“What’s the downside?”
“You could waste your time and get thrown out of the house. But all he could do is yell, and the whole thing shouldn’t take more than ninety minutes door to door from your office. Two hours tops if he starts talking.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Not for discussion on a phone. Can I drop in for a few minutes just before or after lunch tomorrow?”
She thought for a few seconds. “After lunch. About quarter after one?”
“Okay. See you there.”
“Harry? Do you have any idea why I’m agreeing to this?”
“No, I’m just thankful you are and I’ll thank you again tomorrow. Should I know why?”
“This is the first time I can remember in years that you asked my help in something. I think I got to feeling that I wasn’t needed.”
Asher felt something sag within him — again, not the first time that had happened while talking with Sandra. “See you tomorrow.”
But not the day after, he thought after hanging up. Nor the day after that. I’ll need more practice getting used to not seeing you. The last year and a half hasn’t been enough.
33
THE NEXT MORNING, HE TOLD JACKSON THAT HE WANTED one more crack at the Parson. He explained that he knew he could not go himself, but that Sandra’s past acquaintance with Devereaux might interest Manchester enough that he would agree to see her.
“No need to mention you were married, I assume?”
“That’s right. She’s just an old university friend. She respected his privacy while he was grieving, but now she’d like to talk to him.”
“I understand he’s been going downhill.”
“The sooner the better, then.”
“What is it you want to find out?”
“I want to find out if he really believes Orion Devereaux was his son. Something I saw and the papers that John Apson left have persuaded me that Tom Farber may have been the real father.”
Jackson didn’t flinch. He had impressive self-control in most circumstances. Asher wondered if he had already considered the possibility that Farber was the father.
Jackson said, “That puts everything into a new perspective — if it’s true. You say ‘persuaded,’ not convinced.”
“I don’t know how anyone could be convinced short of a DNA test. But the evidence is leaning that way.”
“Why is it important? Farber and Devereaux are dead. George will soon join them. Is paternity material to whatever loose ends you’re tidying up from the Apson business?”
“I don’t know. All I know is this is one more loose end. The more of them I eliminate, the firmer grasp I have of everything. I need to know more. Ryan isn’t going to admit to anything. After our last talk, he may come after me again. He may even try to turn Jimmy against me.”
“Do you think he can?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so a few months ago. Now I don’t know.”
“What would be the result of that, aside from a lost friendship?”
“I’m not sure Jimmy has a category of non-friends or ex-friends. You’re with him or you’re not. He isn’t vindictive. But he is good at protecting himself. If he th
inks he has to act, he doesn’t take half-measures. If Ryan talks him around, he’ll do what he thinks he has to. And Ryan is vindictive.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It’s against my better judgment. You’d be best off taking a vacation.”
“I’d be by myself, still thinking about this whole business.”
* * *
Jackson learned that the Parson was having a good few days. The cycles of good days were becoming shorter. He checked Sandra’s availability and arranged a visit the next afternoon.
The old house looked brighter in the summer light but more patches of paint were peeling off. The housekeeper-nurse let them in. They walked into the parlour. Jackson was saddened to see Manchester in a wheelchair this time. His hair looked thinner and limper than it had several months earlier. He wore neatly pressed pants but his shirt had an open collar. He wasn’t wearing a tie or jacket. There were slippers on his feet. He smiled wanly at Jackson and said hello.
Jackson thought at first that the thin smile had been a rueful admission of weakness in the grip of time — look what we may all come to in the end. Manchester’s first words told him that was wrong.
The old man did not bother acknowledging Sandra at first. He said he had been busy earlier in the day discussing arrangements with the university for construction of a library wing devoted to his government and designed to instil the principles of moral leadership. Jackson could see the embers of a self-satisfied grin. He saw eager eyes sparkling faintly as they searched the two listeners’ expressions for signs that they were impressed.
There had been a time when Manchester was much more than a caricature. Jackson struggled to remember the purposeful leader of government. The Parson had always attracted disbelief and mockery. That was how he had come by his nickname decades earlier. He had always been much more — farsighted, a comprehensive planner, genuinely concerned about the province’s people, if also concerned as much or more about his own image and standing.
Now Jackson could only think of what happened to blended cotton-polyester fabric when it aged. The cotton wore away. The sparse weave of cheap plastic remained. With Manchester, the larger purposes were failing, leaving the silhouette figure of an old egotist. Sandra had far fewer reference points. She saw only a frail old man and smelled dust and other unidentifiable things, all of them repellent.
