Kill All the Judges (5 page)

He wasn't taking many cases these days. A motor manslaughter plea coming up. A couple of misdemeanours, a fraud. And this one, referred to him by the immortal Arthur Beauchamp, who hinted there was glory to be won by so enterprising a counsel as Brian Pomeroy.

Cudworth had done only one smart thing on the night he got busted. As Detective Sergeant Chekoff was pouring coffee into him, trying to sober him up for the third degree, he asked to make a call to Arthur, who advised him to shut up.

Brian had summoned Cud to the office because he'd lost his notes from his earlier interview. Nothing in the file but the bail papers. With surprising ease, during a lucid interval, Brian had got a judge to agree to a property bond.

Part of his problem in getting his ass in gear was that the Attorney General had appointed as special prosecutor a well-known feminist shit disturber named Abigail Hitchins, with whom, many years ago, Brian had a bizarre, disastrous affair. He didn't have the gumph to phone her–he couldn't seem to get drunk enough. As a result, he hadn't got around to getting her particulars of evidence. He should do that one of these days, especially since there'll be no preliminary inquiry–the A.-G. wanted a speedy end to this sensitive matter, so he'd indicted directly to trial.

No sooner had Cud Brown sat down when these words popped out of Brian's mouth: “Would you be willing to take a plea to manslaughter?”

What had possessed him to be so bold and obvious? Maybe a mental short-circuit, a disconnect, a fast rewind to his motor manslaughter file, an insurance agent who drove over a squeegee kid.

At any rate, Cud lost it. Went storming around, scaring the pigeons and the secretaries. Worse, he tattled to Arthur Beauchamp, who left a voice mail asking about this manslaughter nonsense. Brian's cellphone was off now, he didn't want to talk to Arthur, to anyone. He was disturbed, distressed, disordered, dysfunctional, the Latin prefix for
apart, to pieces
. At least the earlier panic had dissipated. He was learning how to get along with his breakdown, learning how to deal with people and not give himself away. It was an art.

He poured another tequila, got up to empty his ashtray. He'd have to make a run for more smokes. The bar downstairs never had his brand, and the waiters and the low-lifes who hung out there were always wanting legal advice. He was known here at the Ritz, he'd beat a gaming rap for the owner. Yeah, Cuddles, that's why Lance Valentine is in this pissy location; his creator gets cheap rent. Room 305, with its own sink, shitter, and shower. Furniture from about 1959. Prints on the walls by some unheralded Wild West artist. Brian identified with one of them: an unhorsed cowboy in a cattle stampede.

He played with his phone, stared out at the busy street, a squad car moving slowly, checking faces. A dealer fading into the shadows under the awning of Quick Loans, No References Required. Harry the Need, purveyor of quality off-the-shelf smack, flake, and meth. A whore shouted an endearment to the cops, and they joked with her, then moved on. Time for another Xanax. He took it with tequila.

It was just after ten. Abigail, like most witches, never slept. She answered on the first ring.

“It's Brian.”

“For Christ's sake, I have friends over.” A background babble.

“What kind of case have you got against Cud Brown?”

“Bry, are you drunk?”

“Yes, I am.”

Abigail must have withdrawn to a quieter room because the noise lessened. “Take my advice, check yourself into a clinic for the fucked up.”

“I forget, when's the trial?”

“Mid-February.”

Things were starting to spin. He couldn't remember why he called her. The Crown evidence, the particulars, that's what he needed. He was having trouble pronouncing the word.

“Get back to me when you're normal. I couriered them a month ago.”

“To my office?”

“Yeah, go there much? Get a pencil. I can now release the name of the eyewitness.”

“Eyewitness?”

 

“Homicide, please, Detective Sergeant Chekoff…Yes, I'll hold, tell him it's Lance Valentine.” He covered the receiver and swivelled back toward Cud, who was gazing at the silhouette of Rosy Chekoff. Pert nose, plumlike mouth, taut bosom, big hair.

“I know Pomeroy,” Lance said. “He's one of the best.”

“He ain't on top of it! He asked me to cop to manslaughter!”

“That's one of his tricks. He wanted to see your reaction, assess how strongly you believed in yourself.”

“Bullshit.” Cud plopped back into his chair. Lance wasn't sure if he wanted to help out this hayseed poet with his slightly rancid smell and sour attitude. He didn't seem to have unlimited funds–this would be a costly endeavour. Yet he was intrigued.

The first thing Hank Chekoff said when he finally came on the line was, “Is Rosy all right?” Possessive and distrustful was this porcine suburban copper. He often showed up at the end of
the day to drive Rosy home. He wasn't happy about her working here.

“She's doing incredibly well, old boy, working her little, ah, head off. It's about his late Lordship Rafael Whynet-Moir.”

“Why do you think I know anything about the file?”

“Because with your experience and skill you'd most likely have been assigned to it.” Rosy had actually mentioned he had the file. “Give me your honest assessment, Hank, how tight is it?”

“What's your interest? Who do you represent?”

“Can't divulge, strict instructions. But…let's say a major underwriter is curious to know if it's homicide or suicide, in which latter case they don't have to make payment.”

A hesitation. “You're talking big money?”

“Big.”

“Tell your clients to pony up. A prominent lady of unblemished character saw the judge get shoved off by this Cud Brown creep.”

“Good view?”

“Excellent. Deck to deck. The judge's neighbour. Hey, let me speak to Rosy after.”

Lance got what he could from him, then switched him to Rosy and swivelled to watch her react. She turned and gave him a tired smile, as if to say, Thanks, but I didn't really want to talk to him.

He may have erred in hiring Rosy. She'd been as worthy as the dozen others he'd interviewed, with the bonus of being breathtakingly scenic, but he'd taken her on before learning her husband was a copper, and now there were complications. Hank may have heard exaggerated rumours about Lance's reputation with the fair, yet decidedly unfair, sex. The last thing Lance needed was a jealous cop tailing him around town.

He swivelled back to Cud. “It seems that the chair of the North Shore Arts Council saw you take care of her neighbour. Maybe you ought to go back to Mr. Pomeroy and apologize.”

 

Brian clicked Widgeon open, hoping to find a help file for lost writers. Search for “mental.”

Do not mentally exhaust yourself. Before chance (and whatever small talents I possess) favoured me with literary success, I, too, had a day job, as inspector for Her Majesty's Customs, and I would often arrive at work exhausted after scribbling till three in the morning. Many a smuggled item must have slipped through on my watch! So please, when you see nothing but rot on your page, take a deep breath, pack your pages away, and make a soothing cup of Earl Grey while you climb into your pyjamas.

Brian didn't have Earl Grey, and his pyjamas were in the Good-Luck Wash'n'Dry.

The tough-dame-assistant was rot on his page–if he couldn't rewrite Rosy Chekoff he'd have to scrap the hackneyed big-hair hoochie. There was no model to draw her from, he'd looked everywhere, all the bars up and down Main Street. Brian felt stymied in his effort to create credible female characters. He'd never given the concept of femaleness much thought. Generally, he was having trouble making people up, making things up.

Widgeon, Chapter Two.
The beginning author will be forgiven if he or she commits minor theft, stealing premise, plot, even characters from real life. But do not become wedded to reality; do not copy life. There is no point in writing fiction if you have no imagination.

Fair enough, but it's so last year, as his older teen daughter might put it. Widgeon isn't hip to the trend. This is creative
non-
fiction, history pretending to be fiction. Write what you know, they say. But it was getting harder to cling to the remains of reality, especially when potted on cactus juice, harder to maintain a window to the world of sanity. It was a task just keeping the pigeons out, the shitting pigeons that haunted his imaginings…

After going through the pockets of his bomber jacket–two broken cigarettes in a crumpled pack–he went out the side window to the fire escape, clanging down it, avoiding the ground-floor saloon, avoiding the dopers in the lane, pretending he was sober, pretending he was normal, and in this way making it to the street and across it.

Harry the Need nodded, recognizing him, the mouthpiece gone bonkers at the Ritz. All the street people knew, his breakdown was all they talked about. They were waiting for him to do it finally. To self-destruct.

Walking carefully so as not to stagger, he made his way past the Golden Horizon Travel Agency, across the street, past the recessed staircase to the local bookies, upstairs from, appropriately, a second-hand bookstore that was open late, always busy. “Books! Books! Books!” Beside it, a honky-tonk bar, the Palace. “Girls! Girls! Girls!” A muscular black man out front, the doorman. He knew. The doorman knew.

At the corner was the New Consciousness Head and Smoke Shop. Brian bought two packs of A's there and was waiting for a walk sign when, right in front of him, a dish got out of a taxi, almost a Rosy, and went into the strip bar. He forgot what his plan was. The sign said,
Walk
, but he didn't. Then it said,
Wait
. A passenger door of the taxi was open, beckoning. Brian wasn't sure if he should go into the strip bar, take the cab, or wait. He got into the cab. He gave his previous address, on Mountain Highway in North Vancouver.

 

THE THREE-ELEVEN FERRY

“W
ould you care for more toast?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, I guess, thanks.” Young Nick made no motion to rise, though the toaster was five feet away. Perhaps he thought it operated by remote. The boy had slept till nine.

Arthur got up, slid two more slices in. It was Wednesday, December 19, a week after the hall burned down and three days before Nicholas Senior was to come by to fetch his son. Arthur and his grandson were strangers, that was part of their problem–the boy's parents had lived in Europe and Australia, there'd been no chance to bond.

He supposed the young man was still feeling the aftershock of his parents' split-up–one becomes thoughtless when angry. To add to that, he and Nick had got off on the worst possible footing–as Arthur was helping him unpack, he'd come upon a baggie of marijuana. Coals to Newcastle, but he couldn't pretend to ignore it. He'd delivered a lecture that made him sound, even to his own ears, like an old fart: sorry, son, there's a no-dope policy at Blunder Bay. Hey, he tried grass a few times himself, but at a mature age. Psychedelics can stunt emotional development. Be smart, alter your mind with learning. Nick stared at the floor, resentful.

Arthur was not equipped to handle adolescent trauma, cared not to remember the pain of his own growing up, his cold, indifferent, intellectual parents. He was getting only limited help from
Margaret who, currently, was on Vancouver Island. Politics, schmoozing with Green Party members, lining up support for a nomination. Amazingly, Blunder Bay Farm was running smoothly despite its mistress's many disappearances. Thanks partly to the four resident woofers, hard-working kids from overseas. Willing Workers on Organic Farms. They travel the world on the cheap: a half-day of labour for room and board.

“Your father phoned, Nick. I didn't want to wake you. He said he's not able to make it over this weekend. Things have piled up, he said, a pre-Christmas rush in the markets.” Nicholas managed two high-risk mutual funds. He was always on edge.

“Yeah, okay.” An alarming catch in Nick's voice. Then he said, “I don't think I want any more toast, thanks.” He got up and left the kitchen with troubling haste.

Disquieted now, Arthur jumped when the toaster popped. He'd relayed Nicholas's message with consummate ineptness. The boy's emotional barriers were breached, and Arthur was alarmed. Leave him alone a while if he's in turmoil? Seek advice?

He phoned Deborah's school in Melbourne. A machine responded, instructing him the school's hours were eight-thirty to three-thirty. He slapped his forehead. It was two in the morning in Melbourne.

Through the window he watched Nick go up the steps to the woofer veranda, sit on the swinging chair, plug a phone line into his laptop. He regularly dialed the Internet from there, to avoid tying up the house line. Arthur finished a third cup of coffee, poured a fourth, then walked over there, jittery.