Kill All the Judges (9 page)

He rose to the window, looked across Main Street. The thin man was still there–he'd traded in the London Fog for a windbreaker, but it was the same guy, the same scrawny build. Standing under the shouting sign, “Girls! Girls! Girls!” Talking to the doorman at the Palace. Pointing across the street.
That's his hotel, he's in 305, I want you to break his fingers so he can't use a keyboard–we have to stop him.

 

The doorman nodded. He was a hulking fellow, a former Lions player, a tight end–Lance could only guess what that role involved; he'd never understood North American football, or why it was
called
football. Right now, the tight end was taking a pass from the thin man, several bills from his wallet. The thin man walked away.

Lance shrugged and turned from the window. He would rather look at his clever new secretary, who was doing the day's final filing. She smiled. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you, Ms. Wu. You've done splendidly for your first day.”

“Good starts raise false hopes.”

“Ah, the maxim of the day. You must write down your grandmother's sayings. Wisdom unrecorded is wisdom lost.”

Finally a smile from her, a glint of interest. “Tomorrow I will remember the rose.”

“The prettiest one the florist has. But you'll still put it to shame.”

She smiled, but in a tired way, with a hint of scorn–she'd heard it all before. “Thank you. Now I must leave.”

“I'm sorry, but that's not a good idea.”

She paused while getting her coat. “Why?”

Lance pointed out the window. “See that bloke? The leviathan?”

She joined him, observed the tight end walking across the street toward their building.

“He means to do me harm.”

Frightened, she went to the phone. “I'll call 911.”

“Jolly good idea. Make sure they send an ambulance. He'll need one.”

 

Widgeon:
The writer must endeavour to end each chapter with a gut-churning, page-turning moment of high suspense. Nudge your fickle reader into the next chapter before he escapes from your literary clutches, turns off the bedside lamp, rolls over, and enfolds himself in the arms of Morpheus.

Despite the master's overblown prose, his advice, when stripped, is always on the mark. Yes, O Windy Sage, let's leave the reader hanging there for the moment, before kicking his butt right into Chapter Eight.

 

THE CONQUEST OF NORBERT

A
dream held for a few seconds, then shredded, leaving hazy recall of a courtroom, a pitcher of gin, Arthur on trial for being drunk and disorderly–a typical alcoholic's dream that recurs in many guises. He blinked with relief: he wasn't hungover.

The dream signalled he was depressed and anxious, but in the fog of waking he didn't know why. Now last evening came back, a terrible evening, two long-distance calls featuring, first, the apologetic falseness of Nicholas Braid in Vancouver, followed by a detonation from Melbourne. Nick Junior had been abed when the calls came. How was Arthur to handle this, how to tell Nick that his father can't make it for Christmas at Blunder Bay?

Nicholas Braid's voice had been tight despite the few drinks he must have taken to brace himself. Something had come up. A group of VIJPs was in town for the holidays. Very Important Japanese People. The plan was to entertain them lavishly on Whistler Mountain, buy them choice seats for the World Figure Skating Trials.

“There's no way I can crawl out of this one, Arthur. But I'm going to make it up to Nick big-time. Tell him I've booked New Year's in Maui. Four days, five-star resort, first-class tickets.”

He must not have felt able to tell Nick himself, that's why he called so late. Arthur could see no rational reason for his
ex-son-in-law's unpardonable behaviour and promptly informed on him to Deborah's answering service.

Her return call woke Arthur at 3:00 a.m. She was spitting mad. Her lawyer was going to hire a detective to get evidence on Nicholas and the floozy he was obviously shacking up with. Then she was going to seek full custody. Nicholas wasn't allowed on Garibaldi Island. He wasn't allowed anywhere near his son. Nick was to stay on the island until she could fetch him home.

Arthur, at a loss as to how he might enforce these dicta, hadn't uttered a syllable before she said abruptly, “Never mind, I'm going to tell him myself. Maui?
Maui
?
Forget it.
That piece of shit.”

What was Arthur to say to Nick?

Ten after seven. Through the window he could make out pasture and sea covered in low, thick mist, strands of it spiralling around the trunks of conifers. Apollo's chariot had yet to wheel over the horizon, but there was a glow of his coming.

Margaret was in the kitchen, he could hear the blender, a clattering of pans, her basic-training voice, Nick's responses. Cool. Whatever. He'd been conscripted as sous-chef for a spread planned for Christmas Day. A dozen carefully chosen guests–major donors for the Greens–plus the woofers.

He rose from bed, showered, dressed, worrying and fussing about Nick, about surviving tomorrow's dinner. Hosting a houseful of ideologues was not Arthur's idea of a merry Christmas. A humourless crowd, these Greens, with their dispiriting news about the planet.

His walking shoes today–a hike to the general store, and when the mists dissolved he might carry on up Mount Norbert, the island's highest peak, more than a thousand feet. Enjoy the view, find some peace.

In the kitchen, he poured a coffee, watched Margaret demonstrate how to mash potatoes. “Got it?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Good. Run out to the root cellar and grab a few turnips.”

“What do they look like?”

She explained. He slouched out. With flour-coated hands, Margaret gingerly reciprocated Arthur's hug. “Baking powder, silver wrap, and eight lemons, could you, please, Arthur? When you go to the store? Baking
powder
, not soda.” A deep breath. “You're going to have to tell him his father's not coming.”

“Yes, I must do that.”

“Nicholas wouldn't have fitted in anyway. He's too straight-laced. He talks only about golf. Will you do the bar tomorrow, Arthur, can you handle that?”

“With steely determination.”

“Otherwise, I want you to stay out of the kitchen. This is my affair. All I ask is that you attend. Be your usual courteous self. Don't scare people with obscure literary references. And, please, please, don't start arguing. You don't know anything about politics, dear. That's why you're a Conservative.”

To Arthur, women were unfathomable, but after one failed marriage and seven loving but hectic years with this master of the indirect dig, he was learning. These guests were important to her and she didn't want him spouting off, damaging her chances at the nomination.

“I shall not make any speeches about corrupt, asinine politicians.” He will stay out of the kitchen. Stay away from the heat.

“I don't want this to be a burden to you. I've heard your speech about politics a dozen times.” A pause. “I won't ask you to support me in this.”

He sought a satisfactory way to respond to that sledgehammer line. Apologize? Repeat the speech? Fire back?

The phone rang, coitus interruptus to this prickly conversation. Before picking up, she said, “Have your talk with Nick. Look in on the woofers. It's milking time.”

He went out into the mist feeling disloyal, misunderstood. Somehow he must get up the gumption to tell her he's afraid for
her. The heartbreak, the humiliation and depression she will suffer. The Greens got trounced in this riding in the last election, ran a dismal fourth, just beat out the Marijuana Party.

The winner was the justice minister in the Conservative government, Jack Boynton, a large man with large appetites for food and drink who died of a stroke at a wedding banquet. Hence the by-election. The date for that had yet to be set, and the Greens' nomination meeting was just a few weeks off.

Arthur expected Margaret to be a shoo-in. Her main competitor, a charisma-deprived nursery operator, was the fellow who fared so poorly in the general election last year. Margaret Blake had been on the front pages and in the supper news for eighty straight days, guarding the gates to Gwendolyn Valley from fifty feet up an ancient fir. Now the valley was parkland, she had rescued Gwendolyn from a quick-buck developer.

After Margaret and Cudworth Brown were chosen by lot to do the sit-in, the regulars at the general store teased him cruelly about Cud's priapic prowess, recounting–or making up–stories of his conquests.
He's humped about half the island women, wouldn't you say, Barney? Well, he screwed
my
wife, and she ain't nowhere as good-looking as Arthur's.
Arthur joined in the merriment with a false grin and a palpitating heart.

Margaret's version, however, had been reassuringly credible. After two weeks, she'd decided she could no longer endure his company and had him replaced by an unthreatening female anarchist. Somewhere buried in this history was substantial reason for not getting involved in the murder trial of Cudworth Brown. There were many small, subtle ways in which Arthur didn't like the man, more reasons being discovered on each encounter.

He made out no sign of Nick outside, but he could barely see his own footfall in the heavy mist. Only the house and barn rose above it, and the milking shed up the hill. Arthur found his way to the root cellar–the door was closed, a bag of turnips set outside. When a breeze stirred the fog, he spotted Nick up at the milking shed.

A closer view, from the corral fence, might well have inspired Vermeer. In the glow of yellow rays slicing through the mist, Nick sat beside Lavinia, raptly watching her pull milk from Bess, their Jersey cow. Lavinia was sure-handed, in rhythm with Bess–but suddenly, a Chaplinesque moment, she gave Nick a squirt in the eye. He jumped, but Lavinia's infectious laughter made him grin. The kid was loosening up.

“I show you how.” She extended him a teat.

Arthur would find another moment to talk to Nick, he had no desire to spoil this pastoral scene with its gentle touch of Eros. He retreated quietly, took the turnips to the house, slung his day pack over his shoulder, and headed briskly up the driveway.

He trod up Centre Road, where bungalows decked out in lights and tinsel glowed through the mist. Once again, as they had for time immemorial, Jack and Ida Shewfelt had celebrated the divine miracle of Christ's coming with the engineering miracle of hoisting Santa, his sleigh, and his entire team of reindeer onto their split-level roof.

Next door to them resided Bob Stonewell, target of their many complaints under the Unsightly Premises Bylaw. A sign advertising his car parts business was by Stoney's rusted gate, behind it a ramshackle house and an old barn converted to a garage. Everywhere, relics poking from the mist, a jungle of them, a whole hillside, Chevies and Fords, Datsuns and Skodas. Arthur's ailing 1969 Fargo pickup, his pet, his baby, was sitting by the garage on blocks, under a tarp.

There was the great mechanic himself, newly risen from bed, packing out yesterday's beer bottles, a cigarette aglow between his lips. He waved. “If it ain't the town tonsil, out getting his morning exercise. If you can't do it easy, do it hard, that's what I always say.” The merry clink of empties going into boxes.

Arthur asked after the health of the Fargo.

“I got a line on a rebuilt transmission. I can get a real sweet deal for cash up front.”

“What happened to the cash I already fronted?”

“Right. Well, it sort of got used on startup costs. I got a new business, limousine rental, I call it Loco Motion. Check out these beauties.” Indicating a pair of shiny fin-tails from the 1970s, a Chrysler and a Buick. “I'm restricting operations to Garibaldi, so normal car rental laws don't apply, right?”

“Merry Christmas, Stoney.” Arthur carried on down the road.

Baking powder, silver wrap, and…yes, lemons, eight lemons. He mustn't forget the mail. Above the fog was glorious sun, so despite his lack of sleep, he will adhere to his plan of huffing up Mount Norbert.

He found his way to Hopeless Bay, small-boat dock and a warehouse, century-old general store, a false-front structure with an enclosed porch serving as a coffee lounge. Here, several regulars were enjoying alcohol-enriched coffees. As a sideline, the proprietor, skeletal, dour Abraham Makepeace, sold brown-bagged bottles of rum or whisky to tippling locals. Hapless Constable Pound, wary of upsetting the community, turned a blind eye to the evils perpetrated here.

A couple of the lads were celebrating the season with Bacchus-like determination. Gomer Goulet, whose crab boat was tied up below, was standing, swaying as if in heavy seas, proclaiming his love of mankind. Gomer tended to get drunkenly soppy, especially at Christmas. Emily LeMay, the sultry ex-barmaid and untiring vamp, told him, “Sit down before you fall on your kazoo.”