Brian clambered from the chair but froze again, found himself gaping across the little inlet at the neighbour’s house, at Astrid Leich, made up to go out, bangles and beads, again seeing something of interest going on across the inlet.
But now, Florenza and her boyfriend burst outside, she still raging, he with an open jackknife. “Cut his balls off, Carlos, it’s the only way to deal with these media shits. Slit his fucking throat!”
“Claro, I weel carve heem up as a warning to these paparazzi.” But Carlos looked nervous, his machismo failing him, and he stalled his advance until the guard scrambled around the bend with his barking dog. Brian put his hands up, terrified until he saw the dog was leashed.
“What kind of fucking security are you, Rashid? Get his camera, goddamnit!”
Brian was still riveted on the dog. But when it lay down on command, he lowered his hands. Rashid’s pat-down brought forth only a cellphone and a wallet. “He does not have a camera, Miss.”
Carlos slipped back into the house, presumably to stash the blow, but Florenza tightened her robe, advanced, grabbed the cellphone. “Back off, Rashid, I’ll deal with this.”
She examined the phone for a camera, then came nose to nose with Brian, looking hard at him with almond-shaped eyes. “If you write about this,” she hissed, “I’ll sue your fucking ass from here to Zanzibar.”
“I have no intention of writing about the shocking scene I observed, Ms. LeGrand.” Lance Valentine was cool in emergencies. “I’d really rather not mention it to anyone, in fact.”
“Listen, jerk, I’m not offering you any money.”
“I find that totally insulting, madam. I ask only that you agree to talk to Cudworth Brown’s lawyer.”
She stared at him, confused. “When?”
“Right now would be a jolly good time.” A spectacular coup was in the making. He gave her Brian’s card.
“Get this fucking asshole out of here,” she called to Rashid.
The dog barked. Brian’s hairs stood on end. “As a bonus, I’ll agree not to tell the authorities about Carlos.” Who hadn’t reappeared, who hadn’t wanted to tangle, who may be risking deportation.
“Just a minute, Rashid.” Waving him off, she dialed Brian’s office number. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Pomeroy…Then put me on to his secretary…Ms. Wu, there’s a character here who claims to be your boss. Can you describe him?…Uh-huh. Rings under his eyes?”
Brian took the phone from her. “April, it’s me.”
April was cautious. “Say something else.”
“I came here to scope out the scene of the crime, and there was a brouhaha. Tell her who I am.”
After she did so, Florenza thanked her and switched off. “Come inside.”
A tour de force, old boy.
13
Arthur heard cheering outside, saw green balloons floating past his window. Why was Margaret throwing clothes into a bag? “Wake up,” she cried. “we’ve won! We’re going to Ottawa!”
Arthur heard his own voice, “No!” as he hovered in the netherworld between sleep and waking. Another nightmare, one of a series airing each morning around dawn, more intense as nomination day approached. January 19 was nine days away.
“Did you say something?” Margaret asked from the stairs.
“A loud yawn, my dear.” He smelled fresh-brewed coffee. The lazy January sun was hiding, rain was beating on the roof. Too bad, he’d planned to work in the woods today. He might have to sit in his club chair instead and read Plutarch, with the Borodin quartet’s sweet melodies caressing his ears.
But by the time he finished his last slice of toast, the thick clouds, finding little profit in wasting their juices on the Gulf Islands, had pushed north to the worthier target of Vancouver. There were even hints of sunshine, so at mid-morning he set out with chainsaw and gas for the west woodlot to buck a tall, wind-fallen fir. He sized up the job, sharpened his saw, and bent to his noisy task, begging forgiveness from Pan and his merry pantheon of wood nymphs.
Nick joined him at noon, with sandwiches and advice to “make sure Arthur keeps his helmet on and doesn’t lose any fingers or toes.” They shared a Thermos of coffee, not talking much though Arthur wanted to know Nick’s thoughts. There hadn’t been much reaction to his dad’s visit on Sunday-four days past and he still hadn’t said anything about it.
Nicholas Senior had brought Pamela along, shy Pamela of the twitchy nose and brittle smile. “We are serious about each other,” Nicholas announced. Engaged, in fact. Father and son took walks in the woods while the shy fiancee ate homemade cookies and desperately tried to make conversation.
After they left, Arthur called Deborah, who wasn’t as upset as he’d expected-Nicholas had forewarned her with a long, anguished e-mail about having “found someone,” apologizing that his romantic circumstances had caused him to be a neglectful dad. Deborah seemed to relish Arthur’s account of the strained day at Blunder Bay, his unflattering portrait of the blushing bride-to-be.
He put Nick to work piling branches and gave him a safety lesson. Know where your feet are at all times, snip the boughs from the point of stress, position hands and arms thus as you cut fireplace lengths. He illustrated his lecture with tales of his own close calls.
“The key is the sharpening, a chain should descend through wood as if through butter.”
Nick patiently watched him file the links to razor sharpness. “Cool. Mind if I go now? It’s milking time.”
Deborah has let Nick stay through most of February, though he’d miss some school. Out of a quaint sense of delicacy Arthur didn’t tell her of her son’s fascination with an exotic Estonian milkmaid. He considered it harmless and rather charming. He remembered puppy love, he’d had a crush on his grade nine Latin teacher.
Nick raced off, and Arthur yanked the cord and the saw coughed to life. The sweet, dripping forest, the crisp clean smell of fresh-cut timber, the arcs of flying flakes, the sputter and roar of a manly weapon: all these made Arthur feel good. The outdoorsman. Happily engaged in the only profession he cared about, farming. Enjoying his retirement years. He should burn his gown, a public ritual, a proclamation to the Cudworths of the world that this lawyer is no longer in service.
The luckless fellow was dealt a joker when Wilbur Kroop nominated himself to do the trial-this made the paper the other day, with a sidebar account of Pomeroy’s caustic portrayal of the chief at the Gilbert Gilbert trial. Surely, Pomeroy will move to have His Lordship stand down. Extreme apprehension of bias: a substantial ground of appeal.
“One more reason to stay away from that fiasco, Beauchamp. The Badger despises you even worse than Pomeroy.” Twenty years ago, Arthur told Kroop his jury instructions were “a hopeless mishmash of error and speculation devoid of facts and biased to the point of low comedy.” Arthur was then on a quart-a-day habit, and after three nights in jail couldn’t take any more, so he apologized. “Grovelled. The unpitying old bugger.” He must stop talking to himself this way.
He cut a last butt from the lower trunk, then bowed to the remains of a brave fallen warrior who will warm his house next winter. The task of splitting and hauling will wait until he has his Fargo back. “It will be gracing your driveway tomorrow,” Stoney promised. That was ten days ago.
It was almost five-thirty, time for dinner. As he packed his tools away, he saw that Nick had left his day pack hanging on a bough. Retrieving it, he felt a budge in a side pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag with half an ounce of crushed green leaves. Marijuana. This deeply saddened him-he’d already given the boy one lecture. It explained his detachment, his blank attitude to his father’s visit and engagement.
He trudged to the house, hung up the day-pack, and pocketed the cannabis. He didn’t want to bother Margaret with this problem right now, not before dinner, not as she was chopping peppers in the kitchen.