“We are solicitor and client, Ray, a relationship we entered into some time ago at your request. So I may not repeat what you have just divulged unless you release me from my obligation of silence. Otherwise, our communications remain privileged to the end of time, even should you suddenly, right now, drop dead in front of me.”
As if recognizing this as black humour, DiPalma attempted a stiff smile, then had to still a tremor of his hand.
“So this is what we’re going to do, Ray. You are going to free me from my legal restraint — conditionally. You are going to recite on tape your role, as mandated by Crumwell, to spy on Margaret and me, and you will detail this last conversation with him. I’m going to seal the tape in an envelope, which will be signed and dated by Biggles and at least two other lawyers. It will be placed in the safe here with instructions it not be opened unless you and I somehow fail to return from Albania.”
“Bet your life we’re coming back.”
“Do it, or forget Albania.”
DiPalma hesitated only a moment. “No problem.” He sat at Biggles’s desk, and began talking to the tape machine.
Within the first ninety minutes of their crowded Olympic Airways flight, DiPalma had already broken his pledge not to drink, and was two vodkas to the bad — “Just enough to take the edge off” — but he was antsy, scattered in his conversation, an endless flow. Arthur’s concentration on his Albanian phrasebook was regularly spoiled by pokes and nudges.
He learned things he didn’t care to know: Sully Clugg, the ex-Blackwater bruiser, was suspended for three days after grabbing a secretary’s crotch at the office Christmas party. DiPalma had become so soused that he’d blown his chance with Aretha-May, passing out on her sofa. He was feeling sexually frustrated. He wished he’d been a better husband to Janice.
Arthur closed his eyes, tried to sleep, but DiPalma, keyed up, wired on the want of nicotine, lurched into a ramble about Albania. “Money will have to be the big mediating factor. Everything and everyone is for sale over there, politicians, government officials, but you have to break through the layers of the old Commie bureaucracy.”
Then came a primer on rendition practices: the Lear 35 the vehicle of choice, the victim encased head-to-toe in a black jumpsuit, diapers, sleeping drugs. Torture by proxy. Electrodes to the genitals, mutilations, mouths without teeth, fingers without nails.
Not for the first time, Arthur reconsidered the wisdom of this mission, this leap into the unknown. But he would heed the Bard: Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
Many hours later Arthur awoke to DiPalma’s snores and the sun streaming through his portside window, land below, Germany maybe, or Poland. It took a while for him to shake off a chilling dream of lying shackled on a cold concrete floor, Anthony Crumwell snipping off his fingers, leaving bloody stubs.
Crumwell had earned this role as the black hat of Arthur’s nightmares through the fear and revulsion he’d provoked by prying into Arthur’s every intimate doing. If the gods are just, revenge will be delicious.
22
Slimed with mucky oil, slipperier than the greased porker he’d outclassed at last year’s Garibaldi Summer Games, Stoney crawled from under the Fargo and washed up at his outdoor sink. Job done, he was free at last, free of Arthur Beauchamp’s constant, heartless grousing. It took a while, but so did the Sistine Chapel.
He’d tie a ribbon around this baby, park it in Arthur’s driveway for when he returned for the holidays, a reminder it was Christmas bonus time. Heartbreaking to lose the old girl, she’d been in the yard so long she was like family. No sense letting her sit idle. A master mechanic must always break in any rebuilt trannie, and there was excess herbage to be ferried to friends at undisclosed border crossings.
Now he could go back to getting his latest business venture off the ground. Hot Air Holidays. His main task: sticking a broom up Dog’s puckered ass — his test driver insisted on tethering the balloon to the ground. Made it only six feet up last time.
The phone was complaining again from the house. Probably that grasping witch from the collection agency — she’d been hanging on his heinie like a Rottweiler for the last three weeks. Herman Schloss, the world’s worst poker player, had committed the highly unethical lapse of not disclosing the lien on his cabin cruiser.
An energy transfusion was needed. He fumbled through his eight-pack for a Lucky. The tab released with a comforting phsst, and he cranked it back, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
The phone again. He went inside, waited as his machine reeled off his powerful new greeting: “Garibaldi Taxi, Loco-Motion Rent-a-Car, and Hot Air Holidays, offering twenty-four-hour-a-day prompt and efficient service. All our lines are tied up, so please leave a message.”
A male voice, whiney and pleading. “Mr. Stonewell, please pick up, this is my third call this afternoon.”
Which didn’t make sense, it wasn’t even noon. “Customer service,” he said, disguising his voice in case it was some other leech from the collection agency. “I’m sorry, our establishment has been experiencing heavy traffic today. Whom may I inquire is calling?”
“Is this Mr. Stonewell? Robert Stonewell?”
“Mr. Stonewell is busy with other customers at the present moment. May I be appraised as to the nature of your inquiry?”
“I am calling from Ottawa, sir, with some news he’ll be delighted to hear. I’d like to speak with him personally.”
Stoney suspected a trick, but he called, “Mr. Stonewell on seven!” then switched the phone to the other hand, returned to his normal voice, but gruff. “Stonewell here. Sorry, I’m up to my neck, can you make it short?”
“Mr. Stonewell, my name is Burton, from the federal Department of Small Business. Your name has been chosen from a list of a dozen outstanding entrepreneurs who have made unique contributions in the start-up of — ”
“Hey, man, I don’t take junk calls, eh, so stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Wait! This is totally legitimate! I’m calling on behalf of a program to honour a select group of achievers. You will represent the West Coast. We’re inviting you and your wife to spend two nights in Ottawa, all expenses paid.”
“Come on, man, who is this? Honker, is that you?”
“Bear with me, please. We’re offering gratis two tickets first class, a luxury suite in our finest hotel, and a thousand dollars to cover expenses.”
Stoney sipped his Lucky, jiggled his cigarette pack, picked one out with his teeth, lit it. The guy sounded sincere enough, and Stoney was in fact an outstanding entrepreneur. How did they get his name? “This isn’t a gag?”
“No, sir, this is the real thing — a courier package with the tickets and vouchers has been requisitioned and you may expect delivery within the day. It’s a rush, but the election call has upset our timetables, so we’d truly appreciate it if you can fly out tomorrow — I hope that’s not an imposition. You’ll be back two days before Christmas. Arrival Ottawa International at six p.m., but take a later flight if that suits you. All we ask is that you and your spouse keep our program absolutely confidential until we make a formal announcement.”
“I don’t have an actual spouse right now …”
“Your girlfriend, partner, companion, whomever you wish to share this opportunity with.”
For a moment, Stoney thought he was hallucinating, maybe the brewmeister at the Lucky Lager refinery had been dropping tabs of acid in the canned goods. He studied the phone, but it wasn’t melting in his hand or anything.
“As an essential part of the program, we want to hear your views on how we, the government, can help small businesses work better for the country.”