“You want an earful, you got the right man.” Stoney stubbed his cigarette, he was buoyant, a believer now. “Number one, your environmental regs are killing business, you got to pull back on your emissions limits, and while you’re at it take a look at all them restrictions on hot-air balloon travel.” An emphatic knocking at the door. “Just a sec, I got a customer.”
“Allow me one second more.”
Stoney called: “Coming! Just a sec!”
“Can we count on you?” Burton said.
“I’ve got a dozen clients to service tomorrow, I hate to let them down …”
“Perhaps the following day …”
“But I can’t let my country down neither. Okay, I’ll cut ass outta here tomorrow.”
“I can’t emphasize this enough, please keep it between us.”
“You bet, you can count on Bob Stonewell.” He disconnected fast. He’d just seen an unwelcome sight out the window. Maybe he was the butt of a good news-bad news joke, because the bad was standing on the welcome mat: Constable Ernst Pound. No time to hide the five K’s of product sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d have to brazen it out.
He slipped outside, backed Pound away from the door. He was holding a sealed envelope, probably with another summons over some cheesy hassle or other. “Yo, Ernst, you caught me at a bad time, I been on the phone with the big boys in Ottawa, they want me to hop a plane there. I been chosen as an outstanding example of entreperennial spirit.”
“In what? Growing dope?”
“I find that hurtful. I got a reputation. I been nationally recognized as an achiever. That’s my new project over there.” Indicating his big striped balloon, neatly folded, on a tarp
“I hope you’ve got a licence to operate that there thing.”
“Yeah, it’s in the mail. You got a Christmas present for me there, Ernst? I feel real awkward, I didn’t get you nothing.”
“This came by dispatch, personal for you. They got me running around like I was a delivery boy.”
Stoney ripped the envelope open: a letterhead from Ottawa, the Department of Small Business, signed by this same guy, Burton. He was pleased to nominate one Robert Stonewell as small-business entrepreneur of the year representing British Columbia. Two first-class return tickets, hotel vouchers, ten hundred-dollar bills so crisp you could pick your teeth with them.
Pound’s eyes went huge. “Holy Jesus, I thought you were shitting me.”
Stoney was goggle-eyed too. “Mom lied, there is a Santa. Hey, I’m gonna tell my Ottawa connections about the splendid work our local constable has been doing here. About time we considered a promotion.” Before closing the door, he added, “Oh, and keep all this under your hat, eh, until we’re ready to go public.”
“Yes, sir.”
By ten the next morning, Stoney was in Ottawa, critically examining the Chateau Laurier as it loomed beyond the taxi window. All peaks and turrets, a grand, sprawling structure equal to the standards he expected. “I hope you have change for a hundred, my good man. I usually don’t carry nothing smaller.”
The taxi driver made the change, from which Stoney, feeling brotherhood with a fellow cabbie, tipped him fat. The doorman was already at the trunk, hauling out the suitcases Stoney had borrowed from Honk Gilmore because his own was mildewed. A porter was wrestling with Dog for possession of his ratty, patched duffle bag, but Dog won, and they entered an elaborate, bustling lobby, some kind of Christmas brunch starting, three-piece suits and designer dresses — these had to be the heavy-pocketed civil servants Stoney was supporting with his tax money.
He stationed Dog by a pillar to guard the luggage from thieves, then joined a lineup of people checking out. He didn’t complain about not being rushed to the front — it was his own fault, he hadn’t let his sponsors know he was making his grand entry earlier than expected. A quick call to Air Canada had got him first-class seats on the overnight flight, so why waste a day in the service of Her Majesty?
When Dog had finally showed up yesterday to do his test flight, wearing an old army flak jacket and carrying about fifty metres of tether rope, he hardly reacted, except with relief, to Stoney’s announcement of a change in plans.
After a pit stop to pick up the suitcases — and regale Honker on what was going down — they’d packed up, got the late ferry, hightailed it to the airport, parked the Fargo in the short-term lot, and boarded in time for the first serving of champagne.
It was the first time Dog had been on a plane, and he’d sat there like a frog on a log, bulb-eyed, clutching the armrests as they took to the air. Stoney had done his best to explain what this trip was all about, but Dog still didn’t seem to grasp it, just nodding, no questions. Dog never asked questions. Stoney couldn’t remember when he’d last strung three words together.
The stewardess had thought they were rock stars, and Stoney almost didn’t have the heart to correct her. Her expression said she didn’t buy his being a select achiever; she obviously pegged him as a major international drug dealer, which he kind of slyly confirmed. She was hip, they got on pretty good.
The day’s excitement had taken a toll, Stoney falling asleep on the plane before he could finish his last after-dinner liqueur. But as a fortunate result he wasn’t too hammered this morning. Neither was Dog, who’d been too shy to ask the stewardess to keep the beer flowing.
Stoney finally gained the front desk and the services of a snotty-looking stiff with a carnation in his lapel and a name badge, “Fortesque.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Stonewell.” Studying what looked like a government fax. “A little early for us, I’m afraid. We can have a suite ready for you and your wife in about two hours. One of the porters will be pleased to store any luggage …”
“I got my own porter.” Stoney beckoned to Dog to come forward with the bags. “This gentleman here ain’t exactly my wife. He’s my companion.”
Dog got flustered under the clerk’s frigid gaze, and took off his ball cap, twisting it in his hands. Fortesque studied the fax. “Companion, yes, of course. My instructions may be incomplete … I see we are to charge a government account. Room, meals, refreshments …”
“The whole assload, yeah. We’re on government business.”
Fortesque looked at him sternly. “You are Mr. Robert Stonewell?”
“Well, I ain’t Mother Goose.”
The clerk’s neat little moustache twitched when he tried to smile. “One moment, please.” He disappeared into an office, people in the lineup sighing and grumbling. Fortesque then hurried back with a letter-size envelope, suddenly all apologetic. “I’m sorry, this should have been, uh, presented to you immediately on registration.”
It was embossed with the name Charley Thiessen, Office of the Attorney General. Stoney ripped it open and shook out two tickets to the National Ballet, the next night. The handwritten note he pulled out was from this Thiessen guy, wanting to meet tomorrow at half past ten for brunch. Probably some lawyer with contracts to sign so Stoney could collect the honours being bestowed on him. He showed the note to the snot behind the desk and got instant reaction.
“My deepest apology for any confusion. Corner suite on the sixth floor, it’s almost ready, the maid is doing final touches. If you will please sign here, for yourself and your companion …”
“Yo, Dog, what’s your last name?”
A massive throat clearing. “Zbrinjkowitz.”
“Yeah, I can never remember. That’s why we call him Dog. It’s got two beds, eh? Dog’s feet get kind of cheesy.”
The suite was skookum, stuffed chairs everywhere, bureau, wardrobe, fancy lamps, a bed that could sleep half a dozen without trying, an extra bedroom with its own TV and private bath with a tub, shitter, and a weird urinal for pissing while you squat. A view out over a snowy park and a frozen river. And to top it off, a little fridge full of the necessities of life.
Dog was like a frozen statue, looking like he was afraid to touch anything or the dream would end. “Wake up and smell the good life, Dog. The queen slept here, along with Mick Jagger and Madonna and the biggest names in Hollywood.”