“Call me Charley.” They found privacy behind one of the lobby’s massive colonnades, where Burton slipped him a miniature digital recorder, round-topped so it would fit neatly in the palm of the hand. “Nicad battery is charged, suction cup holds it in place under a table, press this red button to record.”
Thiessen pocketed it. “Great. So we’re all set up?”
“Except for a minor glitch. Mr. Stonewell must have forgotten he instructed the operator to hold his calls.”
“When was that?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Probably needed a good night’s sleep.”
“Seven o’clock this morning, sir.”
“Well, I suppose he’s just being prudent. He obviously knows I’m coming. Room service has been alerted?”
“I believe they’re standing by.”
“Then let’s go.”
In the elevator, Thiessen gave battle instructions to Burton. He would do the introductions. Stonewell would be told that the small business minister was off campaigning and had sent regrets, so Thiessen would act in his stead. Palms would meet, then Burton would quietly slip away.
No homo jokes, Charley reminded himself. He’d have to do some bantering with the guy’s lover too. These gay boys loved their malicious gossip.
A room-service waitress was already at the door with her cart. Therese, said her tag. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Thiessen said in his clumsy French, extending his hand while rapping on the door with the other.
No response. It was ten-forty. They hadn’t hung up the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but the Globe was there, unwrapped, untouched. Maybe they’d forgotten to reset their watches, gone out for a walk.
Burton took a turn knocking. Not a sound from within.
“Okay, miss,” said Thiessen, “you’ve got the house key?” She shook her head, but summoned a housekeeper from down the hall, a stout Haitian woman. Burton had good French and managed to cajole her to unlock the room.
“Mon Dieu,” Therese said as she pushed the cart in.
Thiessen’s view was obstructed by her for a moment. Then a scene of profligacy opened up that had him gaping with dread.
A skimpily dressed young woman was stretched out on cushions on the floor, sleeping or passed out, a two-foot-tall hookah pipe beside her. On the bed, two more human forms, or at least two lumps under a sheet, covers bunched up at their feet with their clothes. Empty mini-bottles strewn everywhere, the fridge wide open, empty but for some chocolate bar wrappers. Two flower vases chock full of cigarette butts. The thermostat had been set to a stultifying high, and the room reeked of tobacco and marijuana.
Thiessen stood in the doorway transfixed as the housekeeper raced in, scuttled about, picking up frantically. The woman on the floor, aroused by this, raised up, stared right at Thiessen, who with a sudden shock of recognition recalled her as an exotic dancer from a Lower Town club he’d been dragged into by a visiting Nigerian judge. “It’s the fucking heat!” she yelled, scrambling around for her outerwear and shoes.
Thiessen started backing out, bumping into Burton. “Let’s get out of here.”
Too late. A gaunt young man, glistening with sweat, a cannabis leaf tattoo on his upper arm, lurched from the bedroom, shirtless, pulling on a pair of jeans. “Wha … What day is it?”
The stripper bolted past them, pulling a sweater over her head. But Burton, mindlessly sticking to the script, took Thiessen’s arm and pulled him in. “Mr. Stonewell? Burton, Small Business.” Stonewell took his hand, but not much awareness showed in his red-rimmed eyes as Burton continued his spiel.
Thiessen had backpedalled into the corridor and was about to bolt when Burton pointed to him with a frozen grin. “Mr. Thiessen here is pleased to act in his stead.” Charley gritted his teeth: this agent was an idiot, an automaton programmed to obey.
“Thiessen? Oh, yeah, Thiessen. Got your note somewhere here.”
“Charley.” Stepping inside, feeling suicidal. “Call me Charley.”
Stonewell still seemed slow to come to, looking hazily about, at Therese; at the flustered, busy maid; at the cart with its steaming covered trays. At the bed, where the two bodies were stirring. “Yo, Dog, we got guests, take your friend to the bedroom, the maid can do that later.” The two forms, still draped in the sheet, scuttled off like crabs.
The skinny stoner grabbed Thiessen’s arm, yanking him toward the table where Therese had laid out the brunch. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” said Burton, making like a coward for the door, Therese following him out, the maid still flying about like a whirlwind.
“Make yourself at home, Charley, grab some of them eggs. Guess we forgot to move our watches ahead, but I’ll be ready to roll soon as I shower up.” Stonewell slathered a cracker with caviar and disappeared into the washroom.
The maid had drawn the curtains by now, opened some windows, and was making the bed. “Psst, miss, please get rid of that thing.” The hookah. She seemed unsure what to do with it, then finally shoved it in the wardrobe. While she was diverted, Thiessen turned the recorder on, stuck it under the food table, pressing it to make sure the suction cup held.
He had no appetite. Feeling faint, he subsided onto a padded chair, then raised up to remove an empty wine bottle from under the cushion. A disaster was enfolding. His ire at Beauchamp had blinded him to the unexpected.
If the press got hold of this … Thankfully, he hadn’t seen any reporters in the lobby. What option did he have except to follow an abbreviated script, play it out and get out?
The maid had gone by the time Stonewell emerged, hair dripping, a wedge of shaving cream on his chin. The vaguely pornographic T-shirt he pulled on read, “Starkers Cove, Free Yourself.”
“Well, you, um … What do I call you, Robert, Bob?”
“Call me grateful, Charley.” Stonewell slugged back a glass of orange juice, scooped more caviar. “Yeah, the folks back home are gonna bust with pride when this goes public.”
Thiessen cleared his throat. “Now, I should warn you that the announcement may be months away. So far, it’s just among you and me and the selection committee. You haven’t, of course, mentioned this to anyone.”
“Didn’t have time. Just Ernst.”
“Ernst?”
“The local law, Constable Pound. Don’t worry about him, he’s so dumb he’s already forgot. Now let me get this straight — you’re like one of the head legal beagles here, eh?”
Thiessen emitted a strained chuckle, assuming Stonewell was jesting. “I guess you could call me that. The big beagle. But, hey, titles don’t impress me either, I’m a no-bullshit country boy just like you. Charley gives you no blarney, that’s my motto.”
“That’s great, man. To be honest, I was expecting some pompous prick.”
Thiessen laughed again, his voice cracking slightly. Strained chitchat followed, mostly about Garibaldi Island, Thiessen not getting a very clear picture of it, his powers of concentration dulled. This was broken off as Stonewell opened the door to a houseboy wheeling in a tray of mini-bottles to restock the fridge.
“You’re a mind reader, pal.”
The young man grinned broadly, knowingly. Word about the debauchery had spread like a virus through the hotel. Thiessen watched as Stonewell peeled a twenty from a thick wad in his pocket, slipped it to the departing waiter, then cracked open a beer. “You look like you could use a straightener too, Charley. Fuel up, eh, be my guest.”
Thiessen had a rule, no drinks before noon, but this was an extreme situation. His hands shook as he poured himself a whiskey neat, tilted it to his lips, felt a searing rush of warmth, of courage, however false.
“So, Robert, you must know Arthur Beauchamp and his famous wife. Your island’s most prominent couple, I would imagine.”
“Known them for yonks, man. In fact, I just finished retooling the old shyster’s heirloom Fargo.”
The old shyster. Thiessen liked the sound of that. Encouraged, he said, “Bit of a ladies’ man, I hear.”