by Paul Slatter
Chendrill pulled the Aston into a dedicated slot outside Slave, still wondering how the thief Ditcon had managed to find out about the border incident and how he would deal with it. Under normal circumstances he’d have gone over to the station and near on booted Ditcon’s door down. Then he’d have told him to fuck off had it not been true, but this time it was, so how the fuck had the guy known?
He reached the top of the stairs, entered the office, smiled at the cute girl Sebastian had working the front desk and wandered down to Sebastian’s office. He knocked on the door once and stepped inside almost as if it was he who owned the agency.
Sebastian looked up and almost immediately Chendrill could see he was really worried. It had to be the loan shark again—the guy obviously not listening to Chendrill when he had told the Italian he’d taken on Sebastian’s debt. The guy had been around, either to Sebastian’s penthouse or the office. The man coming on strong like he did with his intimidating manner that gave even Chendrill cause for concern.
Without even as much as a hello, Sebastian said in a hushed voice as he stood up, “Chuck, I’m really worried. Thank God you’re here.”
Chendrill looked at Sebastian as Sebastian came around the big desk, closed the door firmly, and sat Chendrill down on the sofa before sitting next to him.
Then taking a deep breath, he said, “There’s a real problem Chuck. Mazzi’s come to work this morning and his socks aren’t pulled up,”
Chendrill stared at him, taking in what he’d just been told, then he said, “Sorry?”
Carrying on speaking quickly and saying in a hushed tone as he looked towards the now closed door, Sebastian said, “Yes—they’re all saggy and I can see his ankles.”
Chendrill stared at him as Sebastian waited for an answer that wasn’t going to come, then he said, “I’ve known him eight years now Chuck and he’s never done this.”
Chendrill looked to the floor for a moment, then noticing Fluffy sleeping on an old Alexander McQueen sweater in the corner said, “Maybe the elastic’s gone, it happens you know.”
Then Sebastian stood, looking down at Chendrill, and said, “I’m serious Chuck. He’s not himself, he hasn’t been since he hit his head.”
Chendrill looked at him. He said, “He did?”
“Yes, Chuck don’t you remember, he didn’t come into work the other day, he said a sash window came down all the way, slammed down and nearly took his head off, you’d have thought the French were here.”
Chendrill frowned; he remembered Sebastian calling and leaving a message saying there’d been an accident. “Did it happen here?” he asked.
“No Chuck, I’ve had all these ones checked. He won’t say where. He’s been acting so strange ever since, I thought it was the new friend, but maybe he’s got a tumour.”
Chendrill shrugged then said, “Well call the doctor.”
“No, I called you,” Sebastian said straight back, “I want you to go chat with him first and see if he’s ok.”
Chendrill took a deep breath—this was all he needed. He couldn’t stand talking to that fruit cake at the best of times, but going into his office and asking him about the elastic on his socks was the last thing he needed. But as he looked at the concern on Sebastian’s face, he knew he hardly had a choice in the matter, so he said, “I’ll look into it and if there’s any trouble, I’ll let you know.” And look into it he did. As he walked back along through the office, he stopped at Mazzi Hegan’s door and tapped on it twice before walking in.
Mazzi Hegan sat there looking as cool as ever, even if his socks were down. Chendrill got straight to the point, asking, “You got anything you want to tell me?”
Mazzi snapped straight back like a bitch, “If I ever do you’ll be the last to hear.”
And Chendrill replied just as quickly, “Pull your socks up; you’re upsetting people.”
That was that then, Chendrill thought, as he walked away from the office. He’d done his bit, whatever was making the man not iron his socks was his problem—if he had one in the first place that is. He reached his car and got in. He sat there for a moment, wondering, as he did almost every day, why he wasted his time working for them. Then as he started the engine of the Aston, he heard it purr, and instantly remembered why. He could see Mazzi standing in the window above looking down, probably too scared to put his head out like before in case there was an earthquake and the window came down again. Shifting the car into drive, he pulled away.
********
Basil sat on the end of the hotel bed and wondered what the fuck had just happened. One minute he'd been in control and getting his toes rubbed and the next his whole career in border security was being questioned, and all this before he'd even got to asking Maio if she was still up for a late-night meal.
This Chendrill guy was smarter than he'd thought, seeing him leave and then tailing him the way he had. Now, though, he’d have to wait and bullshit his superiors and hope that the big ape had something up his sleeve so he could still come out of the whole trip looking good instead of coming back with a negative. What he needed would be someone with drugs, or—even better—a crazed terrorist group on their way across the border, who were about to wreak havoc on his country. Maybe I could find one, he thought, infiltrate some mosque or some group who hated the Yanks. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d follow one and find the terrorist getting his toes rubbed one last time before committing jihad, just the way that big fucker had found him, and then they both could start blabbing while in the middle of having one of those Japanese sticks dug into the side of their toes.
He could say something like, "If you ever need into the US then for a price I know a way where they don’t ask questions,” then he could set it up and have a bunch of agents—who by then would all now know his name—waiting on the other side along with a couple of waterboard specialists in tow. That would be good.
He got up and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was now 11 a.m. Maio would be there because they started around that time, all depending on when the woman on the desk got in. I could get one in, he thought, maybe a 45 minute special that would take his mind off what had happened last night. Then he could go cruise around in the car down on Zero Avenue so he could make it look like he was doing something while he worked out a new game plan.
Half an hour later, he was leaving the massage parlour after the woman behind the desk had just told him Maio wasn't working, even though he could see her shoes in the spot where they always kept them. Basil having considered the offer of another girl from the woman behind the desk, but there was always a chance Maio could arrive—or be there, as he thought she was, and come out of one of those little booths where they did the massages to see him there with another girl rubbing his feet. Maybe it would make her jealous though and do the trick, moving him up a notch or two in the overall game plan. He hit the highway and headed towards the border, everyone driving slow on the huge road like they did up here.
He reached the border at Peace Arch, turned left onto Zero Avenue, and wondered what he'd be doing if he wasn’t working undercover right now—stationed back there at Peace Arch instead, no doubt, checking passports, sniffing for drugs, and looking for any signs of bullshit.
He kept driving, working his way east, cruising, watching the border, and looking at the farms and the way they spread down to the border road. It wouldn't be easy for someone with an agenda to cross with all the cameras on the other side watching. But he was there, working, looking at stuff, and some ding-dong in an office somewhere, bored as shit from looking at the ground, would be following the car because he's got nothing else to do and then zooming in and saying, "Hey I know that guy, he pushed in front of me in the canteen. What's he doing over there in Canada?" Then they’d all be watching.
Looking up at one of the cameras mounted high 100 feet in the air on the other side of the open border, Basil reached up and spun the car’s visor to obscure his face before stopping the car. He’d give it a bit of time, so the c
ameras could find him, then he’d open it up again so the cameras could catch his profile. He pulled out his phone and called Maio. Three rings later she answered, her soft accented voice barely audible against the breeze running up from the south and squeezing itself through the crack at the top of the window.
“Hello.”
“Maio?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Basil.”
“Hello?”
“Are you at work?”
“Yes.”
I knew it!, Basil thought, as he reached his finger out and, without looking, found the button to close the window completely. Then he asked, “You want to meet for lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Great, I’ll come meet you and we can go for sushi if you want.”
“Yes.”
Great, Basil thought, as he repeated the same word over in his head and looked in the distance along the border that, maybe, in the future was going to make him famous. Pulling the visor back, he sat there for a second, then he got out and walked right to the border itself and stared south into the U.S. with purpose. The camera on the other side would be on him now, snapping away.
He walked along slightly, then crouched and picked up some soil, as though he’d found what he was looking for. Then spinning away so no border security lip reading expert could be brought in to analyze his words, he said, “I’m at work right now, you know, doing some really important stuff for the U.S. Government, what time should I pick you up?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to pick you up or should we meet?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Yes?”
And on it went.
************
Chendrill hadn’t been sitting down on his sofa for more than ten minutes when Sebastian called again. Chendrill picked up and without any reason said, “What’s the emergency?”
“There isn’t one Chuck, not this time,” Sebastian replied straight back. “I thought you were going to come back and tell me what Mazzi had said.”
“Well, what he did was he told me to fuck off and he hurt my feelings so much I came home,” Chendrill answered just as quickly.
“He actually said that?” asked Sebastian.
“May as well have.”
Then out of the blue, Sebastian said, “I’ve bought you a bicycle Chuck. I told you that didn’t I?”
“I can’t remember,” Chendrill answered, as he picked up his drink of orange juice from the coffee table and took a sip, hearing Sebastian say, “Oh I think you do, you’re just trying to avoid going with me down to see the house I bought that lovely lady and her family to live in. I thought it would be nice.”
“Today?” Chendrill asked, then said straight back, “I think it’s going to rain.”
On the other end of the line, Sebastian said back, “Don’t be so silly Chuck, stop trying to get out of it, it’s a blue sky out there. Get here after lunch, my bicycle has a little basket at the front, Fluffy’s going to love it.”
Only Fluffy didn’t like it at all. The dog all upset and trying to escape every time they stopped on the cycle path—Chendrill still in his jeans and Sebastian looking fabulous in spandex getting in a tizz, worrying about the traffic whizzing by and trying to keep little Fluffy in, calling for Chendrill to help and not getting any.
The man hearing Chendrill instead say sarcastically, “He might bite, Sebastian.” Then they hit the East Side with all its drug problems, and that’s where Sebastian stopped worrying about the dog. They passed the first run of homeless in their drugged-out state with shabby clothes and their few life’s possessions, spread out for sale across the path.
Crazy men screaming in the street at unseen terrors—when they should be in a hospital—others high, shooting up, or having just shot up as ambulances came and went. These lost men and women hanging out in alleys where they themselves and others pissed and shit and sold and bought the drugs that kept them there.
Sebastian came to a halt and said straight away to Chendrill, “We’ve got to help these people, Chuck.”
“I thought we were going to visit this house you bought?” Chendrill said as he looked around and stared down a man whose teeth had long fell victim to the crack pipe he carried and who was about to approach Sebastian.
Unconsciously covering his dog, who by instinct now knew it was good to stay put, Sebastian feeling frightened said it again, “We need to help these people. Not right now, Chuck, but in the future.”
And that’s the reason Chendrill got to meet Clive Sonic in person.
***********
Clive Sonic had a new girl now, all sweet smelling and fun, a million miles from the ex who still kept his balls on the mantle. She was different, this one, in almost every way—the way she dressed, the way she smiled as she ate, and the way she liked him fucking her dressed as a gladiator.
Clive on top in his chest piece and leather skirt with her calling out ‘Maximus Maximus’ as she looked up at him holding a sword and feeling his other one inside herself. Then when the time was right, she'd pull a move like she always did, the one she'd picked up at yoga, and thrust out her hips so she could feel him touch that spot that made her insides change and her imagination slip away, making her eyes close as the visions of men kicking up dust in the arena swirled around her mind, seeing herself all nice and trim with her muff shaved, waiting below the Colosseum's killing ground. Listening to the chants and the screams of the citizens of Rome as her man left the huge arena, walking away from the blood he'd shed, across scorching sand, hearing the clanking of his armour against his shield as he came to her laying there in the real world with her eyes closed. Clive sliding in and out of her all sweaty and feeling like an idiot as she saw Maximus in her mind standing strong, looking at her through the bars of his cell as she waited for him on his straw bed and then, and only then, as she saw herself laying there naked and anticipating she would call out, "Fuck me Maximus—fuck me.” And Clive would fuck her hard and fast, pounding his sword into her with all his fake armour clanking and listen to her scream and orgasm as she clung onto the imitation leather outfit she'd sneaked out from the fancy dress store where she worked. Her loving it all. Clive only liking the bit at the end as he let go and felt the shiver run through his body for the briefest of moment where he could forget about it all—before he'd have to stop and hold still like he did and push back the gladiator helmet that had fallen across his eyes so he could look at her and feel stupid again.
Then he heard the phone ring and it was Chendrill. It hadn’t been more than two hours since they’d gotten back and Sebastian had sent Fluffy off with the receptionist to the dog spa for a bath when Sebastian had handed Clive’s name over to him and asked him to track him down. Trying to sound tough, and still wound up from his brief trip into Vancouver’s East Side, Sebastian had said in a firm voice, “Go skip trace this fucker and we can get things rolling.”
Chendrill stared at the name and seconds later clued into the fact that the guy was a rock star—or had been until he’d lost some fingers. Looking up and smiling Chendrill asked the obvious question, “The guy’s a guitarist with no fingers; what’s he going to be able to do?”
Half an hour later, Chendrill had skip traced him—as Sebastian had liked to call the act of finding someone who’d gone off the radar. That is, of course, if you could call living in a small house on the water in Deep Cove in North Vancouver going off the radar.
Clive listened on the phone and looked towards the bedroom door and wondered if his girl was rubbing herself off again, Chendrill saying, “There’s a guy downtown who’d like to talk to you, his name’s Sebastian String, he runs a media company.”
Clive shook his head, wanting to take the gladiator outfit off. He said, “I’m out of all that now, tell him thanks but no thanks. I’m no longer in the music industry.” Then Clive bullshitting said, “I’ve kind of got my eye more set on other things these days.”
“Yeah we kn
ow. That’s why Sebastian String has had me call,” Chendrill replied.
**********
They met that night at Sebastian’s house. Clive there on his own without his girlfriend who wished he was someone else. Mazzi there, half drunk, still all messed up with a sore lump on the back of his head. Sebastian worrying about him because his colours didn’t match. Patrick also there, uninvited, but there anyway in case they were there to talk about him. Chendrill sitting there also at the end of the table, armed with a bread roll in case this ex-musician went crazy.
Sebastian holding court, smiling and saying, “It’s so good of you to come Clive. Mazzi loves your music. So does my dog Fluffy. Patrick told me only this afternoon he has all your albums and Chuck! He loves your music too.”
Chendrill didn’t like his music though; in fact, when asked it was always hard for him to put his finger on what he did really like or not—unless it was Queen, he liked them. But Freddie was dead, so that was the end of that—kind of, unless you considered Queen still alive because Brian May was still knocking everyone over with his guitar like he did, just as Clive Sonic had before when people used to know him like that, except now he was known as ‘that guy,’ the one who could no longer play guitar anymore because he’d lost some fingers.
“Thanks for inviting me, it’s a pleasure,” said Clive, who was once on his way to being one of the all-time greatest guitar players and now lived well off the royalties of a list of songs he’d written and which Chendrill was having trouble remembering.