Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  “Would you say he’s the brains of the outfit?”

  She thought for a minute. “Maybe. Organizationally for sure. Beyond that I can’t say. I had to send Hugg a list of the questions I wanted to ask for him to vet. Larmer’s intelligent and brilliant in front of a microphone, but whether he’s smart enough to define and defend an entire ideology on his own — hard to say. Hugg is capable of that, so maybe he’s the brains and Larmer’s the mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in Canadian politics … or broadcasting. But I’m just not sure. I can tell you the Larmer I interviewed that day was very sure of himself. And he wasn’t looking over his shoulder for help and guidance. So either he’s as smart as he wants everyone to believe or he’s very well coached and rehearsed.”

  “Listen, Patsy, thanks for taking the time. Just to come back to that one point. If you hear any names — somebody who had more than just a differing political point of view, somebody Larmer might have reason to fear, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Fair enough, but like I said, that wasn’t really my focus.”

  “I understand.” I nodded and pulled a business card out of my pocket. “My email’s on there. I’ll look forward to getting the names of the kids at that Christian school.”

  She stopped gathering her things, took the card, nodded, and leaned forward, studying me. “This is starting to sound like there might be another story here. I know you told me you couldn’t reveal the reason you’re delving into Larmer’s life, but if there is a story down the road sometime, turnabout’s fair play. Your turn to share.”

  I shook my head. “No story, not yet, anyway. If there is, I promise, I’ll let you in on it.”

  She smiled. “Right after your own story appears.”

  I smiled back at her. “I’m sure we’ll talk again.”

  THREE

  A n hour after leaving Patsy Bannister, I was back in my apartment at my computer. Jill and Kyla were at baseball practice, so I had a couple of hours to delve further into the lives and times of Buckley-Rand Larmer and friends.

  With The Band and Elliott Brood providing the soundtrack for my studies, I started with Jasper Hugg. Wikipedia yielded the basics. Hugg was forty-four years old, American-born and -raised, graduated from high school in Yuma, Arizona, attended Northern Arizona University, majored in Public Administration, worked his way through a few layers of management with the City of Flagstaff, then worked for the Republican Party in Arizona for eleven years before taking his skills north, first to Lethbridge, Alberta, then to Calgary. He and Larmer first connected via the Reform Party; Hugg was then the campaign manager for Larmer’s ill-fated shot at the school board, and when Larmer became a big on-air fish, he brought Hugg along as his executive assistant.

  I googled for a while without learning much of significance until I came across a heading that read “Huggy Bear Not Warm and Fuzzy.”

  It took me to a website that called itself The Last Truth. It was a sanctimonious, left-leaning site that clearly took itself very seriously, though not seriously enough to have someone edit the stuff that made up the content portion of the site. Still, the insights it offered into Jasper Hugg — if they reflected the truth, “last” or otherwise — were interesting. Hugg had been in a few legal scrapes over the years, mostly due to his willingness to get physical with those who challenged him or his views. The piece detailed three instances in particular.

  The first had taken place in Flagstaff, where Hugg had hospitalized a civic employee named Victor Nagy after a confrontation that started in a staff meeting, then spilled over into the staff coffee/lunch area and finally to the sidewalk outside the main administration building. The two men had been suspended, Nagy for a week, Hugg for thirty days, both without pay. Hugg left the city job, went to work for the Republican Party, for which he had been volunteering for a couple of years. He also sued the city and got back the money he hadn’t been paid during his suspension, plus an unspecified amount in damages for “personal stress resulting from the city’s wrongful act.”

  Hugg’s second documented physical confrontation involved his wife of six and a half years, Anita Dekalb. It took place shortly after their move to Calgary. There were witnesses and it sounded pretty nasty, with Hugg punching his wife twice, the second blow knocking her into a nearby parked car and onto the sidewalk. Again Hugg’s victim was hospitalized, but overnight this time. Nevertheless, Anita declined to press charges; the article claimed it was because of “her husband’s intimination” (the reporter’s spelling, not mine). The marriage ended a few months later and the article opined that Hugg was a deadbeat dad (there was one child, a boy) but offered no evidence to substantiate the statement.

  The third instance of Hugg’s violence really got my attention. The venue was a downtown Calgary folk and blues club that had long since closed its doors, and it involved Hugg and a second man, “a prominent Calgary political and media figure.” The unnamed second man had apparently taken exception to political remarks the singer, Wilson Hall, had been making between songs. The man had shouted profanity-laced remarks back at the singer, then when club staff, including a large bouncer, asked them to leave, a brawl ensued, with Hugg and his associate keen participants. The police arrived and both Hugg and his pal were taken away by the cops, leaving behind a few thousand dollars in damages to the club and three injured people: one member of Hall’s band, the bouncer, and a bartender. Hugg and his associate came out of the fracas relatively unscathed.

  The article ended abruptly there and offered no follow-up as to charges laid, compensation for the damages — nothing. Frustrating.

  My reading had me wondering why Larmer felt he needed a bodyguard when he clearly already had one.

  I decided I’d like to talk to Hugg’s victims, starting with his ex. Though I doubted she’d agree to talk to me, I pulled out my phone directory and found two A. Dekalbs, one living in Strathmore, a community a half-hour or so east of Calgary, and the other in Lake Bonavista, the city neighbourhood I’d always most wanted to live in but never had. I called both A. Dekalbs, got machines at both, and left messages stating that I was a journalist and would like to speak with Anita Dekalb, if this was her residence. I left my number and hung up thinking I’d not likely ever hear from either of them. The word journalist tended to set off alarm bells, especially for those who had stories they didn’t particularly want made public. But I’d learned a long time before that lying or hiding who I am was, for the most part, useless … and illegal.

  Figuring I might as well extend my losing streak, I called Information in Flagstaff and got numbers for a V.R. Nagy, V. and J. Nagy, and V. Nagy. V. Nagy’s line was no longer in service, a recorded message informed me that V. and J. Nagy were Victoria Nagy and her son Jake, and another machine told me V.R. Nagy would get right back to me if I left a brief, detailed message. I was brief but not all that detailed.

  The only name the report on the blues club incident revealed was that of the singer, Wilson Hall. I searched the name and found several Wilson Halls: a plumber in Jacksonville, Florida; a pharmacist in Oakdale, California; a pub owner in Reading, England; a university residence building at a small Lutheran college in Nebraska; and a folk/blues singer in Halifax. It was almost eleven at night in Halifax, so that call would have to wait until morning.

  By then I was sick of tapping keys on my computer and talking to disembodied voices on my phone, so I shut it down, pulled a Rolling Rock beer out of the fridge, and put a Harry Manx CD on the stereo. I sat on my couch staring out at the unfolding sunset and wondering about Canadians’ willingness to elevate unsavoury clods to positions of power. I had just concluded that Canada didn’t own the patent on that particular behaviour when the phone rang.

  I picked up and heard my favourite voice.

  “Hi, cowboy,” Jill said with a pretty bad fake drawl. “Baseball practice is over and two hungry women are willing to offer you the pleasure of our
company for the price of two dinners at Ye Olde Spaghetti Factory.”

  “I hope you aren’t sweaty,” I said. “I’d hate to get thrown out of the place.”

  “Ladies don’t sweat, we perspire and —”

  “I’m sweaty!” I heard Kyla yell. “We had bunting practice and Mom made us run like a hundred bases.”

  “Okay, you can wait outside while your mom and I enjoy two delicious plates of succulent, perfectly prepared —”

  “You’re wasting time,” Jill interrupted. “Get going and we’ll meet you there in twenty.”

  “On my way.”

  A half-hour later, four of us were looking at menus. Four, because of a last-minute addition when Kyla convinced her mom that having her best friend, Josie, who was the Bobcats’ first baseman, come along would make for a more complete evening.

  I figured “more complete” was code for so I don’t have to listen to boring adult talk the whole time. And while Kyla’s conversation was rarely either juvenile or boring, I have to admit I welcomed the chance to talk with Jill about what I had been learning about Buckley-Rand Larmer and Jasper Hugg.

  The dinner turned out to be a lively three-quarters of an hour of conversation that blended nine-year-old gossip and humour with what I thought were snappy and desperately funny responses, some from Jill, but mostly from me. Although the eye rolling I detected coming from all three of my dinner companions seemed to indicate that some of my attempts at humour fell short of award-winning.

  But after we’d downed wine and Shirley Temples, spaghetti and ravioli, and two mud-pie desserts, the girls had settled into a pull-out-all-the-stops duel at some game they had on their iPads, while Jill and I sipped coffees and talked about what I’d learned so far.

  “Not to be flippant —” Jill shook her head after a few minutes — “but keeping this man out of harm’s way isn’t going to be easy. It’s only day one and you’ve already uncovered a few stand-out candidates to pop the guy. Give it a week and you may have to replace the toner in your printer.”

  I nodded. “The part I don’t get is how anyone can attach enough importance to himself to not care that thousands of people hate him.”

  Jill took a swallow of her coffee. “I guess it’s offset by the fact that just as many thousands think he’s amazing and says the things they wish they could say.”

  “My dad says he’s an ass,” Josie said without looking up, her fingers flying dervish-like over the keys.

  I glanced at Jill. So much for our conversation not registering with the girls.

  “There are a number of people who agree with your dad,” I said. I’d seen Josie’s parents at a lot of the ball games but hadn’t got past the “Hey, how ya doin’?” stage. Suddenly I liked them.

  “Mike has a tough job,” Jill continued. “I just hope he’s able to keep Larmer safe.”

  Kyla looked up. “Larmer — is that the radio guy?”

  I looked over at Jill, then back at Kyla. “Hey guys, this isn’t fair to you two. Your mom and I shouldn’t be having this discussion in front of you.”

  Kyla glanced down, tapped a couple of keys, looked up again. “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s to do with something Mike and I are working on. And there’s probably a need for confidentiality here.”

  “Confidentiality?” Josie asked.

  Kyla looked at her. “Keeping secrets,” she explained.

  “I can keep secrets.” Josie set her iPad on the table as if to emphasize the point.

  “That’s good,” I told them. “I’d appreciate it if this was one of the secrets you kept.”

  “Sure.” Kyla nodded.

  “No problem,” Josie said. “I’m totally good at it.”

  “Great.” I smiled at her.

  “Like I never told hardly anybody about Faith Unruh.”

  “Jo-sie,” Kyla hissed at her.

  Jill and I exchanged glances. My look said this one’s in your court. She looked at Josie. “So this Faith, what happened there — she let a boy kiss her? Or maybe she shoplifted an Oh Henry! from the 7-Eleven?”

  “She died. Somebody killed her.”

  I was taking a drink of coffee as she said it, and my near-choking reaction would have been cartoon-funny except for the seriousness of what she’d said.

  “Killed her,” I repeated. “Killed her how, Josie?”

  “Somebody murdered her.”

  Jill leaned forward. “That’s a very serious crime, not something you should say if you’re not completely sure about it.”

  I set my coffee cup down.

  Josie nodded. “I didn’t make it up.”

  She didn’t look like she was making it up.

  “How do you know about … Faith?” I said.

  “Same as now.” She shrugged. “I heard adults talking about it. Except it was my mom and dad and our neighbour, Mr. Chen.”

  “What … what happened to Faith?” Jill had lowered her voice, which was unnecessary because Josie was speaking barely above a whisper. I assumed it was part of her secret-keeping protocol.

  Josie shrugged again. “I didn’t hear that part. It happened before we moved there. All I heard was that she was killed in the backyard of a house down the street from us when she was eleven, and the person who did it never got caught.”

  “When was this, Josie?” I asked.

  “Before we moved into our house,” she said again.

  “Cold case,” Kyla said, her hours of watching CSI clearly paying off.

  The waiter who had been serving us came to the table and I asked for a refill on the coffee.

  The girls returned to their game. Jill and I struggled to find a topic that would provide an appropriate shift from where we’d been. We settled on musical theatre, but somehow the impending arrival of a travelling company’s production of the Lion King seemed remarkably un­important stacked up against what we’d just heard about a little girl named Faith Unruh.

  Sex was awkward. No, that’s not right. Sex with Jill was wonderful. It was the arranging to actually have sex that sometimes got a little sticky. We had been dating for several months and occasionally Jill stayed at my apartment, but never all night or even most of the night because of her babysitter.

  And though we sometimes made love at her place after Kyla was asleep, I never stayed the night, either, because we — actually, I was worried about how Kyla would react to my being there in the morning.

  But a night that had already seen one major revelation come to light would see another.

  When we were on our way to drop off Josie, I admit to having my head on a swivel as we drove down her street to number 1227. She pointed out the two houses — the one where Faith Unruh had lived and the one where she’d died. I watched with more than the usual attentiveness as Josie jogged up the sidewalk to her front door. Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the living room of Jill’s house, Kyla in her pajamas, a tattered paperback in her hands, Jill and I with wineglasses in ours.

  No one was talking. Kyla was immersed in the adventures of James and his magical peach; my thoughts and, I was pretty sure Jill’s, were on the tragedy we had heard about for the first time earlier that evening.

  Kyla set her book down, uncurled her body from her reading position, and looked at her mother, then at me.

  “Why do you always go home at night?”

  I cleared my throat, paused, and said, “Because that’s … where I live.” I chuckled idiotically to show her that her mother’s boyfriend was one funny guy.

  She shook her head. “I mean it. Why don’t you stay here sometimes?”

  Jill intervened before I could say something else that was as dumb as my first offering.

  “How would you feel about it if Adam did stay here sometimes?” I felt her hand resting lightly on mine.

  “Okay.” Kyla shrugge
d. “I mean, it wouldn’t, like, bug me. I know you and Dad aren’t ever going to be together and you guys really like each other, so why not?”

  I leaned forward. “Kyla, the truth is, I’d like to stay here with you and your mom, but I guess I was worried that it would bother you, that you’d think I was trying to take the place of your dad. Or that I was somehow coming between you and your mom.”

  “Something you should know, Ky,” Jill said, “is that Adam and I care a lot about each other. We’re more than just friends, so if he did stay here sometimes or if I were to stay at his place, it’s because we really care.”

  “Do you love each other?”

  Jill blushed, looked at me. I was hoping she didn’t want me to jump in because I thought she was doing just fine.

  “Yes, Kyla, I believe we do,” Jill said softly.

  “Thought so,” Kyla said, and the matter settled, she jumped out of the easy chair she’d been in and headed for her room. “G’night,” she called over her shoulder.

  And that, I believe, perfectly illustrates what is referred to as a roller coaster of an evening.

  Having received Kyla’s blessing for conjugal visits, Jill and I agreed that neither of us was particularly keen for that night to be our first all night.

  And I guessed that for Jill, at least part of the reason for feeling that way was exactly the same as it was for me — Josie’s announcement that an eleven-year-old girl had died violently in a backyard only a few blocks from where we were sitting.

  FOUR

  Cobb and I were sitting at a window table in Mercato, an excellent pasta place on 4th Street West. He was nursing a red wine; I was halfway through a rye and Diet Coke, and we were sharing a plate of calamari. So far the conversation had focused on Derek Jeter’s final season and a lively debate about which was the better movie — How to Train Your Dragon 2 or Dawn of the Planet of the Apes. I had seen the former with Jill and Kyla, and Cobb had “done the apes” with his teenage son, Peter. As neither of us had seen the other’s movie, we decided to call it a draw, although Cobb insisted on one last shot.