The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  “How did Garrison and the chief know each other?”

  “They knew each other…socially. Let’s just say they were brothers-in-arms.”

  “The kind of brothers-in-arms who help each other quit something?”

  Sharon studied the blue sky. “I can’t say. Confidences were undertaken. Promises made. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Perfectly,” said Janice.

  •

  “Chief,” hollered Sebastian. “Chief Bennett.”

  Paul Bennett spun around to face his pursuer. Sebastian extended his hand. The chief’s stayed hidden in his raglan pocket. Sebastian enjoyed the awkwardness of his hand taunting Bennett.

  “Well?” tormented Sebastian. The chief grabbed his hand like a train coupling.

  “No Cops for Cancer to ruin today, Sebastian?” Bennett compressed his grip.

  Sebastian torqued his grasp. “You’re surly today, Chief. Perhaps you need a hair of the dog. That’ll sooth your nerves.”

  Their locked hands quivered.

  “I’m holding a dog right now—one of the hounds of hell,” said Bennett.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Always remember, my bite is worse than my bark.”

  The handshake broke. Sebastian stretched his fingers.

  “Let’s call a truce, Chief. I can help you. But it starts with an interview.”

  “How do I know that you’re not recording me right now?” His wary eyes descended on the CBC camera in the distance.

  “You know me well enough to know that I do in-your-face ambushes. You’re not being recorded.”

  “Go on,” the chief said cautiously.

  “Come clean about what happened in Florida, apologize, and you might still have a future around here.”

  “You spoke to the police in Florida. They gave you all the information you’re entitled to. If I have any more to say about it, I should say it to a judge.”

  “What about the court of public opinion, Chief? MADD is screaming for your head on a silver platter. You have to live here afterwards. Who’s going to hire a disgraced police chief? Somebody might if they hear you say you’re sorry. People can be very forgiving.”

  “Your concern about my welfare is touching.” The chief ran his fingers through his hair. “What would be involved?”

  “A sit-down interview in your living room. Home sweet home. You wouldn’t look like a menace to society. You’d look contrite. You’d be the repentant chief, surrounded by his loving family.”

  “My daughter is off limits,” snapped Bennett.

  “Alright. Just you and your wife. Do one interview with me and no one else. Any question is fair game. In return, you get sympathy and understanding, and maybe you’ll save the little bit of reputation you have left.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The cortege meandered out of the parking lot onto Church Hill, the hearse leading them uptown. Garrison had an appointment with a crematorium.

  “I’m intrigued, Chief, why are you at Garrison’s funeral?”

  “I admired his journalism, which is more than I can say for some others.” The chief turned on his heels and marched away.

  “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  [ four ]

  “Now that’s a money shot,” Sebastian boasted. The glow from the night table lamp flooded the bedroom.

  “I hope that money shot won’t be a screensaver,” said Janice as she rolled her tawny body out of bed.

  “I am nothing if not discreet,” said Sebastian.

  Janice finished wiping herself and tossed the hand towel into the laundry hamper. “We made need another bath.” She reached inside the night table. Sebastian heard clinking. Janice lay back down holding two wine glasses and a bottle with a cork barely pushed into the lip.

  “Do you always keep wine by your bed?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” She poured. “Here’s to rivals.” The glasses dinged.

  “Delicious. What is it?” asked Sebastian.

  “Chianti.”

  He stopped sipping. “You’re not going to eat my liver with some fava beans, are you?”

  “Oh no, I intend on eating something quite different.”

  Sebastian flashed a conceited smile. He held the wine up to the light and swirled. Streaks formed on the inside of the glass.

  “Good legs,” he said as the droplets rolled down.

  “The French call them tears.”

  “Either way, Roxanne would enjoy them.”

  “What do you see in her anyway, besides her impeccable taste in wine?”

  “She’s everything that you’re not. Caring, decent, sensitive.”

  “And those things matter to you?” scoffed Janice. She dipped a pinky finger in her wineglass and cleaned it with a long draw from her mouth. “Is she trusting?”

  Sebastian blessed himself. “To a fault.”

  “If she’s all of these wonderful things, why are you here?”

  “I’m attracted to your ruthlessness. Roxanne lacks a certain passion. It burns here.”

  Janice picked up the bed lamp by the column and laid the world between them. The lampshade was a vintage map. She loosened the knob and spun the shade like a globe.

  “It’s ours for the conquering,” said Janice. She placed her index finger on England; her fingertip turned red as the light passed through the skin.

  “I’ll take London. All of Europe is mine.”

  Sebastian rotated the lampshade half a turn.

  “Beijing. China is swaggering. Japan is nationalistic. North Korea is crazy. Someone’s going to start a war.”

  Janice walked her fingers across the Pacific Ocean and over North America. “Washington would be fun. World power and sex scandals. A girl can’t ask for more than that.”

  Sebastian made a bomb-dropping whistle as he sent a twirling finger into the Middle East. “Jerusalem is a hot spot. The missiles are already flying there.”

  “Here’s to great careers still to come,” said Janice. They toasted world domination.

  Janice returned the lamp to the night table. “How does Roxanne fit into your plans?”

  “She’ll go wherever I go. Roxanne adores me.”

  “The abused woman never leaves,” said Janice shaking her head. “She might adore you, but she doesn’t know the real you.”

  “We all have different faces for different people.”

  Both Sebastian and Janice drank.

  “Tell me,” probed Janice with pillow-talk indulgence, “what’s the thing you love most about your job?”

  The question prompted a cunning smile. Sebastian had been asked that same question many times—relatives, fans, moderators, friends, even Roxanne wanted to know. He always lied. Until now.

  “I don’t have to be nice all the time.”

  “I like that in a man.”

  Janice laid her glass on Sebastian’s chest. She slid a finger up the stem to the bulb and pushed it over. Red wine splashed over Sebastian’s stomach and dribbled down his side to the sheet.

  “How clumsy of me. I’ll have to clean that up.”

  •

  Sebastian stepped out on the sidewalk and looked up at Janice’s apartment. The bedroom light was still on. A dog barked in the distance. Eleven o’clock. Time to wrap up his night of “lamenting” Garrison Hill’s demise and head for home.

  He pressed the unlock button on his key fob. Only one headlight flashed. Sebastian saw glass on the pavement.

  “Jesus. How did that happen?” He checked both ends of the street. No one running away. No one at all, in fact. The street was deserted. He circled the car. No other damage. Sebastian kicked the glass to the curb.

  He flopped into the driver’s seat. The Acura revved over. Sebastian shoved the gear shift into reverse and backed away from the glass. The tires screeched as the car pulled out.

  Sebastian never saw the figure standing by the telephone pole. Never saw the shadow dialling 9-1-1. Never heard the voice tell the d
ispatcher, “I want to report a drunk driver. He’s headed for Elizabeth Avenue. He’s driving an Acura with just one headlight. He’s a menace.”

  Gloved hands closed the flip phone and picked up a piece of Sebastian’s shattered headlight.

  •

  The familiar piano riff of “Werewolves of London” reverberated through the car speakers. Warren Zevon was a member of Sebastian’s pack. They howled together.

  Aaaooo! Werewolves of London.

  Aaaooo!

  Sebastian broke off his howl when red and blue lights danced around the interior of his car. The rear-view mirror revealed that a police cruiser had turned him into prey. The snare closed with a siren burst.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Sebastian pulled over and lowered his window. He exhaled deeply: once, twice, three times. He checked his eyes in the rear-view mirror. The pupils were bigger than usual. Dilated pupils—betrayer of many a drunk driver.

  The cruiser’s lights streaked across the neighbourhood. A set of living-room curtains opened for a peek and then fell shut. Two car lengths separated Sebastian from the hunter. He knew the cop was running his licence plate. Standard police procedure—know who is behind the wheel.

  The police-car door opened. Sebastian followed the officer in the mirror. She put on her hat, covering her tied-back hair. The colour was lost in the darkness.

  “Turn off your car, please.” Sebastian did what he was told.

  The officer ambled past the hood, twisting just enough to scrutinize the headlights and keep her eye on Sebastian at the same time. She never once turned her back to him.

  Sebastian squinted through the dark. A bulletproof vest frustrated his lascivious eyes. They dropped to her belt. She carried an arsenal: pepper spray, nightstick, handcuffs, handgun. His eyes dropped lower.

  Body crushing thighs.

  The officer sauntered back to the open window, leaned down and sniffed. She shone a pen flashlight into Sebastian’s eyes.

  “Were you drinking this evening?”

  “I had a glass of wine.”

  “Only one?”

  “Well, maybe two, but over a couple of hours.”

  “You’re driving with one headlight. Did you hit anything this evening, sir?”

  “No, I came out of a friend’s house and the light was smashed.” Under more sober circumstances Sebastian might have added a glib observation about rampant vandalism in the city, but prudence dictated he keep his breath and opinion to himself.

  “Where exactly was that?”

  “Cherry Hill Road.”

  “And where are you headed now?”

  “Home. Trudeau Street.”

  “Your licence, registration, and insurance, please.”

  Sebastian reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a patent leather case.

  “You have good taste in leather,” she said.

  Sebastian pointed at her gun holster. “So do you.” He handed over the documents.

  “Stay here,” she demanded.

  There would be more computer checks. Sebastian rummaged through the glove compartment for his emergency stash of breath mints. They had burrowed their way past fast-food napkins and assorted iPhone cables to the very bottom. He popped a couple of Tic Tacs.

  His phone vibrated. It was a text from Janice.

  Can’t sleep. Wide awake. Come back. Have wine, don’t whine.

  Sebastian typed.

  Can’t. Cop has me pulled over.

  Accurate, but listless. He added:

  Send lawyers, guns and money.

  Sebastian was pleased with his cleverness. He managed to work in a Warren Zevon line before possibly being dragged off to the hoosegow.

  “Mr. Hunter, come back to the police car, please.”

  His smile vanished. His nemesis stood by the open window. He tossed the iPhone face down on the passenger seat. No need to ask what she wanted.

  Sebastian had taken a few long walks in his life. The walk to the principal’s office after he put his pet ferret in Miss Marlene’s desk. The walk down the aisle at a friend’s wedding with a fat bridesmaid in a pink taffeta dress. The walk to the podium at the Canadian Journalism Awards to pick up an honourable mention certificate. But none felt as long as the walk to the Ford Crown Victoria with the strobe lights.

  The officer passed him a mobile Breathalyzer. Three lights—green, amber, and red. If he blew red, he’d be charged with drunk driving.

  “Take a deep breath and then keep blowing until I say stop.”

  Sebastian put the mouthpiece between his lips and blew hard. His cheeks puffed.

  “Keep going, keep going.”

  His lungs ached.

  “Stop.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says you’re a lucky man.” She turned the Breathalyzer to show him a green light. “Point zero four.”

  The officer flipped down her visor. Sebastian’s driver’s licence, registration, and insurance were tucked behind a band, next to a photograph of bald and laughing police officers huddled around a Cops for Cancer banner. She handed Sebastian his papers.

  “Am I free to go, officer?”

  “Not quite.” She opened a metal binder and passed him a ticket. “Driving without a headlight.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” exclaimed Sebastian. “You’re giving me a diploma.”

  “Consider this the cost of education, Mr. Hunter.”

  Sebastian opened the door and stepped out.

  “By the way, Mr. Hunter, that’s a distinct fragrance you’re wearing. Coconut isn’t it? I’m sure your fiancée will love it.”

  •

  Sebastian needed stealth. He scrunched his dangling keys and eased one into the lock. The turning tumbler made a loud click. He grimaced. Sebastian pushed the door open and crept through, stretching over a creaky floorboard. To the left was the bedroom. No light. To the right was the bathroom. He turned right.

  Sebastian stuffed a towel along the bottom of the bathroom door before flicking on the light. He stripped. A nervous, naked man frowned in the mirror. He smelled a shoulder. His nose hopscotched all the way down to his wrist. Other arm—same olfactory detective work. He rubbed his hair and sniffed his palm.

  I smell like Paris Hilton.

  He contemplated taking a shower, but decided it would be too noisy. He might wake up Sleeping Beauty. Sebastian opened the medicine cabinet and found salvation—a box of sanitizing wipes. Individually wrapped and promising to kill 99.9 percent of common germs. Roxanne liked to keep a few in her purse, believing you never know when you might get your hands dirty. So true, thought Sebastian.

  His hair squeaked as he pulled a towelette through his locks. He scrubbed his forehead and worked his way down to his toes, using a fresh swab on each body part and ensuring every centimetre of skin was washed with alcohol. He dropped the used wipes into the toilet and stuffed a fistful of packets inside his jacket. They could be safely disposed of in the morning.

  Front done, back next. Sebastian dragged a wipe across a shoulder blade. He winced and sucked through his teeth. He turned his back to the mirror. Red furrows in the skin, tracks left by Janice’s nails.

  “Sebastian, is that you?” Roxanne’s voice floated down the hall.

  “Yes, it’s me. Sorry to wake you up. I’ll be right there.”

  Sebastian clenched his teeth and dabbed the scratches. He scoured the rest of his back and flushed the toilet as the last towelette fell.

  “Turn on the light if you want,” said Roxanne as Sebastian entered the bedroom.

  “No, that’s alright. I can see in the dark. I’m like a wolf.”

  Sebastian put on his pyjamas, playfully growled, and leapt on the bed. Roxanne laughed as he slid under the duvet. She snuggled in. Her nose recoiled.

  “You reek of booze.”

  “Some drunk at the bar dumped a full drink over me.”

  “Some drunk at the bar. Knowing your crowd that could have been any one of a dozen repor
ters.”

  “I am nothing if not discreet,” kidded Sebastian. “You should have come along.”

  “Nah. I didn’t need another night of witty one-upmanship and withering critiques.”

  “But those are our best features.”

  Roxanne jabbed Sebastian with her elbow before using it to prop herself up. She cradled her head in her hand so she could gaze at Sebastian. “You did a great job today. I’m really proud of you.” She kissed his lips, first with affection, then with appetite. Her hand tugged at the drawstring to his pyjama bottoms. Sebastian covered her hand and held it still.

  “You’re saying no to sex,” pouted Roxanne.

  Sebastian had never seen such disbelief. “It’s been a long day. I’m exhausted.”

  “Are you the same Sebastian Hunter who says men will always trade sleep for sex?”

  “That was a younger Sebastian.”

  “Is it me?” Roxanne brimmed with hurt.

  “No, no, not at all. It’s just that I’m feeling a little…downcast.”

  “It’s Garrison, isn’t it?”

  Sebastian sighed. “Yes. I feel a piece of me was buried today.”

  “I understand.” Roxanne caressed his cheek and kissed it. “It’s heartbreaking. Not to mention traumatic. Garrison died right in front of you. Promise me, you’ll tell me if you’re having any problems.”

  Sebastian nodded. “You’re always looking out for me. I’m a lucky guy.”

  “Goodnight, honey.”

  “Good night, Roxanne.” Sebastian turned on his side.

  Thanks, Garrison. You’re more helpful from the grave than you ever were in the newsroom.

  •

  Hell is a reception room with no distractions.

  Sebastian’s head swung between doors on opposite sides of the front desk. Clearly, pendulum action was not enough to tempt a lackey into the room.

  There was nothing to read except pamphlets entitled Your Action Government. A pile sat on the magazine table, all highlighting the premier wearing a hardhat and turning over a sod with a silver shovel. The caption bragged Jobs for Our People.

  Sebastian’s iPhone refused to rescue him from tedium. It said No Service. He searched for Wi-Fi networks. None existed. Breaking news would be old news by the time he saw it.

  “Why is there no cellphone service?” he asked the receptionist.