by Glenn Dier
“We could have had this conversation over the phone,” said Janice, “but it’s better in person.”
“I’m listening.”
“You need some good PR, chief.”
“Your colleague said an identical thing to me at Garrison Hill’s funeral.”
They heard running feet on the boardwalk and stayed quiet as a jogger slipped by.
“I know Sebastian asked you for an interview. Enough time has passed to have done a dozen interviews. I don’t think you’re going to give him one, are you?”
“I thought about it, but I couldn’t get past one inescapable fact—I don’t like the son of a bitch.”
Janice laughed. “Chief, remember the old saying—don’t get angry, get even. If you really want to stick it to Sebastian, do an interview with me. He’ll be apoplectic.”
The chief stopped dead. His face filled with astonishment. What a revelation. There was no thin blue line at the CBC.
“I take it that you don’t like Sebastian Hunter very much.”
“Quite the opposite, really. I like him a great deal. But this is business. He had his chance to get your story, now it’s my turn.”
The chief leaned behind Janice.
“Anything wrong, Chief?”
“Just checking for a dorsal fin.” He started walking again.
“People go on TV all the time to apologize for lapses in judgment. Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton both said I’m sorry in front of the cameras.”
“I didn’t cheat on my wife, I drove…,” Bennett stared into the woods, “drunk.”
“The point is—an apology is good for the soul and it’s good for the image.”
“Now you’re really sounding like Sebastian Hunter.”
Janice cut in front of Bennett. There was no missing her emphatic expression. “I’ll tell you the difference, Chief. Sebastian would never have sat on the information that I’ve been sitting on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know your connection to Garrison Hill.”
The chief rubbed his lips. “Go on.”
“Stop me when I’m wrong. You and Garrison met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. You went through the twelve steps together. You got off the bottle together. And as far as I can tell, you stayed sober until that night in Florida.”
“Garrison took my secret to his grave. I will take his.”
“I’m not asking you to betray his secret. Garrison’s name never has to come up. I’m only interested in your story.”
“Why should I? Why should I get on TV and tell people that I’m a recovered alcoholic who faltered?”
“Because if you don’t, it’s going to squirt out anyway.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Not me, Chief,” said Janice, touching her chest, “but your background is not safe. Someone else is going to discover it, eventually. Someone not as understanding as I am.”
Janice filled the chief’s silence. “This story is not over. You’ve still got your court case. You won’t survive as chief. Set the agenda and get ahead of the bad news. Release the details on your terms. Apologize. Then climb out of the hole.”
The chief’s face twitched. He made fitful glances, but avoided eye contact. “I need to talk to my family. Sebastian wanted them involved. You’d want the same?”
Janice nodded. “Sebastian might be a son of a bitch, but he’s a smart son of a bitch. He’s knows what works on TV. And so do I.”
Janice and the chief continued their circuit. Bennett caught a glint in the bushes. He bent down and pulled out a Sleeman beer bottle—clear glass embossed with a beaver and maple leaf.
“Not mine, I swear. Though I’m sure no Canadian jury would believe me.”
“Now that’s a money shot. And me with no camera,” moaned Janice.
Bennett pushed the bottle back between the stalks and wandered away.
[ six ]
Sebastian rolled two shell-on walnuts in the palm of his hand, over and over. Occasionally, he tossed one up, just a couple of inches. It banged the other when he caught it. He had practiced hours for this very moment. The technique demanded more finesse than strength, but he had an abundance of both. He was giddy with anticipation.
Ethan Tremblay flicked about the newsroom, handing out smiles and handshakes like a politician on the campaign trail. Janice extended her hand. Ethan bowed and kissed it. Janice laughed and tossed her hair.
You wouldn’t kiss that hand if you knew where it’s been.
A hubbub followed Ethan. Nubile interns giggled while snapping cellphone pictures to be shared later over wild-coloured drinks made with peach schnapps, rimmed with fruit and topped with paper umbrellas. Young reporters joked about not washing the hand that touched King Ethan. Even the wizened and the jaded stood in His Majesty’s presence.
Sebastian reread the email reminding everyone of Ethan’s arrival. The accolades caused nausea: Former CBC correspondent in London; CBC correspondent in Jerusalem for five years; Fluent in English, French, and Arabic; Reported on the Afghanistan and Iraq wars; Winner of two Canadian Screen Awards; Author of a much-lauded memoir; Awarded an honourary degree from the University of Toronto; New co-host of Here & Now.
I suppose the ingratiating bastard can even walk on water.
“Sebastian,” said Ethan, “a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Sebastian, dropping the walnuts into a bowl full of them. He reached for Ethan’s hand. “No kissing, please.” They shared a laugh.
“Sebastian, your story about the house going over the cliff was on every newscast in Israel. The Israelis were amazed that a house could be destroyed by something other than a Hamas missile. It was riveting TV.”
“Thanks.” Sebastian offered no reciprocal praise. “I busted my balls on that story.”
Ethan mustered a syllable of laughter. “I also know you busted your balls trying to get my job.”
MY job. The gall.
“When I passed through Toronto I had a game of squash with your future father-in-law,” continued Ethan. “He gave me the background.”
“Yes, Dan loves to reveal more than he should sometimes.” Sebastian engineered an awkward silence. “So tell me, Ethan—why are you really here?”
Like a good lawyer, Sebastian knew the answer before he even asked the question. He had uncovered Ethan’s dirty little secret within forty-eight hours of being cheated out of the anchor job. The interrogation was simply to make Ethan squirm, to prove him a liar, to prove that he wasn’t man enough, neither in character nor in anatomy, to sit in the anchor’s chair.
“It’s for family reasons.”
“Aha.”
“I have the distinct impression you don’t believe me.”
“Please. No reporter leaves the Bang Bang Club for his family.”
Ethan laid both hands on the cubicle wall and bent over straight into Sebastian’s face. Their noses were within duelling distance. “My personal business is my personal business.”
“You leave a place where World War III might break out so you can report on potholes and bake sales. It doesn’t add up.”
“Maybe that’s the kind of journalism you want to practice, but I’ll be setting a different standard. And what doesn’t add up is why you think you’re entitled to a job over someone with ten times the experience.”
“You mean ten times the trouble,” taunted Sebastian.
Ethan leaned back, perhaps to pull the pin out of a grenade. “Some people work to get where they are. And some people just sleep with the right person.”
Sebastian picked up two walnuts and jiggled them. “I’ve heard that you’re a tough nut to crack. But I’m very good at cracking nuts.”
He laid the walnuts flat in the palm of his hand—one nestled into the fleshy muscle at the base of his thumb, the other cupped into his fingers.
“First of all, one nut needs to be slightly bigger than the other. Much like a man’s testicles. Assuming he still has them, of cour
se.”
He fiddled with the seams between the walnut halves.
“The key is to make sure the ridge of one nut touches the ridge of the other.”
His free hand cradled the hand holding the nuts.
“Apply sudden, firm pressure.”
The push/squeeze combination resembled a spasm.
CRACK.
Ethan flinched.
Sebastian opened his hand. One nut remained whole. He picked away pieces of disintegrated shell from the other.
“Walnut?”
“No, thank you.”
Sebastian plucked another nut from the bowl. “I could do this all day.”
CRACK.
“Are you sure you don’t want one, I have plenty.”
CRACK.
Ethan shook his head. “You’re not eating them.”
“I find it far more satisfying just to break them.”
•
Sebastian was entangled in a string of cars trickling by a paving crew. His Acura lumbered towards the portal. A flagger in a pink hardhat glanced at her counterpart at the far end of the construction zone.
“One more,” prayed Sebastian.
The flagger spun the sign on her staff; slow turned to stop. Sebastian’s escape route was blocked.
“Damn.” He smouldered despite the air conditioning. Cars rumbled from the opposite direction. His fingers drummed the steering wheel.
“There’s no point in being upset,” said Roxanne. “The roadwork needs to be done and they have a job to do.”
“I should send Ethan a text: Breaking News—Potholes filled on Elizabeth Avenue.”
“Very funny.”
“No really, he wants to know. That’s why he left the Middle East. The freeze and thaw cycle of road repair is heady stuff. If I don’t tell him, I’ll regret it later. You know what they say: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
Roxanne laughed in spite of her inclination to admonish Sebastian for his aversion to playing nice.
“Try to get along with Ethan,” she said. “The sting won’t go away until you do.”
“That won’t be easy. He’s got a mean streak and an ego that’s bigger than mine.”
A worker wearing safety earmuffs pulled the cord on a compacter. It rattled to life and vibrated around freshly shovelled asphalt.
“We’re going to die here,” moaned Sebastian. The only entertainment was watching the compactor crisscross through the windshield. Sebastian’s attention drifted to a digital billboard which promised to correct vision with laser surgery for only $490 per eye. The ad dissolved into another. Scarlet letters flared off a white background.
DOES ROXANNE KNOW ABOUT YOUR SECRET LOVE?
Sebastian’s eyes bugged. Roxanne concentrated on her smart phone. The compacter spun around and headed back towards the billboard side of the road, Roxanne’s side of the road. Wisps of steam drifted by, but not enough to obscure the message. He needed a decoy. Sebastian clutched his stomach and keeled forward.
“Ow,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“A sharp pain went up my chest.”
“What kind of pain?”
“Pain, pain. It’s hard to describe. A burning sensation.”
“That could be a heart attack.” Roxanne held up her phone. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”
“No-o-o,” said Sebastian, vigorously waving his hands. “It’s only heartburn.” He rubbed his breastbone.
“You can’t be sure. Garrison Hill just died from a heart attack. I don’t want to bury my fiancé too. I should call an ambulance.”
“It’s not a heart attack,” said Sebastian, his voice rising. “I wolfed down breakfast. This is payback. I’m not dying. I’m just uncomfortable.” He gave Roxanne an Oscar-winning grimace and grunt.
Roxanne chucked the phone into her purse. “Don’t come crying to me if you find out later that it’s a heart attack,” she huffed.
The compactor shuddered in front of the billboard. It asked another uncomfortable question.
DON’T YOU THINK ROXANNE DESERVES BETTER?
Construction workers leaning on shovels blocked her view. The foreman pointed at another pothole to be filled. The human shield was about to crack. Sebastian rolled down his window and stuck his head out.
“Hey,” he bawled at the flagger. “It’s our turn to get through.”
Roxanne dropped her head and covered her eyes. “You’re acting like a jerk.”
“I’m late.”
“Everybody is late.”
The train of oncoming cars showed no end. The billboard issued a command.
STOP LYING TO ROXANNE.
“Come on,” yelled Sebastian. He punched the horn; the blare made Roxanne jump. The flagger glared and thrust her stop sign forward.
“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Roxanne.
“The pain is back. I need antacid.”
Sebastian took his foot off the brake, letting the car roll ahead a few feet.
“Stop this,” ordered Roxanne. “You’ll get a ticket.”
The flagger pushed the talk button on her walkie-talkie, glowering at Sebastian during the entire conversation.
The quivering compacter flattened the last of the black, oily mixture.
Sebastian nudged the car forward. The flagger retreated a couple of steps.
“Back off,” she screamed.
“Sebastian, you’ve gone from jerk to asshole,” said Roxanne. “This is dangerous.”
“It’s like someone has a fist under my ribcage.”
The last approaching car passed Sebastian’s door. The flagger bowed and waved him through with a sweeping arm.
“You can proceed, Your Majesty,” said Roxanne.
“Finally,” said Sebastian. The Acura scooted away. “I’ll stop into the drugstore for some Tums.”
“See if they have anything to reflux your attitude while you’re at it.”
The shrill sound of a police siren interrupted Roxanne’s rebuke. Two short wails accompanied flashing lights.
“And you think you’re already late,” said Roxanne, folding her arms.
Sebastian pulled in. The officer stepped out of her cruiser. She took off her sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket as Sebastian dropped the window.
“Ah, Mr. Hunter,” she said. “Nice to see you again.” Roxanne showed surprise.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
“The problem is you didn’t obey directions from the construction crew back there. Driver’s licence, registration, and proof of insurance, please.” Sebastian fished the documents out of his patent-leather case. The officer took them back to her cruiser.
Sebastian hummed to break the silence. He pointed at a man pushing a grocery cart overflowing with cases of beer bottles and blue bags stuffed with juice boxes and pop cans.
“Environmentalist of the Year,” said Sebastian.
“Oh, really,” said Roxanne.
The clatter of the grocery cart was the only relief from the silent treatment.
“What did she mean, ‘Nice to see you again’?” asked Roxanne.
“She stopped me the night of Garrison’s funeral because of the broken headlight.”
“And that slipped your mind somehow?”
“Yes, it did. She saw I was sober and quickly let me go. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“And yet,” said Detective Roxanne, placing a finger on her lips, “she remembered you.”
“Maybe she’s a Here & Now fan.”
Roxanne looked over her shoulder. “Of course she is. Here she comes now with her autograph book.” Roxanne threw herself back into the seat.
The officer opened a metal binder and handed Sebastian his documents and a ticket. “Stop means stop, Mr. Hunter. It doesn’t mean threaten the flagger. By the way, fines are doubled in construction zones.”
Sebastian breezed back into traffic. “At least this ticket is good for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
•
Splat. Diagonal Ethan.
“Lame,” muttered Sebastian.
Splat. Stand-on-his-head Ethan.
“Much better.”
Splat. Face-plant Ethan. He plummeted to the floor.
“Save me, Sebastian, save me,” said Sebastian in the frightened voice of a heroine tied to a railway track. “No one’s going to save you,” he said in villainous pitch.
Sebastian separated a stack of fridge magnets into two piles, bent one in each hand and performed a riffle shuffle worthy of a Las Vegas casino dealer. Ethan Tremblay’s smarmy face festooned every magnet. The tagline rankled: Bringing the World to Your Neighbourhood.
The staff fridge was naked, apart from Sebastian’s flying decoration. He lobbed another magnet. Ethan hit an edge, dropped and joined a pile of askew magnets on the floor. Sebastian kept tossing. List-to-starboard Ethan. Upright Ethan.
Ethan’s debut as Here & Now’s new co-host was three days old. Three days of worming his way into the hearts of Here & Now viewers. Three days surrounded by toadies. Three days of bloated, tiresome war stories which, to Sebastian’s eternal jealousy, were actually real war stories.
Sebastian heard guffaws from the newsroom. Time to enter the battlefield and start a firefight. Ethan sat on the edge of his desk holding court. Evan, Zoe, and Janice stood around mesmerized. Sebastian joined his doting colleagues.
“So here I was barrelling down the road towards Baghdad in an Abrams tank.”
“Was that before or after they pulled down Saddam’s statue?” asked Sebastian.
Ethan appeared stunned. Nobody ever interrupted him. Zoe’s cough broke the inelegant silence.
“Before.” His tone dripped annoyance.
“Didn’t mean to break your rhythm. Go on.”
“The air was rank. The crew hadn’t washed in a week and the air conditioning was busted. They had the turret open, but the hum inside was like camel’s breath,” he said, screwing up his face.
Ethan knew how to spin a yarn. He paused for effect, added natural emphasis and was enthusiastic. And that voice, well, Ethan had great pipes.
“It had to be forty degrees inside the tank. The floor was slippery with sweat. The gunner turns to the commander and says, in this Louisiana drawl, ‘Sir, my ass is sizzling. My momma loves baked buns, but I don’t think this is what she had in mind.’ ”