“After all the work I put into that attention whore?”
“In the remote chance her DNA turns up in the remnants of Exhibit 52, she’ll be back in favour.”
“Interesting side note: Lila and Doctor Eve were casual friends from the Psych Association. She’s been following the trial. Watch for the curve, honey. I gave her the lowdown on Angella, showed her Eve’s column, the man-eater with skewed sexual preferences. Watch the centreline, love. Try this on, Arthur, Lila’s theory: Angella is in extreme homosexual denial. She had a desperate need to stop Eve’s mouth from speaking this impossible truth, to gag her, to choke her on her own underwear. Ciao.” He disconnects.
Arthur mustn’t discard Angella. He has a cornucopia of suspects, he must maintain them, groom them, march them around the ring, let the jury determine who is best in show. “How can you not have a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen?” He orates to the ocean, punctuating his points with an index finger. “The flimsy vessel of the prosecutor’s case has foundered on a sea of doubt. Wave after wave of doubt, ladies and gentlemen.”
But doubt is not enough. Acquitting Faloon does not avenge Eve’s death. He yearns to nail the case closed, to put the finger on the perp, to see her cuffed and led away, bemoaning her guilt.
He’s in a fine mood. There’s peace in the forest. He has a small stash of Viagra. The trial is turning in his favour, suspects galore. Too bad Faloon isn’t around to enjoy exoneration. Probably hiding in some dank hole. But why can’t he phone?
Faloon wiggles his pinkie for another coconut, the kind with rum and a bent straw. He can finally lie under the sun again, after that burn last week. Time for a swim, but it’s a Herculean task to decide between the pool and the ocean.
Nangeeah flashes him a big smile as he fixes the drink. He likes Faloon and his fifty-euro tips, has lined him up with some of the local fauna. One of whom is in a bikini in the adjoining beach chair, Hula-Hula, he calls her, because of the way she can shake it. Hula-Hula of Bora-Bora.
The Owl figures he’s been forgiven by God for his past life of idleness and thievery, but isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s divine compensation for the ten-spot he drew because of Angella. Maybe it’s God’s way of saying there is a God. Maybe it’s a little holiday before he burns in hell. Whatever, worrying about it is a mug’s game.
He’s especially not going to worry about assassins from Sierra Leone creeping out of the jungle at him, as they did in last night’s featured dream. He gets nightmares like that, Lansana coming after him with murder in his eyes, the Owl frozen at the stairwell door, though in reality he went spinning down the stairs like one of those cartoon characters with propellers for legs. Using his master twirl, he lucked into an empty suite just before Lansana made it to the fourth floor. Lansana carried on down to the desk and the Owl walked out a side door with a laundry bag full of euros, jewels, and towels for bulk.
Farther down the list of things not to worry about is Vancouver, though he’s not sure what’s going on there, he assumes his trial got put off. He’ll get around to calling Mr. Beauchamp one of these days to apologize. That’s a promise.
Nangeeah delivers the rum, and a beer for Hula-Hula, who’s a lot of a woman, sort of like Claudette but copper-toned and lazier. Which brings Faloon to someone else he isn’t anxious to worry about. He’ll send for Claudie. Definitely. When the time is ripe. He can’t phone–no one’s going to convince him her line isn’t bugged.
He’s not going to feel guilty about his Polynesian holiday: he earned it. He’ll cut up the touches with Cat and Willy. In time. He’ll be honest in telling them how much non-taxable income was sitting under the king-sized canopy bed–roughly thirty million in uncut diamonds and five million folding euros. He took enough cash for expenses, buried the rest three feet under the plastic flowers on the freshly dug grave of one Sebastien Plouffe. Then he bought a wardrobe for a cruise that Popov the Russian lined up for him. After this caper, Faloon has got to be seeded four or five, inching ahead of Popov, who himself had to admit that.
As his ship pulled out of Cadiz, there was a moment of panic that he forgot the name on the tombstone, but it came back. Sebastien Plouffe of Cimitière Saint Pierre, Marseilles. It was a midnight dig, but there was enough glow to make out the stone–Sebastien bought it early, fifty-seven. Feeling connected to him, hungry to know him, Faloon has created a fiction. Jowly, beefy, taken in the prime because he wouldn’t cut down the calories. A councillor, a ward heeler, corrupt in small ways. Worried about the Arabs and Turks. His daughter gone astray, on drugs. Problem with smelly feet.
Hula-Hula is up, pulling his arm, the pool beckoning. The dining-room manager sidles by. “Will the lady be sharing your regular table tonight, Monsieur Lapierre?”
“But of course. We’ll start with the Sauvignon Supérieure.”
Alfred Lapierre, that’s who he is, down to his last passport, a French one, down to his last wig and moustache. He tells everyone he’s living on an income, which is true. Maybe he should settle here, far away from those cold winter rains. Investing in the Nitinat Lodge was a loser’s move, where was his head at? A warm slap of sun on Arthur’s face brings him upright in bed. It’s mid-morning, Bungle Bay has long been up and about, no one’s waiting for the laggard. He has paid for his stolen hours with a week of toil and sweat. It’s the last mate-less Saturday, tomorrow she descends.
At the window he takes a lungful of country air, but it’s flavoured with a hint of methane, like a gassy fart. A hallucinogenic fart, either that or he is truly seeing Stoney work up a sweat, cutting a length of pipe. Dog holds a shovel.
To add to this pastoral yet industrial scene: the Japanese Woofers are repairing the fence, Kim Lee is feeding the chickens, and Zoë is in the goat pen, surrounded by prancing kids. Reverend Al is snoring in the next bedroom.
A note by the coffee maker demands Arthur’s presence at the Woofer manor. His mood sours, he wants to leave business behind this weekend. Steaming mug in hand, he attends to find her highness at her computer. A Criminal Code. A text on criminal evidence. The Faloon files. Lotis has raided his house for them.
A curl of smoke from a cigarette in an ashtray. Arthur doesn’t deny himself a soupçon of guilty pleasure at this evidence of wobbly willpower.
“The Blunder Bay chapter of Willing Workers on Organic Farms is now on-line. Munni Sidhoo transmitted some autoradiographic images. The comparison sample worked fine, Angella’s snot and sniffles.” She shows him a printout: “DNA ladders, they’re called.” Thin vertical lines, in segments. “This one is Adeline, say hello. Dr. Sidhoo is rooting through the semen for her twin.”
If by some miracle this seeming time-waster works, Lotis will be unbearably smug. As it is, he has a sense of being patronized. He resents her unspoken disdain for his technological ineptness.
“Been on the horn to Claudette. She hasn’t heard a squeak from Nick, she’s worried sick. Holly’s black eye came from a barroom scrap with a drunken log-truck driver. I gave up looking for Daisy. Eve probably shit-canned the file.”
He praises her diligence. She shrugs, flicks her hair. Nothing to it, Arthur. He can’t concentrate on these things. Tomorrow is Day Seventy-nine. He ventures out to inspect his woeful, weedy plot. The invaders must die.
The afternoon of this sparkling day has Arthur manoeuvring his runabout toward Gwendolyn Beach, as his crew of Lotis, Al, and Slappy wave and bark at anchored locals. There’s Clearihue’s yacht. He and Arthur have an appointment in the war zone.
Stump Town has moved here, settling amidst the great firs and cedars spilled helter-skelter like God’s matchsticks. Wilbur Kroop’s worst nightmare has come true: naked hippies on the beach or swimming in the chilly saltchuck.
A medieval tapestry decorates the shore. “Qualified Reiki Therapist,” a banner says. “Yoga Research Society,” says another. Beside it, inconsonant with this mellow 1960s revival, a khaki military tent houses Kurt Zoller’s tour business, Garibaldi Adventures.
Beyo
nd is the twenty-acre clear-cut. Already an otter habitat has been lost. The confrontations must end before more of nature is tramped upon, despoiled. But there’s hope. Almost $7 million has been raised or promised. The Gwendolyn Society’s last-gasp strategy, fiercely debated, is to borrow the rest.
After discharging his live cargo, Arthur anchors out and takes the dinghy in. Zoller helps drag it up so Arthur can skip to shore without getting wet, then announces he’s off to fetch a fare. “More tourists.” Now Arthur must push Zoller’s craft off the beach, and his shoes fill with water.
Flim and Flam, always silent, always observing, raise cameras as they spy Arthur on a slab of driftwood, emptying his shoes. Also grinning at him are two Mounties, a skeleton crew today, enjoying this weeklong break from thankless duties.
Lotis has been sent to search for him, finds him squeezing his socks. “Clear-cut won’t talk to any of the local peasants. You de man.” Why does he want to meet here, amid the green ruins? Maybe he thinks the ugly backdrop will give him an edge.
He slips on his wet shoes, follows her through the maze of fallen trees, hears the honk and squeal of the Garibaldi Highland Pipers, practising for the ceremony tomorrow, when Margaret will descend by zip line. Three bagpipes, one drum, a rendition, however incongruous, of “Will Ye No Come Back Again.”
Clearihue applauds the pipers vigorously. Boots and denim, a tooled leather hat. He’s growing a beard, though with undetermined success on his boyish face.
Their tête-à-tête takes place by a stump, its juices oozing, sap rising to phantom branches. The corpse of this tree lies atop several others, still sending out growth.
“We’re riveted on your trial, Arthur, the whole island, it’s all we talk about.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Glad you’re back, I didn’t want to deal with the locals; frankly, I’d be taking advantage.” One week off-island, and Arthur has lost his local status. “Be nice to get this timber out of here. Sure opens things up though, doesn’t it? Stage Two is that ridge over there, incredible view lots, top dollar for them.”
“Our figure was $12 million the last we talked?”
“Directors beat me up over that, Arthur, I have to jack it up. Fifteen, I can sell them on that.” Though no one’s nearby, he comes close enough for Arthur to smell his aftershave. “We have some strong outside interest, Americans, Europeans. An e-mail from a Saudi sheik, he wants his own wilderness retreat, God forbid. It’s all the publicity, Arthur, the human-interest stuff, it may be backfiring.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying this has become such a headache we may have to unload fast to the highest bidder. We have an Arizona developer coming by, I don’t know what to tell him.”
“You might tell him he’d be insane to pay millions of dollars for endless years of problems.”
“He owns half of Tucson, he’s a billionaire, he’s got time. A gated community, that’s what his team is talking about, three hundred lots. He’s promised to protect the environment, I got that out of him.”
Twice the devastation Garlinc would have wreaked, the valley torn apart, the island’s population tripling. Surely this is all bluff. No smart investor will touch land so deeply in dispute, occupied, besieged. Yet Arthur supposes the publicity has indeed sparked interest–an article in Time has made Gwendolyn a celebrity.
Arthur bites the bullet. “We can’t go above your previous offer.” The society can go to the bank for the rest, and pray donations will continue to flow.
“The expenses are eating us alive, Arthur.”
“An astute negotiator such as yourself shouldn’t be displeased with a fifty-per-cent profit over two years, particularly when the bulk of it can be written off as a charitable donation.”
Clearihue contemplates, then sighs. “We’ll go twelve and a half, and eat our costs.”
“Twelve all in, Todd.”
Slappy has emerged from among the broken boughs. He sniffs Clearihue’s boots, accepts a pat from Arthur, pisses against the stump.
“Ah, what the hell. Twelve all in, but the society will have to sign an interim by Monday with at least a dozen guarantors.”
“You’re speaking for your board?”
“Of course. No problem.”
Arthur tells him to draw up the agreement. He holds out his hand. Clearihue hesitates, then engages with him, a firm double pump.
Lotis, as is her habit, has snuck up on Todd, is standing above him on the jagged end of the weeping fir. “You want to stop taking those designer steroids, Todd, there’s hair coming out of your face.”
Without turning, he barks, “Get a job, Rudnicki. I hear there are some openings for suicide bombers.”
“Yuppie scum.”
Arthur interrupts sharply. “We have no time for this. Lotis, please pass along word that we have a deal for twelve million. We’ll meet tomorrow to ratify it, and go to the bank on Monday.”
He foresees few problems–the Bank of Montreal is a major client of Tragger Inglis, and Bully serves on its board. Now he must return home to make some calls. “How do we get out of here, Slappy?”
The old spaniel leads the way, around a slash pile. Clearihue calls, “Hey, good luck with your trial. I mean it.”
Arthur casts off none too soon, avoiding Zoller’s launch as it whips toward the beach and swerves hard to port, creating a surge that nearly swamps the departing pipe band. Riding the second swell, Zoller neatly brings his bow onto the sand.
Cutting a natty figure in his neon-orange life jacket, he’s putting on a show, impressing his fares with his maritime skills. They have the look of generous tippers, several large men, one with a Stetson and a string tie. Maybe Clearihue wasn’t joking about the Arizona developer. Arthur must move quickly to firm up the deal.
He’s relieved to find Bully by his phone in his home office. He’s in an agreeable mood–Tragger Inglis is having a good month–and proposes no obstacles to Arthur’s plan. But there’s a catch.
“A sizable retainer is available on the Wilson murder, Arthur. Set to go mid-October. He doesn’t want Cleaver, he doesn’t want anyone but you. Strong defence, he wasn’t aiming at his wife.”
Arthur hedges, promises to consider it. He’s as keen to take this case as ride a rocket to the moon.
Arthur must next contend with Brian Pomeroy’s strident call-of-the-day. “You wouldn’t believe all the New Age shit going on here. The guru, sorry, relationship facilitator, is so droll and cool and self-effacing I want to ralph. Caroline shares my cynicism. We’re bonded in distaste for the banality of it all.”
Like most of Brian’s harangues, this seems to serve little purpose other than letting off steam.
“We’re into confessing our naughty habits and moral shortcomings. Not sure if I like the way the facilitator is pressing me to open up my past. If he’s New Age, I’m Old Age, I prefer the medieval system where you confess to God and priest. But I forgot the reason I called. Oh, yeah, I just heard on the news–Faloon’s on his way back.”
29
On the Owl’s left, window seat, is a sour immigration official from Tahiti who never opens his mouth. On his right, aisle seat, is Corporal Johnson from Commercial Crime, Vancouver, who has handled Faloon for years, which is why they sent him.
They’ve been sharing memories, like the time Johnson strip-searched him, not even glancing at the Piaget on his wrist. “I was pretty green then,” Johnson snorts. He’s in his fifties now, a paunch, balding like Faloon.
The French guy is scandalized by this jesting with a prisoner. He and his henchmen caused a scene in front of everybody at Faloon’s hotel yesterday afternoon. Coming at him with guns, as if he were John Dillinger. Faloon took it as a personal insult. It should be like tag football, you just touch a guy.
“Remember that stakeout on Broadway?” Faloon says. “You’re at the peephole, and I’m tapping you on the shoulder, going, ‘Looking for me, corporal?’”
Maybe Corporal Johnson doesn’t like bei
ng the butt of these memories, because he stops laughing. But you’ve got to have a sense of humour about life’s ups and downs. It doesn’t pay to beat yourself up over what’s not your fault. In this latest situation, Faloon got betrayed, is all. Despite all his backslapping, Popov the Russian resented being bumped from number five in the world. Popov had been in line for a piece of the buried treasure, but now he isn’t going to get a dime.
Faloon isn’t fond of the alternative theory that he made himself an object of suspicion by spending too large. It’s the last thing a lucky thief should do, flipping a waiter a century here, half a yard there, like he did on Bora-Bora. His only excuse is he was exhausted from lying low, he had to come up for air.
“I’m real disappointed in you, Nick,” is Corporal Johnson’s attitude, asking how he could ever pull such an amateur stunt, going through fifty K in two weeks. The bulls found three hundred more in the Owl’s suitcase plus the forty in the lining of his suit, which he made the mistake of asking if he could wear so he wouldn’t look like some cheap hood in court.
Faloon acted hurt they wouldn’t believe he had an amazing streak at Monte Carlo. The gendarmes tried to smoke him out about the jobs in Cannes, but Faloon saw no profit in helping them. With Lansana not talking, they didn’t want the hassle of grinding him through the French courts, easier to let Canada have him.
Facing a murder beef is bad enough, facing Claudette will take nerves of steel. He swore he’d never lie to her again, and now this. He hopes the official reports don’t mention Hula-Hula or any of the other girls. He was going to get word to Claudie, honest. He was marooned on a tropical island.
Corporal Johnson gets on him again. “You got to be ashamed, Nick, you were doing good, burned your parole papers. Now you got a bad streak going, you’re wanted all over the joint. Canada, France, Africa.”
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