“Oh, sure. I can get disbarred just hanging around you socially, let alone showing up at your side in Colombia.”
“You could be the ship’s lawyer. You can make sure we don’t make any of those dumb mistakes you talk about.” Pete grins. “Or you can send your old lady.”
Peddigrew’s face hardens. “Don’t mention this to her. There is a part of the world she knows nothing about, and I want her to stay that way.” He seems to ponder. “I might just send an agent along. To look after my clients’ interests.”
“Long as he don’t mind scrubbing decks,” Pete says.
Peddigrew is still in thought. “Let me put something to you,” he says. “Let’s say in addition to the weed, you have a couple of hundred pounds of blow on board. Let’s say you didn’t have to make the connection. Let’s say the company is able to supply itself from its own contracts. Let’s say —”
Pete interrupts. “No cocaine.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust the cocaneros. Too many rats, too many guys working both sides, too much talk, too much heat. The DEA narcs pay up to ten thousand bucks to the snitches for the names of bit-time snow removers. That’s a lot of dinero down there.” Pete puts his stocking feet on a table; Peddigrew puts coasters under them. “Also,” Pete continues, “I don’t do any deals I don’t set up myself. It’s a rule. In my business, I also see the dumb mistakes that people make.”
We are startled by a grating sound. It is the door bell.
Peddigrew gets up. “Maybe you’ll change your mind after you get a little taste of this. It just came up via Air Canada.”
We descend briefly now into the Valley of the Bizarre. Coming in the door, graceful and cool, beatific in expression, in Marianne of the Emerald Eyes. She is in the uniform of an airline stewardess.
“Gentlemen,” says Peddigrew, “I’d like you to meet Marianne Larochelle.”
First there is a frown on her face. Then her eyes widen like a scared fawn’s. She has caught sight of Pete, who is taking off his glasses, wiping the lenses, putting them back on, not believing.
Without saying anything, she walks to the balcony doorway, pulls it open. She makes a motion, as if throwing something.
Peddigrew is in a state of agitated dismay. “What are you doing?” he yells.
Marianne Larochelle aims a finger at Pete. “This man,” she announces, “is a policeman!”
Without too much grace, Pete pulls himself to his feet and goes for his inside pocket. “You’re under arrest, Peddigrew. We’ve got it all on tape.” He looks at his lawyer with a frown. “You’re supposed to say ‘Curses.’”
Peddigrew has his hands in the air. “We’ll never find it out there.” He is looking out at the thick patches of dirty snow on the lawn.
Marianne says, “James, this man has been following me. He’s a narc.” Her tone is more confused than urgent.
“This is Peter Kerrivan,” says Peddigrew.
“You are Kerrivan?” she says.
“Maybe I should have introduced myself.” Pete is smiling. He is, of course, proud that he is famous. He has the grace to remember that I am present, and introduces me.
“She just threw half an ounce of mother-of-pearl cocaine in the snow,” Peddigrew moans.
Marianne gives Pete her very sweetest mysterious-lady-cocaine-smuggler smile and extends her hand.
“Tengo mucho gusto.”
“El gusto,” says Pete, “es mio.”
***
We take this Keystone Cops road show outside and pad around in the snow. There is a crust on it from the night freeze, and it has been stomped on from kids playing.
Pete is not much help. He has severe giggles from the Hawaiian pot and finds the situation a source of uproarious merriment. His uncontrollable fits of laughter cause lights to go on in the neighboring town house. Finally, Pete collapses into a snow pile.
“Snow!” he yells. “Uncut snow! It melts in your nose!”
Lara and I, both loaded, are laughing, too. Marianne Larochelle is looking at us as if this is a zoo.
Peddigrew, being straight, is the more methodical scavenger, and he comes up with a fat, zip-lock Baggie containing the half-ounce of snob powder. He is waving it triumphantly in the air when a pair of headlights snaps on.
Wrap. Here is a heavy blow of fate. The bulls have been cruising down the street in the darkness. Two cops jump out of the cruiser and chuff their way across the lawn, and I see, from the corner of my eye, Peddigrew flip the bag of coke away. It falls with a soft plump between Pete and me.
One of the cops goes over to retrieve it, saying, “Lady next door was complaining about the noise. She said it sounded as if someone had gone bananas.” He peers into the Baggie, sniffs, then smiles at Peddigrew. “You dropped this?”
They had been too far away to see for sure who threw it, I think.
Peddigrew pulls out one of his best defenses. “No, Officer, I just came out here myself to find out what all the noise was about. I’m a lawyer. I live here.” He is looking helplessly at Pete.
“Like I said,” Pete says in a low voice, “too much heat. What about the terms, then? A fifth, leave it or take it.”
Peddigrew mumbles the answer. I catch it. That is my job as Pete’s witness. “Yes, yes,” he says, “it’s okay.” He has an imploring look. The cops come over, wanting to hear this conversation.
“We got a deal,” Pete whispers. “Now get my ass out on bail in time for breakfast.” He turns to the bull. “I dropped it,” he says. “It’s mine, I own it, I am in sole possession, and this is a voluntary confession just so you won’t have to beat me.”
The cop, going by the book, holds the Baggie under Pete’s nose and asks the standard question to establish what the lawyer, I guess, calls mens rea. “Do you know what is in here, sir?”
“Talcum powder for my ass,” says Pete.
***
Pete gives us a weary wave from the back of the cruiser. Peddigrew sends his wife back into the house, then he, Marianne, and I hustle down to his office, where he draws a large bundle of bills from his safe. “We can use some of this for bail,” he says.
We spend an hour trying to raise a justice of the peace to set bail, and following that there is delay and confusion because no one can locate the body.
Finally we check with the lockup. Pete Kerrivan is not there. The cops gave him an appearance notice, told him to show up in court in a month, and let him go. Simple possession of cocaine. I am a little surprised. Half an ounce — fourteen grams — is usually enough for a possession with intent.
We return to Peddigrew’s home, and as we enter the living room, we are confronted by a scene of bacchanalian abandonment. A blast of heavy metal assaults our ears. Led Zeppelin II.
I watch Peddigrew. His eyes settle briefly upon an empty bottle of his Beaune, which lies on a red-stained Persian carpet. The eyes roam across a bejeweled stash box sitting open on the table, plundered of its buds. By the fireplace, two more empty bottles of wine.
And as the final showstopper, in front of the fireplace we have Pete Kerrivan and Lara Peddigrew grunting and pumping to the screams of Jimmy Page’s electric guitar from the big Infinity Reference 4.5 speakers that retail at three thousand a side.
Lara is on her back on the floor, her legs hooked around Pete’s thighs, her panties fluttering like a flag from a dainty ankle. Pete is snug between her legs in the throes of a mighty orgasm, woofing and calling to the sweet Lord Jesus. At first I think Peddigrew is just going to stand there with his mouth hanging open. Then he turns off the stereo receiver, and the room fills with a majestic silence, marred only by the decelerating slap-slap of sticky bodies.
Pete rises up on his elbows, fumbles for his glasses, twists the frames around his ears, and obtains a focus, first on Peddigrew — and he knows he can live with that — then on M
arianne Larochelle, right deep into those two green pools.
There is a noisy glutch sound in Pete’s throat. The woman with respect to whom Pete alleges he suffers a desperate infatuation is studying him with a soft smile on her face.
“You better put something on,” she says, and tosses him his Stetson.
Through all this, Lara Peddigrew lies on her back on the floor, covering her eyes with her hands.
“Get him out of here.” I realize Peddigrew is talking to me. I think they are the first words he has directed at me.
He snaps open his briefcase and hands to Marianne Larochelle the fat bundle of bills that he had removed from his safe.
“I want you to handle this,” he tells her. “I don’t want to deal with him. There is a hundred thousand dollars here, exactly. Every dollar is to be accounted for. That includes money he spends on booze and whores.”
He turns to Pete. “Marianne will be going with you. As my agent.”
Pete’s face is a mask of mixed emotion. There is despair. There is joy. He is standing there, covering himself with his hat, assembling himself with a dignity that does not quite come off.
“You’re coming down to Colombia with us, Miss Larochelle?”
“I don’t think James trusts you,” she says. “I can’t imagine why.”
Pete delivers a large but guilty smile. “You can be cabin boy on the ship,” he says.
“Such an honor,” she says. “I think I’d prefer to run the galley. It’s more my line.” She puts the wad of bills into her Air Canada flight bag.
Peddigrew probably hasn’t heard all this. He does not look well. His eyes show pain.
“Get up, Lara,” he says. “It’s time to go to bed.”
“Yes, dear.”
Chapter Ten
Harold Mitchell, damp with the sweat of a difficult night, brought himself awake to the insistent ringing of his telephone.
It was two a.m.
“I’ve got good news,” said the night duty officer. “I didn’t think you’d mind being awakened, sir.”
Mitchell cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“It was just a freak shot, but we reestablished contact with the target.”
“Where? Is he still in Toronto?”
“Out on the front yard of somebody’s home. He’s been busted.”
“What?”
The young officer sounded jubilant. “Yes, sir. Arrested by the Toronto Metro Police.”
The cobwebs of sleep evaporated.
“They got him on a possession for the purpose of trafficking. Half an ounce of cocaine. It’s solid. Admissions, everything. We got him, Inspector.”
Mitchell hissed a long syllable that ended explosively: “Sh-h-h-it!”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Get him out of jail! And get that charge reduced. Get hold of Toronto Drugs. Aw, Christ, just get off the line and I’ll do it myself!”
Operation Potship had almost floundered.
***
Kerrivan sent Nighthawk on a sales trip through the eastern cities, to Buffalo, Rochester, the Big Apple, Philadelphia, to line up the buyers. This was a task that normally would have been attended to by Kerrivan himself, but, as he explained, with the season under way they had to zip. Kerrivan would stay in central Canada for a few days, contacting buyers there.
“We’ll meet Monday in — how about Atlantic City?”
“No, Pete. We’ll meet back in St. John’s.”
“I’ll be wanting to see how my luck is running before we go south, Johnny.”
“No, Pete.”
“Aw, all right, St. John’s.”
Nighthawk went off to Buffalo suspecting Kerrivan had additional reasons for not coming with him.
Nighthawk was right.
***
“Here we are,” Kerrivan said. He had just been admitted into Larochelle’s Toronto hotel room. “Small world, huh?”
“Small world,” she said.
“What about the guy who was hanging around with you in Montreal?”
“He was a lover.” She smiled. “That’s all.”
Kerrivan felt his insides stiffen. He twiddled with the leather tassel on his jacket. He had fumbled early on with her and was determined to make up ground. “What about dinner?”
“What about dinner?” she said. “Is this an invitation?”
“I am asking you out to dinner.” He felt as nervous as a farm boy.
Larochelle was strolling about her room, squinting her eyes to protect them from the smoke of the cigarette that hung from her lips. “A kind of date?” she said. “With you? I don’t know. It sounds dangerous. Should I wear my chastity belt?”
“You mean I make you nervous?”
“I wasn’t prepared to believe the legend until I saw you in action the other night.”
“I was an innocent victim. She threatened me with violence. The experience will mark me for life.”
“Clients should not fornicate with their lawyers’ wives.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s possible to contract a high-class social disease. How did you get to know Peddigrew?”
“Like you, a client. I was nailed on trafficking a few years ago. He did a deal, got the charges stayed. My boyfriend went down for three and a half years.”
She was still moving around the room, straightening things, emptying ashtrays.
“That must have been a wallop,” Kerrivan said. “What fee did he charge you? I’ll bet you had to mortgage the farm.”
She blew a cloud of smoke high in the air, tamped her cigarette, then lit a fresh one. “I worked the fee out.”
“Oh, yeah, he loves his toots.”
“No, he pays for his toots. I went to bed with him.”
Kerrivan felt his mouth slide open.
“Lawyers have a way of screwing you,” she said.
***
“I’ll be going directly to Barranquilla,” Larochelle said. “I have a Montreal–Miami flight on Monday, then I’m talking a leave from Air Canada. I’ll go directly from Miami. Peddigrew wants me to settle the terms with Juares before you get there. You have the address.”
They were in a small Italian restaurant with checkered tablecloths.
Kerrivan would lift his eyes from hers every few minutes and glance around the room.
“What are you looking for?” she said.
“The narco boys. Usually I have company wherever I go. I get lonely without them.”
Kerrivan prided himself as a narc-spotter. But the restaurant was crowded, and it was difficult to tell if police were there.
They played spot-the-cop.
“That guy at the door with a three days’ growth,” Larochelle said.
“No, he’s been looking at us,” said Kerrivan. “A tail would be pretending he doesn’t notice us.”
“Maybe it’s a woman. What about the one by herself in the corner?”
“Dressed too well. I thought about the longhair in the green jacket, but I think he’s a regular here, a lasagna freak. The waiter knows him. Maybe we’re alone.”
“How romantic,” she said.
They sipped Bardolini, and Larochelle chain-smoked. Kerrivan felt mesmerized by her green eyes. But he still felt awkward with her. She was too cool, too assured. She dealt with him in a gently mocking way, and she seemed to have his number. That made him uncomfortable. In his relationships Kerrivan preferred the driver’s seat.
He felt particular distaste at the thought that Larochelle was in control of the expenses — she had given him five thousand dollars for spending money. When the bill arrived, he made a show of grabbing for it.
“No,” she said. “I’m putting it on the account. A business dinner. That way I don’t have to feel I owe you anything.”
“You don’t,” Kerrivan
said gruffly. Her hand was on his hand, which was on the bill. Her hand felt strangely dry, but soft. Finally, she removed it.
“I’ll pay,” he said. “This isn’t business.”
“What exactly is it, Peter?” she asked.
Back at her hotel, still in the taxi, she bussed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
An invitation to come up to her room did not seem to be forthcoming. He was about to suggest one when she said, “I was thinking about a nightcap, but you are probably too exhausted. From last night.”
She got out, shut the door, and smiled at the hotel doorman as he ushered her inside.
Kerrivan went to his own hotel in a black funk.
***
He was at her door at nine a.m. She opened it two inches and her eyes seemed to study him with an expression of curiosity.
“What about breakfast?” he said.
There were beads of sweat on her forehead. Her radio was playing loudly — classical music. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she said. “I’m rather nude, but if that doesn’t offend you, come in.”
She opened the door and stood framed in front of him, a slim, damp silhouette in the morning sunlight that streamed through her east-facing windows. Kerrivan’s larynx tightened and he was unable to speak.
“If it does offend you,” she said, closing the door behind him, “I’ll give you a pillowcase to put over your head.”
Kerrivan stumbled forward, blinded by her body in the brilliant shafts of spring sunshine. He barked his shin on a low coffee table, yelped, and hopped off towards the window, seeking there to reassemble himself, trying to muster an air of nonchalance. “It’s a fine, civil day,” he said, staring outside at the bleak Toronto rooftops. From the corner of his eye, he saw her swirling about in the center of the room in time to the music.
“I try to do my exercises every morning,” she said. “I do modern dance. Used to perform with a semiprofessional group. I was quite athletic when I was a kid. Gold medal in the sprints at the Quebec junior games. I took a black belt in Tae Kwon-Do. Studied for three years at the Yokamura Institute.” She talked loudly, over the music. “Sky diving, scuba diving, platform diving. All that stuff. Then I discovered nicotine. Burned out my lungs with cigarette tobacco. I’m wired.”
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