Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  The very same Great White Moose who, in retreat from the bulldozer and men in hard hats, now found himself by the shores of Lake Lokash, one of the contested sites in Temagami. The red and white pines that had formerly covered the ground were gone, but in their place stood saplings, planted only a day earlier. Part of a compromise that had been worked out between the government and the loggers. The loggers would be permitted to cut down the red and white pines, but only if they replaced each and every tree harvested. The protesters had been unappeased when the deal was announced, but to the population at large it seemed a reasonable way around a contentious issue. Public interest in the Temagami forest began to flag, and the controversy had disappeared from the pages of all but the local newspapers by the time the Great White Moose arrived at Lake Lokash.

  Generally speaking, he preferred to dine on birch, willows, and balsam trees during the summer months. But saplings of any species had an appeal, since he enjoyed riding them down to bring the tender twigs within easy reach. Which he now proceeded to do, straddling a white pine sapling and stepping forward. And it was then that the Great White Moose became the first creature not involved in the negotiations—man or moose—to discover that there had been the finest of fine print in the agreement signed between the government and the logging companies. The saplings, you see, were plastic. Cheaper than live saplings, the representative of the logging company had argued. And plastic saplings would serve as a very attractive background setting for the bowling complex developers intended for the shores of the lake.

  Not that the Great White Moose realized what was causing the pain that now shot from the plastic tip of the sapling upward through his body, a pain originating in exactly the same sensitive place and carrying exactly the same intensity as the pain he had experienced on the day he was reborn as the Great White Moose. And as on the day he was reborn as the Great White Moose, he tore off on his way to no predetermined destination. An opportune occasion, one might think, for him to reflect on the perpetual difficulty the government faces in getting health care professionals to locate in the small communities of the North.

  XLII

  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the President had called an emergency meeting of his chief security officers. The latest attempt to solve the problem of Yale Templeton had gone awry. The Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation filled in the details for the Director of the FBI, the Director of the CIA, and the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs as they rode in the limousine from the President’s private landing strip: “As you are aware, the President provided $12 million to a representative of a private organization long identified with the interests of the government to compensate Professor Templeton for the evidence he found about Lincoln’s faked assassination and subsequent life in Canada.” “‘Private organization.’ I like that,” interrupted the Director of the FBI with a smirk. Then he reached over and started to tickle the Director of the CIA, who was still in the Xanax-induced stupor he had needed to get him through the plane ride.

  The Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation went on: “The President instructed the party responsible to fly to Toronto, arrange a meeting with Professor Templeton, secure the documents in question, and then …” and here he discreetly cleared his throat, “… and then take whatever further steps he believed were necessary to protect the inalienable right of every American to believe in the innocence of his country.”

  “And do we know what those documents are yet?” asked the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs (who had been under the mistaken impression that the President wanted them to come in disguise and so was dressed once again as Captain Hook, although this time without a peg leg, since he had torn his ACL when his knee buckled during their meeting at the bar in Washington).

  “No, not yet,” admitted the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “That was one of the things the party responsible was to determine when he met with Professor Templeton. The thing is, he apparently never made it to Toronto. Instead he caught a flight to Chicago, where, I am reliably informed,” and here he nodded in the direction of the Director of the FBI, “that he and his two … uh … godsons used the $12 million to bankroll an attempted takeover of organized crime in the city.”

  “With just $12 million?” exclaimed the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re quite right,” replied the Director of the FBI, whose agents in Chicago had been closely monitoring the situation. “Pocket change for the Mob. But it was enough for him to form a syndicate and wrest control of student loans from local banks. Since then he has begun expanding into related fields.”

  “That’s ingenious,” exclaimed the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs.

  “I quite agree,” said the Director of the FBI. “This Don Pugliese—the crime boss we’re talking about—is obviously an extraordinarily resourceful character. For a number of years he has been masquerading as a retired bank employee in Arizona. However, his distant past remains shrouded in mystery. My agents have had a great deal of difficulty determining where he fits into the underworld’s chain of command …” (The Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation rolled his eyes.) “… Right now he’s running his operation out of an Iyengar yoga school in Joliet, Illinois. That’s about all I can tell you.” And he added gravely: “I did warn the President. Organized crime marches to its own drummer.” Then he snickered, grabbed the Director of the CIA by the nose, and made a beeping sound. In response the Director of the CIA, who by now had started to shake off the effects of the Xanax, snatched the Director of the FBI’s hairpiece and hurled it out the window of the limousine. The Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs broke into a laugh and then squeezed the beak of the stuffed parrot on his shoulder. “Keelhaul Yale Templeton! Squawk! Make him walk the plank!” the parrot screeched. “I put together the new soundtrack myself,” the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs said proudly.

  When they finally arrived at the ranch house, the men found that the President was temporarily indisposed. Apparently he had been practicing his crossover draw on the rocking horse, snagged an acrylic nail on his holster, lost balance, and pitched forward. The cap gun accidentally discharged when it hit the floor, singeing his eyebrow. While he was being attended to at the infirmary, the others took the opportunity to go outside for a look at the new monument he had commissioned in honour of the late Senator Strom Thurmond. “It will be identical in size and structure to the Jefferson Memorial in Washington,” observed the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “The President very much admires the way both leaders were able, apparently in good conscience, to draw a clear distinction between their professed beliefs and personal conduct. The dedication ceremony is to take place late in the fall. I understand that Essie Mae Washington as well as several descendants of Sally Hemings are expected to attend.”

  After the President had received a fake eyebrow (that, to be perfectly honest, looked too much like rabbit fur to be convincing), he summoned the men back to the ranch house. “I presume Lowell has brought you up to date on the most recent developments in the Templeton affair,” he said.

  The men all nodded.

  “Good. Then we can get right down to business. The question I have is a simple one: What the hell do we do next?”

  The Director of the CIA removed the Beretta from his pocket. “Mr. President,” he said, “let me repeat the offer I made at our previous meetings.” And he slapped the barrel of the gun in the palm of his hand.

  “Thank you, Clyde. Your eagerness to perform gratuitous violence under the guise of patriotism is duly noted and, as always, greatly appreciated. Still, I would first like to explore options less likely to land another caricature of you on the cover of Mad Magazine.“

  “What
about trying a bribe again?” suggested the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “Just because the … uh … Sicilian gentleman absconded with our money, that doesn’t mean it was a bad idea.”

  The President glared at him. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. To all of you. The Don is an old and dear friend of mine. He would never … I repeat, never … betray my trust. Not for a mere $12 million, in any case.” To which the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation rolled his eyes once again.

  “We can take it for granted,” the President continued, “that if Don Pugliese stopped in Chicago before going to Canada, he had perfectly good reasons for doing so. And he would regard it, justifiably, as a deep offence against his sense of honour if I were now to send someone else to offer a bribe to Professor Templeton. Still, each day that passes without getting this matter settled increases the danger to the nation, by which of course I mean to myself. I believe we have no choice but to take some alternative course of action, and immediately.”

  “What about the first agent we sent to deal with Templeton?” asked the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs.

  The President raised an eyebrow. The fake one, as it happened, which now became unstuck and started to tilt upward.

  “The one who arranged for the compromising photographs,” explained the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, who instinctively adjusted his eye patch when he saw that the President’s fake eyebrow was shifting position. “Is there any chance she might be willing to help us now?”

  “Ah, you mean Bobbi Jo Jackson!” sighed the President, his fake eyebrow settling in at a right angle to his eye.

  “Out of the question,” interjected the Director of the CIA. “We can no longer even be certain she remains loyal to the United States. Rumour has it she spends her days—and nights, too—carrying out research on the history of Quebec.”

  “The history of Quebec?” queried the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation. “Whatever for?”

  “I have no idea,” replied the Director of the CIA. “We sent a couple of agents to Toronto to try to, shall we say, reason with her, but one ended up with a fractured collarbone and the other is currently awaiting a double hernia operation. And our attempts to put her under surveillance have been a complete washout. The fact is, she knows our procedures better than I do. We placed a tap on the phone in the apartment she shares with Templeton. Less than two hours later it was picking up what I am told were the sounds of a urinal in one of the men’s rooms at the Air Canada Centre. How it got there, I have no idea.”

  “I take it from what you say, she’s still involved with Templeton,” commented the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs.

  “Still involved with Templeton. And apparently blindly devoted to his interests. Anyone trying to approach him will almost certainly have to deal with her first. And that—I make no bones about it—would be a very hazardous undertaking.”

  The President massaged his eyebrows in thought, the fake one becoming dislodged in the process. “It seems to me,” he said, trying to shake the eyebrow from his middle finger, “that the continuing involvement of Bobbi Jo Jackson in this matter limits our options significantly. Obviously whoever goes to Toronto must be someone she trusts. Either that or a person with intimate knowledge of her methods.”

  The Director of the CIA slapped the barrel of the Beretta in his palm again, only this time he had a broad grin on his face.

  The President, who had now rubbed the eyebrow off on his pants, studied him in silence. He was trying to remember why he had appointed a man with homicidal tendencies to such a politically sensitive position. “Oh, yes,” he remembered with a smile. “He fixed it so I received the endorsement of the NRA.”

  “Well, Clyde,” he said, “I guess you finally get your wish. Remember, though: Violence only as a last resort. And only once you have gotten your hands on the evidence.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You won’t regret this,” replied the Director of the CIA. And in gratitude, he peeled off one of his own fake eyebrows and patted it onto the bare spot above the President’s eye.

  XLIII

  Meanwhile, back at the university, Felicia Butterworth was facing a problem of her own. For the most part the summer had gone very well. The various projects she had initiated were moving rapidly ahead, both those being carried out in the open, such as acquisition of the Anglican church on Greener Street, and those that were hidden from public view, such as negotiating the terms for the protection agency operating out of the former high school.

  But then the letter had arrived. It had appeared, as all previous communications from Chicago had appeared, in a plain brown envelope slipped under the door of her office. The jerky handwriting was entirely unfamiliar to her, however, and she found the message to be virtually incomprehensible:

  Give a dis money to da professore. Da Boss, he need a da evidence ‘bou’ Lincoln. Capeesh?

  It was unsigned, but then all the communications she received from Chicago were unsigned. In the envelope along with the letter was a form approving a student loan to Yale Templeton for fifteen hundred dollars, with very favourable terms of interest and a flexible repayment schedule. There was also a gift certificate for a month of lessons at an Iyengar yoga school in Joliet, Illinois.

  Felicia Butterworth reread the letter more than a dozen times, trying to decipher its message. She guessed that, on the basis of the accompanying student loan form and the references to a “professore” and Lincoln, it had something to do with Yale Templeton. But what? She passed it on to the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia, but he was equally mystified. “Perhaps it’s from the president of the Faculty Union,” he suggested. “It could be in some new language he’s invented.” But Felicia Butterworth had never received anything from H. Avery Duck concise enough to be slipped into a single envelope. And there was also the gift certificate to a yoga school in Joliet. No, the letter was from Chicago, she felt quite certain about that. And to protect herself, she dispatched the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia to see what he could find out.

  He booked into his usual suite at the Palmer Hotel and arranged for a meeting with his most trustworthy Mob contact. The letter, he learned, had not been sent by anyone previously involved in dealings with the university. “Definitely not our work,” the informant assured him. “No one around here does Chico Marx. Not anymore, anyway. The older guys, they all try to sound like Brando. The younger ones, they’re Sopranos. And look at the grammatical errors. Disgraceful! No, like I said, definitely not our work. But there’s a new guy down in Joliet you should probably contact. Well, an old guy, really, but he’s new to the territory. Muscled his way into the student loans racket. He runs his operation out of an Iyengar yoga school. Oh, and have a look at the ad for the school in yesterday’s Tribune. I think it mentioned something about a limited-time offer for free beginner-level lessons.”

  So the dean went to Joliet, received his complimentary yoga lessons, and then one evening (feeling now much more supple and relaxed), met with Vito Pugliese for dinner in a little out-of-the-way Italian place not far from the former site of the SMC Cartage Company warehouse. “I love a dis neighbourhood,” Vito told him, swirling a gold toothpick in his mouth. “It bring a back such memories.” His two grandnephews, or godsons as they introduced themselves—Hugh, who ran the Iyengar yoga school, and Charles, who operated a bookie joint out back—stood behind the table as bodyguards, submachine guns resting conspicuously in their arms. Over veal piccata, the dean determined that it had indeed been Vito who was responsible for the letter. He was also able to establish (more or less) what Vito’s intention had been in sending it.

  “Don Pugliese is interested in Yale Templeton all right,” he explained to Felicia Butterworth when he got back to Toronto. They were sitting at the dining room table in her spacious Rosedale mansion,
only blocks from the apartment near Dunbar Road, where, as it happens at that very moment, Yale Templeton and Bobbi Jo Jackson were wrapped up in their own entirely different conversation. But more on that shortly.

  “He says,” the dean continued, referring to Vito Pugliese, “that he needs to get his hands on the evidence Templeton discovered about Abraham Lincoln. About Lincoln faking his own assassination, moving to Canada. You know.”

  Felicia Butterworth was perplexed. “The evidence he discovered? Templeton discovered no evidence. It was a figment of his imagination.”

  “Are we really sure about that?” the dean replied. “Don Pugliese doesn’t seem to think so. Not from what he said to me, anyway.”

  Felicia Butterworth pressed her hands together in front of her mouth. “How far does this lunacy extend?” she wondered.

  “Not only that,” the dean continued, “he led me to believe that he’s working for someone higher up.”

  “Someone higher up?”

  “Someone in the government. The Don chose his words carefully. Or at least I think he chose his words carefully. Frankly I found his dialect difficult to penetrate. But I got the impression from one of his godsons that he’s taking his orders from the White House.”