Stung

by William Deverell

  “Had to do some fiscal favours under the table with selected bureaucrats, plus the state governor and a judge, but it’s the cost of doing business. I brought you a little something.”

  A small gift-wrapped box. I go, “Wow, you shouldn’t have.” I slowly open it with a sickly school-girlish smile — it had better not be an engagement ring. Nope — a pair of scuzzy earrings. Cavities lined with crystals, some kind of serpent entwined around them.

  “Brazilian snake earrings,” he explains. “Gold and druse.”

  “Boy, that’s . . . unique.” I have to scramble for that adjective. “I can hardly wait to try them on.” I pack them away, press my fingers to my lips, and schlep the kiss to his cheek.

  We talk baseball awhile — me going, “What about those Jays, eh?” — but he’s been following them online and knows the scores, the blowout last week with the four home runs, yesterday’s walk-off double.

  Plates are taken away. I decline dessert, ask for a coffee. He orders a Baileys. He’s freaky, this guy, the way he can put it away. Not even slurring.

  He’d really like to know more about me, about my family. I don’t explain that my mains are living an organic garden-to-table existence up north, a little burg called Golden Valley. I follow the script: Becky’s folks are disunited, re-partnered, her dad in Hamilton, her mom in Buffalo. “I really don’t want to think about them right now.”

  Keep things simple, Doc said. Your life has been boring and sad. You’ve had to struggle, you’re saving up for college, you had to abandon dreams of, for example, being a famous figure skater or ballet dancer or model. (For Howie, I chose figure skating, because in high school I was seen as a comer, though I never arrived.)

  Howie orders a second Baileys. He has superpowers, bullets bounce off, even Lucy’s Mix may not make a dent.

  Finally: “Well, I could drive you home, or . . . what about popping over for a while? A little shot of Remy to top off the night?”

  “I’d love to,” I say.

  3

  Stage Nine. I’m in his roomy apartment, strolling with my cognac, being agile, avoiding his hands, stopping to admire the painting of breaching sperm whales, thinking of sperm, of condoms, of my jeopardized cunt. I peer through the glass of the inner office, locked and unlit except for the LED lights on his electro-devices, and I wonder how I’ll get access in there.

  “Wow, is that what they call a bank of computers?” I worry about myself, I’m getting too good at playing the simple-minded waif. “Had an old laptop once. Guess it died of old age.”

  This turns out to be another sharp move from Agent Levitsky. Howie pulls a clump of keys from a pocket, unlocks the office. As he ushers me in he wrong-foots himself on the shiny tile floor, grabs his desk for balance, recovers, drains his glass. He’s half in the bag with juice and fatigue.

  He can still talk, though, and rambles on about the setup in what he calls his war room, a big screen and a dozen small ones, internet feeds from security cameras in plants, labs, warehouses. Computers recording all this, terabytes of video.

  I ask: Terabyte? He has to explain to me what that is. Meanwhile, I’m more interested in the big desktop, his main machine. There’ll be a password.

  “I’m going to give you this baby here.” A thin Dell notebook, pulled from a shelf. “Packs a punch, so don’t be conceived.” Surely he means deceived. He taps in a password. It doesn’t take. Another try, careful and slow enough for me to read. Krj791. The screen lights up with icons. “Two months old. I’ll clean it out for you.”

  “Thank you, that’s awesome.”

  He staggers out with the notebook, and I follow him. The door to the war room swings shut and locks.

  It’s time. “You are such a kind, generous man.” A deep breath, and I embrace him, getting the full blast of his man smell, but my lips just miss his because he stumbles backward with surprise, nearly drops the notebook.

  “I’m crazy about you, Becky,” he gasps. “I want you.”

  I take his arm. “I think you need some fresh air, Howie. I’ve got something that will pick you up.”

  I perch close beside him on the balcony divan. The lights of Toronto sparkle, the stars unseen. Lots of Saturday night activity on the street below, partying noise from a bar. The buzz of traffic, and a distant siren. Howie’s right hand settles on my upper left thigh, his left hand on my shoulder, and he pulls me into an awkward cuddle. The right hand crawls crotchward.

  Now or never. Time to throw my secret strikeout pitch. “Whoa, Howie, let me warm up to it. I brought some of that elixir I told you about. Enhances the romance, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah?” Nuzzling me. “Like ecstasy? Tried it once, it was mellow.”

  “This has ten times more pop. Drove me wild last time I used. Also gives you a lift here.” Becky does what Rivie just can’t get down for — she fingers the formidable bulge in his pants. Clearly, Howie doesn’t need much of a lift.

  This immodest gesture is taken as an invitation, and the response is a handful of Howie between my legs, like I imagine a catcher’s mitt might feel. I have to tug him away. The message: if I come across, it’s on my terms.

  I go back in for my bag, palm two of Lucy’s Mix in my right hand, the two placebos in my left. Howie staggers after me, pours himself another cognac, studies the offering in my hand. “What’s this magic potion called?”

  “Passionata.” Lucy and I came up with that while stoned. “I heard it’s called Leg Opener on the street. Isn’t that awful?”

  I borrow his glass and make a production of popping and washing down the two safe caps. The pinched-end ones, so I avoid making the blooper of the century.

  Howie hesitates. He tries to stifle a yawn. Then: “Yeah, let’s go!” He gulps back his two caps. Stage Ten. That was too easy.

  And now he is all over me, hands on my bum, his boner prodding my lower abdomen, his lips meshing with mine, a thrust of tongue. I gag a little, unpeel from him. I need to buy time, this chemical cocktail was slow to kick in on my test drive, so I ask if he’ll do me the favour of having a shower. That gets him apologetic and fumble-tongued.

  I go to his ear with a husky whisper. “I’ll be waiting for you in there.” The bedroom, door open, a bed lamp glowing. He starts scrambling from his clothes, sends his shirt flying, kicks his pants off, and heads for the main bathroom.

  There’s a bedroom ensuite, and I peel off there, assemble my clothes and sandals for a quick getaway, and slip within his crisp, washed sheets. It’s a king, roomy. In a few minutes, Howie staggers in, a towel knotted around his midriff.

  “I am so hot for you, baby.” Demonstrating that by dropping the towel, revealing a club you could maim someone with. He catches himself, as if dizzy, revolves, falls backward onto the covers, barely missing me, his dick like a pink-nosed gopher sniffing the air. “Man, this . . . what do you call it?”

  “Passionata.”

  “What a blast. You feel it?”

  “Yeah, getting there. Hang on a sec, Howie, there’s something we need to talk about. When you were in Brazil did you get bit by any mosquitoes?”

  “Mosquitoes?”

  “The Zika virus. Transmitted sexually. Babies with shrunken heads.”

  “No problem. There’s Trojans in the drawer. Grab one, roll it on. I’m dying, I’m going to explode.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” The PT-141, the testosterone — why did Lucy think that was such a good idea?

  He’s still supine, splayed across the bed, waiting, I guess, for me to sheath his joint. “Don’t move, Howie, I’m going to help you out.”

  Change of plan. Forget the prophylactic. I shimmy from the sheets, make a gymnastic dive between his legs, kneel there.

  “Do it, baby!” He’s totally wired for the expected blow job, but instead I grasp his supersized dong with both hands and pull. He roars as I ja
ck him, like a charging beast of prey, and his hips rise a foot off the bed, and before I can duck away he emits a geyser of semen right in my face, in my hair, all over my tits.

  “Holy fucking shit!” I yell, scrambling off him, off the bed, and bolt for the ensuite, wiping the come off me.

  As I toss him a bath towel, he mumbles, “Sorry, didn’t mean to. Jus’ happened.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back for round two, sweetie. I’m going to fix myself up.” I close the door, turn on the shower.

  * * *

  Holy fucking shit? “Language!” Mom used to say. I’m kicking myself for not staying in character, for reverting to Rivie Levitsky. Howie is used to being Wowed.

  I’m under the shower for fifteen minutes. I shampoo three times. As I towel off, I listen for sounds from the bedroom. The quiet is unsettling. I’m wondering if he maintained enough mental capacity to change the bedding. Maybe he just crawled under it.

  I crack open the door. He hasn’t moved, is still supine on the bed, legs and arms splayed, his cock like a deflated party balloon. Snoring.

  I approach carefully. There’s sperm all over, a puddle on the floor that I almost slip on. I nudge his foot. Definitely out. The fuckless Howell J. Griffin.

  I have nearly five hours, but I’m aiming for four. I get dressed but leave my sandals off, so I can pad about barefoot, noiselessly. Retrieve my camera from my handbag, unclasp the pocket with the two-terabyte hard drive, slip on thin rubber gloves. Howie’s pants hang from an armchair. The left pocket yields up a thicket of keys.

  As I pass by the bedroom door, I see Howie sprawled naked, still snoring, and I bring a quilt from a shelf and gently drape it over him. I don’t want him stirring in discomfort.

  The key to the war room is sturdy, and so is the lock, but it clicks open. The desk computer is a Sony workhorse, and of course it wants a password. I rummage in the drawers, examine loose papers, look for lists hidden under the envelopes and writing pads. Nothing. Would this security bot have memorized his multiple passwords? Probably not. The gift Dell notebook is also on his desk. I tap in Krj791 on the Sony and hit Enter. The computer roars into action.

  My external soon begins filling up from his C drive. It’s a fast machine but close to data overload. Two-plus hours, says the message window.

  One of the two filing cabinets is unlocked and yields up mostly bumph: travel brochures, airline schedules, receipts, tax returns, photos of Howie, some of his ex, who is pretty. The other cabinet is keyed, the small one on the ring. Its four drawers are dedicated to Chemican records, a bonanza. Photographs, layouts, diagrams of alarm systems, codes to open doors, it’s all here, maybe hacking the computer was superfluous. No scientific stuff, though, no files labelled Vigor-Gro. Those goodies must be in their lab in Sarnia.

  The process of taking close-ups of security plans and diagrams, letters, memos, incident reports, an entire Brazil folder, takes three hours and three SD cards and two recharges. Meanwhile, my hard drive has sucked up everything from his big Sony. Just under four hours. I take a last tour of this electronic vault, make sure everything is in its original order, and then slip out, lock up, return the keys to Howie’s left pocket.

  I pause to check he’s still breathing. He is and he’s smiling. I hope his bladder holds out.

  I scribble out a note. Sweet dreams. Had a lovely time. Becky. I pick up my shoes and head out the door.

  4

  Sunday, September 2

  From somewhere, a familiar voice: “Motherlode. It’s the codes for the alarm system.” A printer whirrs and clicks.

  “We’ll have to disable the backup system too.”

  It’s half past morning, and I’m in the fog of arousal from deep sleep, bumfuzzled as to where I am, couching somewhere. Right, I crashed on a late nineteenth-century divan.

  Memory expands. I’m hotfooting from the scene of the crime, not a free taxi anywhere, sticking to the bright streets, ignoring catcalls, holding my bag tight to my body. I fast-tracked to Ivor’s all the way, decompressing in the cool night air, arrived after midnight, and they were waiting in the backroom, all jumpy, stressed out.

  I finally crashed at around three. None of my fellow accomplices clustered around Okie Joe’s workstation look like they’ve slept at all. Joe and Doc, Ivor and Amy, Chase D’Amato, Lucy. Off by himself is Rockin’ Ray Wozniak, who doesn’t sleep much anyway, at least at night. Head encased in Sennheisers, air drumming.

  Okie Joe has finished downloading everything, and my digital photos are rolling across two of his monitors. “Stop,” Doc says. “Grab that one.” The printer burps out an image. A metre-tall pile of these.

  I flap around in the bed in an oversized nightie Amy found for me, throw off a blanket, stretch, announce myself with a bright “Go-o-od morning!” She’s back, folks. The queen bee of Operation Beekeeper. I’m still jacked from last night’s high-fives, but tense, waiting for Howie to call with his abject apology for falling asleep on me.

  I’d set my phone to Do Not Disturb. Powered on, it shows one missed call, from my mom, her usual Sunday morning check-in. Howie is either still asleep or too wrecked to make contact.

  “I’m bagged,” Ivor says.

  “Let’s break for the day,” Doc says. To Joe: “How you doing?”

  “All backed up and encrypted.”

  Lucy bounces over to wrap her arms around me, her dozenth hug. “I had Ray bring your essentials.” My hiking pack with comb and toothbrush, cut-offs and tops and underwear, socks and runners.

  I tog up in the washroom, then join the troops.

  Doc gives me the poop on the work assignments culled from Howie’s emails and staff records. Three men do night shift at the Sarnia plant, one stationed in a booth at the gate, an outside guy who patrols the grounds, the third stationed inside — his remit is to do hourly patrols but stay out of the lab upstairs.

  Of particular interest to Doc is a memo that works out a staffing issue: the outside guy will be off work on September 9, following dental surgery, and since the regular replacement will be on holiday they’re bringing in an untrained temp as fill. Master ejaculator Howell J. Griffin signed off on that.

  “So that’s the target date,” Doc says. “A week Monday.” Eight nights hence. “Meanwhile, Chase will go to Sarnia overnight for a grounds surveillance.” Turning to him. “Your pickup still runs?”

  “Just needs an oil and lube.”

  “I’ll go with him,” I announce. The prospect of spying in the tall grass all night with Chase sounds orgasmic.

  There’s a chorus of no ways. Rivie is needed here. The nays have it, except that Chase voted for me. I ask Doc: “Who’s doing the main event?”

  “Me, Lucy, Chase, maybe Ray. You have done enough, Rivie. Lay low. You have an open ticket to Stockholm if the bottom falls out.” Doc was born there, lived his teen years there, visits often, maintains close friendships.

  I stand my ground. “I’m going to Sarnia with Chase. And I’m not going to miss the show. I’ve earned that. And you need my superpowers.”

  As if to add emphasis, my phone chirps.

  “Good morning, Howie. How are you feeling?”

  “Like a fool. I assume you’ve consigned me to your slash pile of failed suitors.”

  “You were exhausted. Things happen.” Cool, not too severe.

  “Passing out like that. Christ.”

  “We’ll laugh about it one day.”

  “Well, that gives me hope. Thanks for being so damn empathetic, Becky. By the way, I cleaned out that notebook computer. Where can I drop it off?”

  “How about when I get back? Jays are hosting Boston next Sunday. I’d kill to go.”

  “A week from today? Excuse me, you’re going somewhere?”

  “The thing is, my mom just called from Buffalo. She’s having some kind of nervous breakdown. Have to take time from
work, but . . . I’d really like to catch the Red Sox series.”

  “Well . . . Sure, absolutely. Terrific. Maybe between innings we can laugh about it.”

  “Hey, Howie, it happens to the best of us. Especially men.”

  He laughs. The guy actually has a good side to him.

  “Goddamn, I’m going to repair the damage, I promise.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “I love you.”

  “You’re sweet.” And I’m a bitch. I feel like shit.

  Chapter 4: Arthur

  1

  Monday, September 3

  In the dog bowl sit great clumps of grey and mottled contents of dead cows’ innards that smell like untreated sewage. Arthur watches with awe as Ulysses literally wolfs it down: a pound of tripe, which little resembles the delicacy offered by fine French restaurants.

  Stefan has done extensive wolfhound research. Store-bought dog food might be okay for some lesser beast, but the good health of this kingly breed demands raw food. This comes in frozen blocks from a mainland cattle farm and costs a prince’s ransom. It’s complemented by various meats, fish, veggies.

  “Energy for the chase, young fella.” What Ulysses chases are the deer that occasionally jump the fence, but he has never caught one, and probably wouldn’t know what to do if he did. Ulysses began by annoying the goats, then befriended them under Stefan’s tutelage, and now gets it that all the animals of Blunder Bay, including the fowl, are part of the family.

  As companionable as Ulysses is, he seems to feel that normal dog-like behaviour is beneath him. He rarely barks, which is a blessing, for it’s a sonic boom. Nor does he herd, fetch, swim, or high-jump a tall fence — but he can perform Olympian long jumps over ditches. He has also been seen to escape the friendly confines of Blunder Bay by dislodging split rails. Twice, Stefan had to track him down outside the farm’s perimeter. A couple of days ago, Ulysses sent prospective buyers fleeing from Blunder Bay’s roadside stand. Not that he was at all unfriendly — it was just the sight of him.