Stung

by William Deverell

  In the can, he triumphantly texts Gaylene again, more detailed, a full paragraph about Rockin’ Ray and the newly blond-haired dish, a friend of the band.

  She returns with, “Need backup?”

  “Just stay handy, gorgeous.”

  He waits, embarrassed by his cheek. She finally comes back with, “Are you sober?”

  “All good. Stay tuned.”

  * * *

  Back at his base station, nursing a mug of alleged coffee, finishing off a burger as hard as a rock, Maguire keeps an eye on the stairwell and the back door, just in case the honey-blond makeup artist decides to break camp.

  He has abandoned hope of getting more out of T.J. Gully tonight. He’s corked, mumbling to himself, and the decibels in here are brutal. But Maguire does manage, through hand signals, to get his business card.

  Ray Wozniak has soaked through his T-shirt, and peels it off without missing a beat. A dexterous dude, this tall, blond political refugee, probably one of those anarchists that infest the body politic. Maguire would bet his life savings on him being the masked man who scared the piss out of those doozy night guards. Maybe making Archie Gooch more brain-dead than he ever was.

  He turns to the wall, squinting for graffiti more uplifting than the last sampling. In marking pen: “Don’t die wondering.” That’s a thought to make you think. A twist on that: “Don’t die wandering.” Then: “Not all who wander are lost.”

  Thought processes of the millennials, the hip generation. Maguire is finding it tougher and tougher to relate to the young. Maybe if he and Sonia had had kids. They wanted, couldn’t.

  He balefully studies his coffee, rejects it in favour of another sip from his shot glass. Baldy had brought him a double of Maker’s Mark with the coffee, a gift of the house. Maguire has been tipping too liberally. He holds his booze well, has always taken some pride in that.

  Gin-sodden T.J. Gully wobbles from his stool and somehow finds his way to the back, down the stairs, either to ralph or grab some kip in the Green Room. He’s left half a pack of his Dunhills on the bar, and Maguire pockets them. He can return them to Gully as a goodwill gesture, when he interviews him more formally, in an OPP interview room.

  Finally, around nine, there’s a break between sets, and Maguire decides it’s time for another whiz. He finds himself tottering as he makes his way down to the can, following Rockin’ Ray and his band. Someone opens the green door for them, wide enough so that Maguire gets a blast of cannabis fumes as he sneaks a peek. He makes out Gully passed out on a couch. Rockin’ Ray Wozniak gets a hug from the makeup artist, calls her Lucy.

  The door closes. Maguire gets in line for the john, starts texting.

  4

  Panic Disorder was supposed to wrap half an hour ago, at ten, so Maguire hopes this is the last encore — it’s a weekday after all, most people have jobs. After their gig finally ends he’ll wait for Ray and Lucy to take off, then tail them, maybe even collar them. He’s exhilarated by that prospect, entertaining dreams — enhanced by four shots of bourbon — of making the catch solo. Old Jake is going to wrap this baby up with pretty red ribbons, retire from the Force with a bang. He doesn’t need backup, he’s Frank Colombo, he’s Starsky and Hutch.

  Distracted as he is by his dreams of glory, it slowly dawns in his hazy brain that he may not have thought this through. How does he tail them? On the streetcar? What if they have wheels? Maguire doesn’t, and even if he did, he’s twice over the limit.

  He almost does a nosedive jumping off his stool, regains his balance, makes aim for the front door, manages not to trip over his own legs, or anyone else’s. Outside, he attacks his phone with fat-fingered clumsiness. From inside he hears a last skirl of guitar, a closing barrage of drums and cymbals.

  He gets a wrong number, dials again, fighting off his own panic disorder as he sees the band gathering their instruments. Up the stairs comes T.J. Gully, being held upright by the two gay-looking dudes. Up comes Lucy behind them with what looks like a bag of laundry.

  Gaylene comes on finally, anxious: “Check out my texts, for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah, shorry, didn’t look.”

  “You’re shorry? You’re plastered.”

  “Baldy’s fault.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Hang on.” He steadies himself against the window frame as Squirrelly Moe’s begins to empty. Somehow, Gully has regained his feet, is staggering about with the sombrero, hitting up the lingerers. Lucy hands Rockin’ Ray a towel and a fresh shirt, then helps him pack guitars into their cases.

  “I need backup real fast.”

  “You got it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I’m across the street. Unmarked Buick LeSabre.”

  Maguire sees it, a late nineties model, Gaylene frowning behind the wheel. “Where’d you percure . . . get that?”

  “Drug squad. A seizure. You’re tanked, Jake.”

  “It’s my cover. I’m in total control.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Okay, there’s a green Aerostar van out front. See it?”

  “Green . . . Got it.”

  “I think it’s their band van. That’s a definite, there’s a fat-assed ghoul heading for it, packing out the drums.”

  Maguire quickly pockets his phone as the drummer passes by, dripping sweat. He’s followed out by Mary Bumpo, with her bass guitar.

  Maguire stays put, lowers his cap to give himself shade, pulls out the half pack of Dunhills, sticks one in his mouth, making like he’s an ordinary Joe getting his nic hit — which would work better if he had a match. But here’s Mary Bumpo, pausing to take her own smoke, a little brown stogey. As he paws through his pockets, she extends a lighter. He mumbles his thanks, takes a little puff.

  “‘Save the Birmingham Eight,’” she says. “They already got saved, brother.”

  “Far out.” That’s all he can come up with.

  She looks at him oddly. He grins stupidly. That puff felt good, and he can’t help himself, takes a drag. It hits him right away, a bracing, tasty jolt, bringing remembrance of past pleasures, his decades-long habit, two packs of Sweet Caps a day.

  Bumpo makes for the Aerostar van, following her Panic Disorder mates through the sliding side door, hauling Gully in with them. The drummer squeezes into the driver’s seat, starts the engine. Maguire waits anxiously for a break in the traffic, finally manages to wobble across the street to the Buick, just as the van pulls out. He takes another drag, butts out, climbs in.

  * * *

  Maguire has to concede Gaylene is a slick wheelman for a woman, she keeps eyes on the Aerostar all the way to the west side, and now it has stopped fifty feet ahead, in front of a rundown two-storey office building. She switches off the headlights, pulls into a parking space, and kills the engine.

  “Where are we?” He’s drunk, bagged, half-awake.

  “Lower Dufferin. Stay down.”

  He is down already, the seat tilted back, but from over the dashboard he can see the old building. His vision is distorted, he’s seeing double, but it’s dark, a derelict structure, all but a few windows boarded up, maybe some kind of hippie squat. Painted on the wall, the anarchist symbol, a capital A circled. Two of them, but they come together when he focuses.

  Now he sees Rockin’ Ray and Lucy exit from the van’s sliding side door. They embrace. She hands him two guitars. Wozniak looks about, then manoeuvres through a large hole cut into the front door. Lucy climbs back into the van.

  “Shit,” Gaylene says. “Stay or follow?”

  Maguire has to think, it’s hard. “Follow.”

  Gaylene gets on the horn, calls in the address. “Roger. Got it. Thanks.” To Maguire: “It’s a teardown, a squat, eviction order being held up by the lawyers.”

  He mumbles: “The lawyers, always the lawyers.”

  They follow the van as it
takes a left on King, moving west, Gaylene keeping it in view as she thumbs Wiggie’s number. “Wakey, wakey,” she says, and gives him the squatters’ location, tells him to hustle his ass over to cover it.

  Maguire fidgets, struggles to hold back a burger fart. He feels the pack of Dunhills burning a hole in his pocket — that second cigarette was a big mistake, the need is back, big time.

  His eyes close. He has a sense of losing it . . .

  Chapter 9: Arthur

  1

  Wednesday, September 19

  Selwyn Loo’s blitzkrieg against TexAmerica’s gutting of Quarry Park is to be heard today not in Victoria but Vancouver, to convenience counsel, so Arthur rises early, to the summons of his bedside alarm, so he can catch the early ferry. He dons his favourite old three-piece suit — unfashionable but it’s his comfort-zone uniform. A visiting barrister does not go to court in jeans and boots.

  Nor does one show up in a beat-up old pickup, so he’ll be parking the Fargo in the lot at Ferryboat Landing. A taxi will meet him on the mainland after a three-hour milk run — he’ll be lucky to make it to the Law Courts by noon. He spoons down some oatmeal, and, briefcase in hand, slips out quietly, hoping not to arouse Ulysses, sprawled asleep on his dog bed just inside the mud room.

  It’s only dawn, but Stefan, as usual, is already up, clucking to the chickens while tossing feed and stealing their eggs. Solara, with coffee in hand, still in pyjamas, is watching him from the deck of their house. She appears to have become overly fond of her housemate, but there’s been no indication that they’ve slept together. Her feelings for Stefan seem not to be fully shared.

  Arthur hurries to his truck, keeping an eye on Ulysses. Even while sleeping, his ears seem tuned to the sound of the engine starting up, and his habit is to race down the driveway after him before the gate swings closed. Occasionally, he makes it out to Potters Road and has to be led back into the farmyard.

  Predictably, as the engine ignites, Ulysses is already up on all fours and moving. Arthur gets on the gas and zooms past Stefan, who stands there grinning with his booty from the coop. At the driveway gate, Arthur hops out, swings it open, then jumps back in and accelerates out. The gate swings back and latches shut, forcing Ulysses to pull up.

  From his rear-view, Arthur catches his determined hound clearing a fallen rail of the snake fence in a majestic bound. The wily pup has outsmarted the boss, has found a shortcut to the road. He emerges from between the trees, forcing Arthur to brake hard, his heart in his mouth. But Ulysses keeps going, challenging the Fargo to a race, which Arthur lets him win by gearing down to a crawl, then stopping and alighting. Ulysses does a U-turn and returns to old grey-haired human friend who is making loud, unhappy bad-dog sounds.

  Stefan finally comes running up with a leash. Arthur gives his pet a farewell hug and wrestle and apologizes for his scolding tone. He will make it up on his return late tomorrow, with a big knuckle bone and a long evening ramble up their favourite trail.

  He frets that the delay will make him miss his boat, but pulls into the ferry parking lot just as the Queen George slides into the slip. At the ramp, he gets stares and smiles from the locals disembarking: there’s stodgy old Beauchamp in his ancient suit, now severely rumpled.

  * * *

  Arthur has had limited experience with the civil courts and it’s a struggle to grasp the labyrinthine phrases being tossed about in room 30 of the Vancouver Law Courts. The argot of torts vaguely remembered from law school: anticipated harm, collateral effects, reasonable use, invasion of interests in land.

  Selwyn Loo and Nathaniel Shawcross, TexAmerica’s mining hotshot, bandy about these concepts with ease, as does the chambers judge: R.B. Innes. Yes, the same smarmy, moon-faced judge who shot Arthur down in flames two weeks ago has been appointed to hear this tussle over a limestone formation. Arthur should have expected that — the Chief Justice would have decided Innes was the go-to guy on Quarry Park issues.

  They scrapped all morning, affidavits read, law argued, facts disputed, but Arthur got here just as the court adjourned for lunch. Over sandwiches, Selwyn brought Arthur up to speed. Innes had debated with him affably, in his condescending manner, congratulated him for his superb presentation, dismissed his motion to quash the corporation’s SLAPP suit, and granted TexAmerica an injunction against any blocking or impeding of its operations. Selwyn had expected nothing else. His crew from West Coast Environmental is already preparing a notice of appeal.

  Now, this afternoon, they are dealing with the restraining order sought by Mattie Miller and Hamish McCoy, both of whom are in court, as are several SOQers, including Al and Zoë Noggins and Taba Jones. All arrived last night, bunking in a short-term rental.

  Arthur is slouched on the counsel row almost directly behind Selwyn, so can’t see his play of expression as he recites selected passages from his clients’ affidavits. But Arthur can read Shawcross’s confident body language as he basks in the warm glow emanating from Judge Innes, his devotee. Admirable piece of work, Mr. Shawcross.

  Innes listens to Selwyn with an occasional raised eyebrow, a clue to the disdain he holds for the petitioners’ claim of anticipated nuisance. Occasionally he turns to Arthur, beaming at him, as if they are old comrades fortuitously brought together.

  Selwyn continues to amaze: he describes photos he has never seen. “Exhibits Twelve to Eighteen depict Mr. McCoy’s grounds, the charming, whimsical home he built for himself in the manner of a hobbit house, which doubles as a gallery; his sculpture studio, clay oven, workbench, and tools. As you see, most of his work is done outside. The next three photographs display some of his art.”

  Because of their colossal size, McCoy’s abstract and often risqué creations appeal to a narrow market. Several international galleries were brave enough to exhibit him, but few public museums. Towering, naked, humanoid figures, some birdlike with wings or four-footed like bears, Hamish in grinning pose beside one of them, with his big old mongrel Shannon.

  Innes looks at the photos askance. “You say he sells these for substantial amounts? This lopsided, beaked giant with the erect penis?”

  Arthur had urged Hamish not to include that one, but the combative elf insisted.

  Arthur starts as he hears Hamish declaim: “That rubs me right raw, b’y.” Arthur turns to see him standing in the third row. “I put eight months into this gorgeous crayture.”

  The judge tries to break in. “Mr. McCoy—”

  “It’s the way I makes my livin’, your worship. If their limestone dust and dort gets into me plaster, I’m just about skinned.”

  “Mr. McCoy, you have no standing.”

  “I’m standing as big as I can. I got a million dollars wort’ of me works in that yard.”

  “Mr. Sheriff, please remove that gentleman.”

  Hamish looks confused, peers about trying to spot the gentleman referred to.

  Many in the audience are laughing. Innes turns from pink to scarlet. “This court is recessed. We will have order!”

  * * *

  Hamish continues to act out during the break, fuming and cursing, attracting stares from the Great Hall of the Vancouver Law Courts building. Rain slicks down the vast transparent ceiling, a massive angled skylight. A sudden downpour after a fair day, it adds to Arthur’s blues about how the hearing is going.

  Selwyn and Reverend Al team up to try to talk Hamish down: his courtroom outburst was understandable, and may have actually helped the cause. The TexAmericans, Selwyn explains, are now alert to the costly damages that may ultimately be due to McCoy and Mattie Miller; indeed, they may be having second thoughts about the project’s financial viability as legal costs bleed them.

  Taba now joins in, embracing Hamish, praising him for his heroics. Other SOQers surround the little sparkplug, giving him love. Soon, he is beaming. “I did the right t’ing, b’ys. Gave that horse’s ass an earful.”

  Behind him stan
ds one of the court sheriffs, ready to grab him if he tries re-entering room 30.

  * * *

  When the hearing resumes, Selwyn goes to work for another twenty minutes, then calmly sits, awaiting the inevitable.

  “I don’t need to hear from you, Mr. Shawcross.” Innes glares at Arthur as he renders judgment, as if assuming he was the inspiring force behind the effrontery displayed by the pernicious little Newfoundlander.

  “Ruling. There is no proof of existing harm. No nuisance exists or has been proven likely. Plaintiffs will have a further opportunity to bring the matter before this court should damage occur or be imminent. Case dismissed.”

  Selwyn rises, unperturbed, icy. “I thank Your Lordship for the deep consideration you have given the matter.”

  Innes regains his faux-genial air with a stiff smile. “Tomorrow, Mr. Loo, a justice of the Appeal Court will hear your application for a stop-work order until a full court hears your appeal of my earlier decision.” That being his slap-down of Arthur’s fumbled attempt to quash the Quarry Park bylaw.

  “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that you may get your stay.” Innes rolls his eyes: the prospect is laughable. “In which case today’s rulings may be moot. Good luck. This court is adjourned.”

  2

  As an honorary member of Vancouver’s staid Confederation Club, a haunt of overpaid CEOs and their avaricious lawyers, Arthur gets a rate, though he never pays it — the bills are forwarded to Tragger, Inglis. For some reason Bullingham tolerates these excesses, maybe as a lever to entice him back to work.

  He’s in his preferred suite tonight: well appointed, a king-size bed affording ample room on which to toss and turn while fuming over today’s washout. He feels bad for Selwyn, who fought with Sisyphean grit. Tomorrow, he will make a last-gasp effort before an appeal judge.