by Shilo Jones
Ms. Reed whispers a tsk, which I interpret as a suggestion to please humour her husband. Vincent’s staring at Carl Reed in a way that makes my mouth go dry, a look that reminds me of Amar’s expression when he desired something very badly, a new Cadillac or power boat. Sim’s words are in the front of my mind, these are not good people, but I force them away, turn my attention to the painting, a silkscreen of a giant red heart stretching across the canvas. The cartoon heart sparkles in chandelier light while bartenders busy themselves polishing martini glasses.
“Of course, the man’s a brute,” Mr. Reed continues. “Low-class London boy content to suck on moneyed teats, felt compelled to state there’s diamond dust in the painting in the goddamned title. Big Love with Diamond Dust. Eh? Success is the subject. Blech. Puffery. And I bet this pretentious, vampire-invested kill room paid a fortune for that insipid piece of shit. Send our art into the system. Send our songs. Send our youth. A closed loop—”
“Carl—” Ms. Reed says.
“Send us all! Artists, poets, moms and pops, schoolteachers, welders, backwoods survivalists. Everybody in. Let’s hold hands. Guilty and proud! That’s what that painting says. No use trying! Bravo, Damien!” Mr. Reed claps, drawing ruffled stares from everyone within a twenty-foot radius.
Vincent tries to pat Carl on the shoulder. Carl flinches, leans so far off the edge of his seat I’m afraid he’ll topple. “Carl my man! Long time no see. Thanks for joining us.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Prison again? I heard…another embarrassing police brouhaha?”
Ms. Reed stiffens. Hunches over her Scotch like a veteran barfly.
“Yes, I was in prison,” Carl answers. “Which is where you should be.”
Ms. Reed’s head snaps up. “Carl, enough. The development? I told you—”
“Ha! I’m happy you and I go way back, Carl. Otherwise that would be not a super-appropriate thing to say?” Vincent grips Carl’s forearm, shakes it so hard Carl’s hand flops back and forth. “Carl’s the creative force behind Green Lead Investment, Jasminder. And what a force he was. Forward thinker. Finger on the pulse. Isn’t that right, Carl? When you’re at your best? Which is certainly not now?”
Mr. Reed digs his fork into the table.
“Venture capital?” I manage. “That must be interesting? The…people?”
Carl harrumphs.
Vincent swirls his Scotch, says he likes how cheerful and generous the cartoon heart painting is, leans close to me, says those are dead butterflies stuck to the canvas, very neat, even admirable, that level of sincerity, imagine being so comfortable with your own vulnerability, being comfortable with sappy sentimentality, it’s totally speaking to him, do I want to try slacklining?
“Slacklining?” Ms. Reed says, frowning in confusion, then, likely realizing she sounds dated, laughs and says, “Is that when those crazy people balance on those ropes—”
“Webbing,” Vincent corrects, smoothing his beard. “Tat.”
“—across canyons?”
“That’s it, Honourable Minister,” Vincent says, almost rolling his eyes. “Balance. Vertigo. Flow state. This is something real West Coasters understand intuitively. Take that free-form focus and apply it to a high-stakes business environment. Technology, real estate, finance. I’m stepping over the void right now, folks. See me? I’ve been slacklining since before you could buy those pre-made kits from MEC. Bowline, water knot, figure eight. Lost Arrow Spire? Yosemite? Super-famous slackline? Did it. Smoked a bowl, fully Left Coast, turned around and did it again! Hey, Heather? Marigold will succeed in acquiring the North Vancouver property. At any cost. Understand? You’re going to lose, might as well fold. Saggy government will always lose to honed industry. Way of the world—waiter! Government be gone! A Paleo smoothie chaser, surprise me, something with complex sugars, big ride this evening.”
Ms. Reed fiddles with her hair bun, ignores Vincent. “Slacklining? I bet this girl would be good at that kind of nonsense. Her life does seem to be one helluva balancing act.”
I’m about to speak when Mr. Reed mutters, “The fatalistic, adolescent twerp probably sprinkled diamond dust into his semen to stick the butterflies to the canv—”
“Carl!”
A single word spoken by Ms. Reed and Carl freezes mid-sentence, shrugs, says maybe Hirst didn’t use his semen, if he did he would’ve told us about it in the title. Then he mumbles about needing fresh air. Mr. Reed’s elbows are on the table, dug in, his narrow chin resting on scrawny fingers. The sleeve of his jean jacket slips down and I see a line of partially healed bruises that look a lot like—
“Carl. Dear? We’ve moved on from the painter and his assorted fluids.” Ms. Reed nods at her husband’s sleeve. Carl starts, tugs his sleeve up, glowers out the window like a sulky schoolboy.
“Yeah, Carl. I mean, sourpuss much? Cheer up old chap!” Vincent throws his arms behind his head, stretches, yawns, works his fingers over his forearms, apologizes for being sore because of his brutal training regime. “Wonderful arty interpretation, Carl, although I disagree completely. About the painting? Still, a very interesting perspective, if beholden to a cranky top-down ideology that isn’t doing you any favours. I’m a bit of a collector myself. A hobbyist! Big warehouse full of my remarkable art collection in Richmond. One in Orange County as well. I own several of Mr. Hirst’s pieces. We should go take a look sometime. I’m interested in destroying your thoughts. Junkie?”
The final word whispered, so quick I’m not even sure I heard it.
Carl Reed remains perfectly still. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, ha! Hearing your thoughts! What did you think I said?”
“I thought I heard—”
“Heather? Should I be concerned? How’s Carl doing? Legally medicated?”
Ms. Reed waves her empty Scotch glass at the waiter. “He’s fine.”
“Fine? Carl? Are you su—”
“She said I’m fucking fine, you—”
“Wonderful! Because Michael’s been in touch. He’s refreshingly reliable and sane. We’re excited to have Green Lead on board with the Solstice—”
“It’s a heart,” I stammer. “I like it. What could be wrong—”
Vincent waves a hand in my direction. “Okay, Jasminder, thank you. See? Always welcoming constructive opinions. Open communication is the foundation, isn’t that right? Multiculturalism? Tolerance?”
“What the hell are you on about?” Mr. Reed says, mouth twisted in disgust.
Vincent turns to him. “Acceptance, Carl? Try to stay current. As a proud Canadian, I can tolerate a multitude of voices. For a few minutes. Jasminder? I hired you. What’s your experience? Please share.”
“Well…for me…tolerance is about—”
“Listening! Exactly. That is so what it’s about. You’re a fantastic interpersonalist, Jasminder, despite…Heather? See the talent you’re up against? Here we are, the tech-savvy next-gen neo-Futurists pushing you obsolete old white-tops into your graves!” Vincent strokes his beard like a Russian czar overseeing an execution. “So. As we were saying, Jasminder, Heather and I are at odds over this stunning piece of property.”
“It’s a friendly rivalry,” Ms. Reed says, smirking at Vincent. “But things do get…rather heated?”
Carl groans, covers his face. Ms. Reed fiddles with her diamond pendant. Vincent pretends to dust off his suit.
“Friendly because Marigold contributes generously to your campaigns. Zing! I very much appreciate a competitive spirit, especially in a woman. Makes my inevitable alpha domination more exciting. There are no losers. Except you. I’ve spoken to Scott Charles Booth’s assistant, Heather. He says the man has zero intention of seeing his property lie fallow while the province galvanizes the behemoth of bureaucracy. Tell you what? When we reach escape velocity, break free of totalitarian government altogether, I’ll let you manage my chicken coop. Waiter, my beverage? A smoothie, yes. Should I write it down for you? And another Scotch for the lovely
-if-not-totally-honourable Minister Heather Reed. Food, anyone except Jasminder? No? Not much of an appetite, Carl? Go figure. A shame, really. Amazing food. Michelin and so on. Waiter, I’d like the iron steak sandwich, blue. Very bloody. Like…bloody meat in my teeth. Protein? Rebuilds tissue damaged by elite-level exercise. Simple, true-to-ingredients food here at awesome Hawksworth. Locally sourced, duh.”
“I’ve eaten at fucking Hawksworth,” Carl spits.
“Delighted, Carl. Charmed. And the other interesting tidbit about this North Van property, Jasminder—if you’ll permit a tumble into vicarious gossip—is that Mr. Reed himself, our aging peacenik Carl here, has agreed to back Marigold’s bid for the property to the tune of…what was it, Carl?”
Mr. Reed waves his hand, nearly knocks over a crystal vase filled with origami orchids. “Piss off, Vincent. Ask Michael. He’s the numbers man.”
“Piss…oh! Michael’s numbers, hmm? And what are you? The dreamer-visionary? Pardon us small-minded skeptics. Us bean counters and contract writers. You know? We who make the world go round? Like your hard-working, pants-wearing spouse? In any case. We’re excited to have Green Lead on board. Aren’t we, Jasminder? Say yes. Ethical-investment visionaries! Twenty-something million. Isn’t that amazing? Opposed property bids within the same family? Whoops! Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, Carl. Dragon lady! I’ve felt her…uh, not-always-friendly fire! In any case. Must make for interesting late-night conversation.”
Silence.
Ms. Reed scowls at her husband.
Carl straightens. “Green Lead has its own strategic priorities. Independent of the province. Or my wife.”
Vincent glares at Carl long enough to make the older man look away. “Is that so? Maybe. But…strange bedfellows. Heather! What’s your take on your husband’s involvement with Marigold?”
“Carl’s a big boy.”
“Oh, yes! See? That’s the problem, isn’t it? Because really—and with all due respect, Carl—Heather? Your husband is a lifelong degenerate and layabout—”
“You snake sonofabi—”
“—and I find it difficult to believe that a man like Carl is operating independently of you, which means—”
Ms. Reed reaches across the table, grabs Vincent’s hands and holds them. Vincent gasps, tries to fight her grip, realizes she won’t release him, pretends to be okay with her holding him, licks his lips, tries to speak, stammers something indecipherable. It’s the first time I’ve seen Vincent at a loss for words, and suddenly it’s like Mr. Reed and me aren’t even at the table and the feeling is very uncomfortable—
“Young man. Is something troubling you?”
Vincent glares at Ms. Reed’s hands on top of his. “Troubling? Human contact? Well…”
“Are you worried my husband and I are in cahoots—”
“Ha, in cahoots—”
“—scheming, plotting to sabotage the Solstice development—”
“And everyone says I’m the paranoid one!” Carl yells.
“Carl, shut up!”
Ms. Reed strokes Vincent’s hand. He looks about to be sick. “Well? Are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re simply—”
Carl whispers: “It was you. You depraved sonofabitch. Those scumbags in North Van! And the Price boy…and Han—” Carl cuts himself off, goes quiet.
Ms. Reed glances at her husband. Vincent takes the opportunity to tear his hands from hers, shouts at the waiter for a moist towelette.
“What was him, Carl? Tell me.”
“Yes, Carl my man, what was me? Exactly? Mind all right? Feeling okay? Paranoid delusions? Not quite sure who and where you are? Or is and were?”
Carl flinches but stays quiet. I look into my coffee cup, make mental notes. Ms. Reed glances outside and for a moment her hard businesswoman-politician demeanour vanishes and she looks a lot like a mother, worried—
A commotion on Georgia Street brings several diners to the window. Car horns, a horrible crunching sound, screaming. Was a pedestrian hit and then I’m standing at the window beside Heather Reed and she’s whispering that poor man that poor poor man see Vincent this is why we need green spaces, mentally rejuvenating and there’s a guy in the middle of Georgia stumbling through traffic, shrieking, wild-eyed as he hurls magazines at passing cars. My breath catches as a Mercedes SUV nearly runs him down and for a second I can’t tell if this is happening or only a grief vision created by my unwell mind until Vincent puts a hand on my hip, says, “See, Jasminder? What a shame. For us to have to see that? Even in beautiful Vancouver? And with all the money we’ve thrown at those rejects. Why are they still here? Oh, look! My steak sandwich—”
We turn from the window and what does it mean, what does it say about me, that I’m able to live with that man’s suffering, keep going like nothing happened and when did I learn to do it so easily and before I’m settled in my seat the image of the unstable man on Georgia fades and here I am now, confronting my own problems—
Vincent folds his napkin as the waiter sets a plate on the table. “Waiter—thank you. And thank you too, Mr. and Ms. Reed, for putting my ills at ease. I feel better! Heather, enough chitty-chat. I’d like to make the province an attractive offer. Our team—through Jasminder here, amazing work, yay team, very global—has recently acquired a rather sizable property outside Lillooet. Could hold a thousand pretend back-to-the-landers like your husband. Waiter! Come here. Look at that sandwich. Is that cooked blue? I sincerely hope so. I asked for a blue steak sandwich. It appears slightly grey-brown? Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll take the high road. I’ll eat anything. Leave it alone. Heather, this property I’m offering in exchange borders Upper Lillooet Park. Drop the North Vancouver bid and we’ll offer you the Lillooet property in total. Expand the boundary of the park, big political win. It’s a beautiful parcel, right, Jasminder?”
“Gorgeous,” I say, too quick. “Absolutely stunning.”
“World-class?” Carl hisses.
Vincent clears his throat, asks if Carl would like a nibble of his meat sandwich.
“Eating dead flesh causes living rigor mortis. Plus, laced with—”
Ms. Reed rattles her Scotch, says she’s surprised Peele is caving so early. Says she thought he had bigger balls. Vincent says he believes his balls are normal sized, says he’s feeling an emerging spirit of co-operation between crazy-free enterprise and repressive government.
Carl groans, rubs his face.
Ms. Reed checks her watch. “Shit. Running late. Nice to see you, Vincent. Let’s do it again when I’m in town. Oh, and by the by…the North Vancouver property is already in my over-the-hill hands. Haven’t you heard? Scott Charles Booth has expressed a firm desire to gift the land to the Canadian people. The man has finally taken an interest in his legacy. The green space will be named in his honour, of course.”
Vincent sets his sandwich down, dabs blood from his lips, asks if Heather possesses Mr. Booth’s alleged agreement in writing. Being drawn up as we speak, she answers. Carl leans over and smacks Vincent on the shoulder, says she skunked you this time, I told you my Heather Hellcat’s a goddamned sharp-toothed feline.
“You’re right, Carl. About what you said earlier? It was me.”
Something in Vincent’s voice makes me reach for my purse, eye the door.
Carl grips the edge of the table, chokes. “What have you done, you—”
“Carl!” Ms. Reed snaps. “What’s going on? What the hell is he—”
Vincent plunges his fingers into his beard. “Hannah must be…how old, Heather? Sixteen?” Lifts his steak sandwich. “Yum! Look at this delectable…tender flesh…”
“Get the fuck out,” Ms. Reed says, the muscles in her face bunching up.
“Sulphur!” Carl says, sniffing the air. “Anyone smell that? Sulphury putrescence? Goddammit! Peele chose this uptight kill room, I knew it—”
Ms. Reed waves her hands frantically. “Carl…easy now…no!”
“Sulphury-rot-stink Heather ba
by this is ageless malevolent evil sorry I’ve been expecting this all along It-Peele baited us into a cursed demonic feeding trust me Heather you’re way outta your league I googled this shit let me deal with—”
“No!”
Carl dips a hand inside his jean jacket. Vincent turns in time to catch a face-full of white powder Carl’s plucked from a tiny purple satchel. Vincent leaps up, pawing at his eyes. Slams into the table. Glasses shatter across the floor. The entire restaurant’s staring at us, men are making their way over with angry or helpful expressions and Carl’s brandishing the satchel, cackling and muttering a very unusual fluid-sounding language. Vincent flings his arm over his face as he staggers for the door and I’m left gaping, speechless.
Ms. Reed shoos the crowd away. Takes a sip of Scotch. “Shit, Carl. Again?”
“Got rid of It, didn’t I? Not easy, sorcering on the fly. Banishing that kind of pervasive nastiness. Did you see It not having a reflection in the window? You’re welcome.”
“Bastard. So much for me bluffing him into a deal.”
“Won’t hurt It too bad. Garlic powder. Bit of burning. No permanent damage. Heather? When will you listen? I told you this joint was a bloodsucking—”
Ms. Reed cackles. Leans across the table, tousles her husband’s hair. “Fuck me, Carl. That was madness! Look at these stiffs. Fully freaked! I think we’re gonna get kicked out!” Downs the last of her Scotch. “Hey…Blitz? I got a room. Let’s do it in a heptagram—”
“So, it was nice meeting…,” I manage, throwing myself into the tornado of waiters and fellow diners swirling around us.
“Not quite yet, Jasminder,” Ms. Reed says. “Stick around. Girls only! But you—husband. You can leave. Upstairs. Ask the front desk for a key.” Carl makes to go and Ms. Reed grabs his arm, pulls him close, hisses: “Vincent threatened our daughter? Crossed the line! Get that crazy motherfucker Caltrop booted up. Tout suite!”
Mr. Reed shakes his head. “Y’know, Heather, jeesh. That’s what I’ve been saying all along.”