Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(15)
“Yeah, that’s got to stop,” said Gomer, without irony.
“You have evidence?” Dugald looked from face to face. Winks and knowing smiles hid the likelihood that all they’d heard was scuttlebutt.
Dugald left them to the mercies of Zoller, and joined Arthur’s table. He leaned close. “You don’t mind my asking, Mr. Beauchamp, what do you make of these Transformers? Only been beyond their gate once, I’ve got no reason to go back. They have all their permits. I’ve heard some rumours about drugs and sex, but that wasn’t my basic impression.”
“I know less than you do, Constable.”
Dugald glanced into the bar, where Felicity and her mother were sharing a drink. “I can’t investigate that fellow Silverson for consensual acts. Especially with certain ladies of this island, if you know what I mean.” Dugald had obviously heard of Felicity’s reputation as the easiest of the Nine Pieces and seen her fawning over the blond bombshell. Her T-shirt, a size too small, was fittingly captioned: “Just Do It!”
“Maybe he does want to inhabit their bodies,” Arthur said, repeating Reverend Al’s feeble joke.
“Well, no one’s filed a complaint about that.” Dugald was not a man of infinite jest.
“Might I suggest you send an undercover operator in.” This time Arthur was only half joking, but Dugald was looking at Kurt Zoller, musing.
THEMES OF SEX AND VIOLENCE
Margaret Blake was slouched over her desk in the Greens’ HQ staff room, growing angrier as she waded through the various bills that the PMO was offering as election sop — lower taxes, subsidies, development grants. The most blatant was a mushy act to “Strengthen Canadian Families” that offered a small tax rebate; the most hideous offered more incentives for petroleum exploration.
The Tories anticipated an election, expected the Liberals finally to side with the Evil Empire of the Left. The Greens were as ready as they could be, given their scant resources, but still short of candidates for the last dozen ridings. The poorly paid staff and volunteers that composed the campaign committee were working triple overtime on election prep.
Pierette entered, talking on her BlackBerry, giving her a wide-eyed look. “Let me put you on hold.” Margaret sat up. “Lou Sabatino. You remember him.”
A CP staffer. He’d been in the Press Gallery several years ago. He’d covered her first national campaign, and was now with their Montreal bureau. A gentle soul, sort of nondescript.
“He has something he wants you to see. Amend that. He has something you’ll want to see. He wouldn’t tell me. You know he wrote that series on the Montreal harbour scandal.”
“Yes, of course.” She assumed he was doing the rounds with his contact list, seeking comment from party leaders on a breaking story. Had he dug up more good dirt on Waterfrontgate?
A little more conversation, then Pierette put him on hold again. “Can you go to Montreal? He doesn’t like to travel. I think he’s a little paranoid. Justifiably, I guess.”
Margaret had always suspected Sabatino was slightly neurotic. Needy, socially awkward, he seemed obsessed with his electronic gizmos. But he’d pulled off a mighty scoop and barely escaped an attempt on his life by those whose crimes he’d exposed.
Pierette, on her BlackBerry: “Lou, is this super important?” A pause. “Hold again, Lou.”
To Margaret: “Apparently one of the participants at a certain annual Easter bird count is himself a rara avis. No names mentioned. But I’m assuming it’s you-know-who.”
That caused Margaret to jerk upright. She didn’t have to look at her calendar, but did so anyway. This was Thursday. On the weekend, at Montreal’s Palais des congrès, the World Wildlife Fund was sponsoring an international conference on habitat preservation. Margaret had agreed to be on a panel.
“I’ll be at the St. James through Sunday. Set up a time.”
§
The gentle rocking of VIA Rail usually encouraged Margaret to drift off, especially when escaping Ottawa for a weekend. But with eyes closed, legs stretched out on the facing seat, she was merely pretending to sleep, her mind too busy with pre-election clutter and with the busy agenda for the WWF conference. For which she and her team — Pierette and Jennie Withers — would be late arrivals this Saturday morning.
Pierette was plugged into a podcast. Jennie had slipped away to another car to confer with some First Nations friends also en route to the conference. Subtly campaigning for herself as leader, of course. Good luck to her, with her “cooler” approach. So quick-witted, unbitchy. She’d be a fine leader. More cautious than Margaret, not prone to jumping into political mud puddles.
Margaret had agreed to a secret tête-à-tête with Lou Sabatino, planned for tonight, in some dark corner of a bookstore-cum-café near the McGill campus. He’d called again last evening, coins clacking and pinging from a pay phone, his voice trembling. He’d balked at joining her at the Convention Centre or her nearby hotel, the St. James, in Old Montreal. “They may be listening. We can’t be seen. Clandestine is the word.”
Should she go masked? It all seemed a little silly. But if this cloak and dagger was about that rara avis, Emil Farquist, clandestine was the word. She was tingling to know what this was about. Interestingly, Sabatino was no longer on staff at Canadian Press. A source at the bureau told Pierette that Lou had been let go recently. No address, no phone, no contact information. The witness protection program was mentioned.