Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(20)
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Arthur stayed back with Al and Zo? as the congregation dispersed. He’d thought about telling Al about the Government Whip and the dominatrix, asking for his take on it. But speaking to anyone about the matter, even a dear friend, would be incautious.
Al was sullen, muttering about his muddled sermon and low turnout, proclaiming an intention to go home and get stinking drunk. Zo? reprimanded him, saying there would be none of that, put her arm around him, and led him to their car.
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Arthur ascended Sproules’ Hill on Centre Road, the Fargo’s muffler roaring, warning him of its impending death. He had lost the contentment he’d felt a few hours ago; the familiar grumpiness had reclaimed him.
Did he dare render the Fargo to Stoney’s mercies and risk losing possession for the summer? Should he instead sneak it off the island to a Speedy Muffler? He wouldn’t be able to face Stoney if he did. Somehow, Arthur had found himself in thrall to his long-time, lackadaisical mechanic. Garibaldians had a strict tradition, almost a religion, of loyalty to one another, however perverse its effects.
At the valley bottom, he found himself slowing by a driveway with a cluster of signs on a post. “Stonewell Pre-Owned Auto Sales,” “Rob’s Towing and Taxi,” “Loco Motion Car and Truck Rentals” — unlicensed businesses all. Plus a couple of Stoney’s legitimate trades: vehicle and small engine repairs and “Island Landscraping.”
Arthur pulled over on seeing Stoney up by his lopsided wooden garage, waving as he climbed behind the wheel of one of his working vehicles. His stubby little cohort, a fellow stoner known locally as Dog, also jumped in.
They pulled over beside him, and Stoney leaned out the window. A scrawny fellow with long, unkempt hair, a roll-your-own between his lips. The smell of cannabis. “Just the man I needed to see, Queen’s Counsel Arthur Beauchamp, fighter for the little man. They’re trying to deny my free enterprise rights — it’s the first creeping step to communism.”
Stoney passed to Arthur a grime-stained letter from the strict new constable, Irwin Dugald, warning Mr. Robert Stonewell to shutter his several illegal businesses.
It wasn’t the first time Stoney had been put through this. With every new cop, he received a flurry of summonses and fought each one in court, sapping the energies of the law enforcers, who would finally, wearily, turn a blind eye to the operations of Loco Motion Auto Rentals and its allied unlimited companies.
Arthur reminded Stoney of his courtroom prowess: no lawyer could do better. But Stoney shrugged that off, passed his joint to Dog. “In return for your services, Padrone, I’m gonna replace that piece of rust you call a muffler, disbursements only.”
Arthur was unmoved. “It must have slipped your mind, though I have repeated it countless times — I am officially, irreversibly, and for all eternity retired from the practice of law. I shall pay the going rate.”
“Guess I’m on my own once again,” Stoney said sourly. “Okay, counsellor, I’ll put the muffler near the top of my list because I got no hard feelings about you leaving me stranded. Meanwhile I got a emergency to fix up an used tractor the Transformers bought.”
A tractor. So much for Silverson’s boast: no mechanized shortcuts, no exhaust-spewing engines.
Stoney retrieved the joint, took a last toke, and squished the remains. “Them pod people don’t even know how to tighten a nut on a bolt. Could lead to bigger things, they’re spending loot like water. Transformation Mission, that’s a front, eh. It’s a pharmacy. Some kind of love drug, MDA, ecstasy.”
“No way,” Dog said.
Stoney looked shocked. “No way what?”
“I been there. They believe in loving all things.” A major effort for the laconic squat.
Stoney’s mouth hung open. “They got to you.” To Arthur, annoyed. “Now I gotta deprogram him.”
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At home, Arthur changed into jeans and a work shirt, made himself a sandwich. He rarely used his fancy new smartphone, Margaret’s gift, finding it too complicated, so regularly checked messages on the house line. Today brought an offer for a quick and easy loan and an opportunity to earn millions of dollars working at home. Margaret hadn’t called yet, as promised. She was still at the WWF conference. Maybe in her hotel room huddled with advisors, in deep debate over Farquist, their sleeping bomb. But was she not on some kind of panel today?
He idled by the desktop computer awhile, finally turning it on. He had some rudimentary skills with search engines, and managed to find a link to the agenda of the WWF conference.
He scrolled down to the Sunday afternoon agenda. An interactive session this afternoon, the Green leader and her cohorts fielding questions. Other political parties had also been given platforms, but none would feel as comfortable as Margaret with this crowd.
Arthur felt a niggling discomfort. A name had flashed by during the scrolling, a name he hadn’t wanted to see. Dr. Lloyd Chalmers, “Climate Change Denial: A Mental Disorder?”
Margaret was staying at the St. James. Arthur couldn’t bear to learn that Chalmers was also booked in there, so he didn’t check. He felt a little queasy.
BAD NIGHT, WORSE DAY
Margaret was frantically trying not to feel frantic. Had Pierette not called her half an hour ago, arousing her at mid-morning, she would be ridiculously late. She jumped from the shower, dried off, attacked her hair with dryer and brush, then dove into the outfit she’d set aside last night.