Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(3)
He listened dully to Dexter’s prepared text, an obit, the kind that CP prepared pre-death for luminaries. Client newspapers across the country were on the rims. Belts had to be tightened. Were it up to Dexter, Lou would be kept on despite his long absences. Dexter had fought for him — after all, Lou had brilliantly exposed Waterfrontgate. No matter that the cops complained he jumped the gun a week before a planned mass arrest — that was journalism. Sorry, Lou, but the final decision had been made in Toronto.
Unfortunately, because of some nonsense in the union contract, Dexter was required to dismiss him for cause — his inability to work while under witness protection, with no end in sight. But that wouldn’t be mentioned among the many positive comments contained in the two-page letter of recommendation in this envelope. Along with a cheque for thirty-two thousand simoleons. Four months’ pay! That should allay his disappointment. And he’ll cut another cheque for the same sum after six months. Regrettably, the extra emolument would likely be held back if he went to the union. Sign here.
Before leaving, Lou scooped up a few items from his desk, a 500-gig external drive with all his Waterfrontgate research — he would hide it somewhere — and a few other electronic externals, a Bluetooth adapter, a 128-gig memory stick, a wireless mouse, stuffing them in his pockets. As he moped his way out, no one said goodbye.
And thus, as of about two o’clock that cruel afternoon, the ace reporter became the former ace reporter.
§
He began a soggy walk home, but soon was seized with such desolation that he stopped at a tawdry tavern on The Main, and quaffed a pint, then another, wondering if anything worse could happen on this black day in May. He was dizzy, he’d forgotten to eat, and ordered poutine.
The beer and thick food warmed him long enough to make it back to his street, his triplex, and he wearily ascended the spiralling escalier, rehearsing how to explain to Celeste he’d been declared economically inactive. Maybe she would get off his back, feel his pain, regret her intemperate reproaches.
Fortunately, Lisa and Logan would be back from school by now, and Celeste rarely made scenes in front of them. Lisa, eight, and Logan, six, were the only truly good things that had ever happened to Lou. Other than Celeste, his love lingering despite everything, hers long fled.
The front door was locked. That was puzzling, and when he checked the street, he saw no sign of the family vehicle, Celeste’s actually, a Dodge Caravan. He fumbled in his pocket litter for his key, and entered to an unfamiliar stillness.
Her scribbled note was on the dining table. It simply said, We’re outta here.
§
The air in the apartment was stuffy, dense, choking, and after a while he had to escape to his balcony, where he removed his tear-smeared glasses and leaned on the heavy concrete railing, breathing hard, feeling like his lungs were collapsing, or maybe it was his heart exploding.
He was vaguely aware of the game of street hockey happening below, pre-adolescents with sticks and a tennis ball. They scrambled onto the sidewalks as a familiar car, a blue Mazda Miata, pulled up in front. The sexy, leggy downstairs tenant emerged from it, scowling and muttering to herself, apparently enduring her own bad day. Svetlana Glinka, the S&M artiste, back from one of her house calls. She did at least one overnight a week, always on Sundays, taking off mid-afternoon.
Lou had a nodding acquaintance with her from occasionally seeing her on her front stoop, having a smoke. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a doll-like face that seemed all wrong for a professional sadist. Her body was well honed from all that hard whipping and spanking and whatever else that went on.
Svetlana paused at her gate and looked up at him. “You, the reporter, come.”
Alarmed, Lou surfaced from his sea of gloom like a gasping swimmer. He gestured at her to be silent, holding a trembling finger to his lips. He nearly did a header coming down, the shinny players laughing as he stumbled against the iron railing, grabbing his glasses to keep them from sliding off his nose.
She held the door open, ushered him in to a vestibule. An inner door opened to a parlour, presumably the therapy clinic: soft lights, plush lounge chairs, carpeted walls, erotic art. A well-stocked bar. Svetlana took his jacket, hung it up with her coat, shimmied out of her leggings, told him to be comfortable. As if that was possible.
“How do you know I’m a reporter?”
“Seen you on the news, darlink.”
He’d been a fool to have expected anonymity in this crowded metropolis. He felt unsteady and sank with a shuddering sigh into the first chair he could find, a recliner. Would he enjoy a drink? Yeah, a whisky would go down good. She poured him a bracer, two inches of Johnny Red, then pulled out a cigarette, thought about it, put it away. She seemed agitated.
“From four months ago, I am making this prick happy. Four months’ loyal service! He wants a change, says I’m too old to be his mother. Too old! He wants some bunny-fucking teenage slut. I’m a professional, not a whore! A therapist! He’ll never find another Svetlana!”
When Lou put his glasses on she came into stark relief. So did her nipples, beneath a tight silk top. Incalculably long legs. Kohl eyes, a full red mouth. She didn’t seem so old she’d need to be replaced. Late thirties.
“Okay, so here is plan.” She lit the cigarette after all, but cracked open the balcony door, blew the smoke outside. “You, famous reporter Lou Sabatino, have contacts in news business, magazine business. Like People or Rolling Stone. Big newspapers, maybe big tabloid.”