Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(34)
“Now, dear, be nice.”
§
By early afternoon, Lou was on the town’s western outskirts, bound for Ontario and beyond. The next bus west wasn’t till the evening. He had his thumb out.
He figured if he could make it to Sudbury, he could catch the train. Though that would cost him the best part of what he had left in his wallet. He’d have to scrimp until he found a Laurentian branch so he could access his severance pay.
Three more cars and a pickup passed. None slowed.
Calgary, that’s where Celeste had to be hiding out. He’d read it from Janine’s face, Simon’s silence. A well-to-do neighbourhood called Upper Mount Royal, unless her sister’s family had moved.
Two more vehicles. One driver at least waved apologetically.
For the sixth time in the last six days, he went online on his phone — undamaged by the waters of Lac Osisko — seeking comfort from the thirty-two K in his chequing account.
He frowned. Something was phenomenally wrong. The balance was zero. He logged out, logged back in. Still zero! Surely an error, a banking error, a computer error. Panicking, he scrolled through recent transactions. One stood out: yesterday, a $32,000 electronic transfer to one Charles Bandolino, a name unknown to Lou, from the Laurentian Bank, Montreal, Lou’s branch. His password had been hacked. They couldn’t rub him out so they’d robbed him blind.
He lay down on a patch of grass and wept.
HORNY IN SEATTLE
The American Trial Lawyers’ Association had offered Arthur Beauchamp, as its wind-up dinner speaker, three nights in Seattle’s grand old Olympic hotel, and on this Thursday mid-June evening he was feeling fairly full of himself, having earned a standing ovation for his treasury of courtroom anecdotes. He’d spent the next hour signing copies of A Thirst for Justice.
And now he was lounging deep in his suite’s jet bath, massaging a kink in his neck, his legs splayed, bubbles rising between them, tickling his balls.
He was enduring one of his infrequent visits from Pan. The stirring in his groin had been induced by an enticing appellate counsel from Austin and her invitation to see her to her room. He’d got that far, then panicked, retreating with a mumbled excuse about catching an early flight.
Which was not true. He would be having breakfast with another of the conference’s guest speakers, Francisco Sierra, the acclaimed private investigator, now retired in Victoria. Arthur had worked with him on a few trials, and they’d developed an easy friendship.
Helping body and soul to relax was the lack of unsettling news from Ottawa. Two and a half weeks had passed since Margaret’s breathless, gossipy faux pas, and there’d been not a whisper from Christie Montieth. Seventeen days was a long time in the world of media. Crisis over. Probably.
Parliament was well into summer recess, but Margaret wouldn’t be coming home until the end of the month. She was campaigning in the East, shoring up support, raising funds for an expected fall election. He ached to have her by him, close, touching.
Arthur felt guilty about saddling his two Woofers with managing the farm for most of a week. But he’d needed a holiday from laid-back Garibaldi with its Transformers and flaky Californians and twitchy cops and his faithless mechanic, Robert Stonewell.
He never ought to have left the Fargo with him. That was three weeks ago. Stoney had spent those weeks busily dragging his feet over a simple muffler job while answering multiple handyman demands from Starkers Cove. While Arthur went about by foot or tractor. Stoney had promised the truck would be waiting for him at the ferry landing tomorrow. Fat chance.
So, Arthur felt relieved to get away to civilization in this culture-conscious metropolis by the sail-speckled waters of Puget Sound. He had taken in a chamber concert, a competent production of All’s Well, and had visited museums and galleries.
He was ashamed that he’d entertained a brief fantasy of a rollick with the slightly tiddly appellate counsel from Austin. That simply wasn’t like Arthur. He had an allergy to adultery.
He suspected, shamefully, that performance anxiety had also been behind his panicked withdrawal. During his rare spells of horniness, he was rarely guaranteed a stiff erection.
Yet now, in the soapy froth of his Jacuzzi, here was his cock proudly standing at attention. What a waste.
§
Arthur met Francisco Sierra at the hotel’s front entrance, where they shook hands — hugging might be the Latin way but it was not Sierra’s way. Raised by upper-class Costa Ricans, he was reserved in manner and impeccably dressed in suit and tie whatever the occasion. Short and portly and balding, he easily melded into an urban crowd.
Until he retired, Frank Sierra had maintained an office in Vancouver, but they hadn’t connected for a few years. Nor had they been able to spend much time together at the conference, so they caught up on each other’s recent doings while strolling to a restaurant a few blocks away, a faux-1950s diner festooned with photos of old Seattle.
In a booth, over coffees, Arthur gave him a detailed rundown of the Farquist saga, concluding with an account of Margaret’s futile attempt to track down Sabatino. “He has utterly disappeared. With or without what may be the only extant copy of the video.”
Their omelettes arrived. Sierra studied a 1920s photo of the Pike Place market for several moments, before returning Arthur’s imploring gaze. “You are telling me this for a reason, my friend. It is not to titillate me, though I must say the matter is singularly bizarre. But the answer, with heartfelt regrets, is no. I am too occupied growing roses in the garden of a cozy bungalow near Beacon Hill Park, where I regularly walk my beagle, Bolivar.” The hint of a Spanish accent added a charming timbre to his perfect diction.