Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(63)
These notes will go to you by Federal Express at a premium rate, so let us hope for their timely arrival. I am very sorry for this failure.
Your friend,
Francisco
PART THREE
EIGHT SECRETS TO A LASTING ORGASM
It was mid-November, and things were looking up. The second instalment of Lou’s severance pay, thirty-two K, had landed in his account at the Laurentian Bank. Hugh Dexter had come through, and Lou was almost ready to forgive the downsizing desk-sitter for being a prick.
And odds were good for recouping the thirty-two big ones the Mafia had poached from his bank account. That was one of the reasons he went to Calgary — Laurentian had a branch there. Lou drove to Calgary — he now owned a car, your basic Chev Cavalier, standard trans. He’d bought it from an auto mechanic up in Maple Creek for one grand plus setting him up with a website. Lou hadn’t yet registered the car in either of his names — he was leery of leaving a paper trail — so it was still in the name of Maple Creek Car and Truck Repairs Ltd.
The manager at the Calgary branch was a cool guy, and Lou opened up to him, showed proofs, documentation, printouts, the Waterfrontgate stories, the Mafia’s attempt on him, his status as a protected witness.
The transfer order had originated in Montreal, but Lou could prove he had been visiting in-laws that day in Rouyn-Noranda. The manager promised their security people would investigate. He would be in touch. If it all worked out, Lou would likely get his money back.
The other reason he was in Calgary was the child molester. Still on the loose. Another little girl had been approached. Lou had family in Calgary.
He was buoyed on leaving the Laurentian bank, and found the mojo to drive over to the Upper Mount Royal area, GPSing his way to the address of Celeste’s sister, Lucille. What people would call a better neighbourhood: sizable homes, mature trees, and broad, frozen lawns. Lou drove past Lucille’s sprawling house on Hope Street and got a quick peek at a modern extension at the back, maybe an in-law suite for Celeste and the kids. He parked about five houses down.
The two-car garage looked to be full — Celeste’s Dodge Caravan was parked outside. It was mid-afternoon, the kids at school: Logan, who had just turned seven, Lisa, whose ninth birthday was coming up. Lou hated himself for not being able to even send them a card. He ached to see them.
He didn’t get too close, in case someone was at a window. Mafia dread restrained any impulse to go farther. It was risky enough telling the bank manager everything, his pseudonym, his status as a protected witness. He was worried about loose lips, his wannabe assassins zeroing in on Calgary, his family being targeted.
He drove off to the nearest public school, a few minutes away, found it in afternoon recess. A platoon of adults with Street Watch was hanging around and eyed him suspiciously as he drove slowly past. His heart leaped when he saw little Logan, bundled up, romping, sliding on a frozen puddle. And just a glimpse of Lisa yakking with girlfriends.
That shithole pedophile. Lou wasn’t into extreme measures, but a little surgery to the nuts didn’t seem too over the line. But he felt assured his kids were safe.
Lou then headed off to his Travelodge, where he spent the evening composing a letter to his family. He posted it the next morning before driving back to Saskatchewan. No return address.
§
The next day found him back at work, arraying his tools beside a desktop in the storefront office of Sally Rosewell, Porcupine Plain’s combo realtor, insurance agent, and notary. He pressed the on switch. Nothing. An XPS desktop, 8000 series, only a few years old. The monitor seemed okay.
“It went on the fritz three days ago,” Sally said. Early forties, pretty face, pretty stacked, pretty good-looking generally, not too heavy.
“I’m sorry, Sally. I was away. I got your text.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just a little road trip to Alberta. Business. See some friends.” All the external inputs were in place. He hoped it wasn’t the processor.
“I like the way you trimmed that beard, Rob. Suavé.”
He’d seen a barber while he was in Maple Creek. He felt he looked scholarly, less nerdish. He figured he was beyond recognition. Robert O’Brien, but they called him Rob.
He got under the desk, had a good look at Sally’s ankles as he followed the power cord to its outlet, a surge protector. The plug was stiff but partly out. He jammed it in, and the computer booted up.
“Oh, shit,” Sally said.
They laughed off her embarrassment. “You owe me a drink,” he said.
“How about dinner? At my place?”
Lou was into doing that, and said so. He liked his chances, the way she was coming on. Her husband had run off to Moose Jaw last year, with the crop-duster’s wife.
Lou hadn’t been close to a woman for six months, but he saw all sorts of problems. The main problem was that he loved his wife.
“Hey, Rob, you still looking for a place to move to?”
“If something comes up.” His benefactors’ trailer was far out of town, and he had ended up doing a lot of his business in the Quill over coffee or, too often, beer. “Wouldn’t be the Johnsons’ place? Royce and Gertie are moving.”
“Exactly what I had in mind.”
A handsome brick house near the bottom end of Main Street. Royce was in his eighties, erratic ticker, murmurs. Lou had helped them do an internet search, found them a nice retirement community in Swift Current.