Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(64)
“I like that house.” It could double as his office. Two storeys, a full acre, garden, well maintained. A big fireplace, warm shelter from the coming gales of winter. He shuddered at the memory of his spooky flat in Montreal.
“Ninety thou’ is the asking. Fifteen down and they’ll take a mortgage back to the right guy.”
Tempting. But did he dare put his name on a property deed? Maybe just rent it long-term. He could certainly afford that. The computer-repair business had levelled off, but he’d gotten into an internet sideline that was working like hot buttered fuck. Selling Facebook-ready lists to websites, fuel for the hits that kept the ads flowing. TEN FAMOUS ACTORS YOU DIDN’T KNOW WERE ALCOHOLICS. EIGHT HOT TIPS TO WRITE GREAT FICTION. TEN BIZARRE SEX ACTS THAT WILL BLOW YOUR MIND. TWELVE HOLLYWOOD HOTTIES WHO HAD ABORTIONS. Most of those twelve were guesses, but Lou was betting that abortions were as common in Hollywood as apples in an orchard.
“Any dietary issues?” Sally said. “I can rustle up a sizzling pork roast.”
“Sounds sumptuous.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’ll bring wine.”
She gave him a big hug at the door. She smelled good.
§
Lou carried on to the Quill, returning greetings as he waded between the tables. Everyone was in a good mood, a lax time in November — the snow had held off, the granaries were full, cattle prices up. A lot of post-election analysis going on, folks suspicious of the new Liberal government — it was pretty Conservative around here.
You’d think Emil Farquist had enough going on, but he’d tossed his hat in for the Conservative leadership — even while his humongous suit against Margaret Blake headed for the courts. Lou was plagued by guilt over breaking his promise to her. But he felt handcuffed, impotent, with those Montreal mobsters bent on blipping him off. All of them were out on bail, their trial adjourned because Sergio Castellani, Mario Baptiste, and gang leader Jules “the Monk” Moncrief, who had given one-way tickets to several snitches, were on the loose.
Margaret Blake had the goods on Farquist, she was innocent — surely that would become obvious at the trial. Svetlana would be Witness One. Arthur Beauchamp would eviscerate her on the stand if she tried any bullshit.
Assuming she was alive. No one had been able to locate her. That was a concern that fuelled Lou’s drive to survive.
On the bar, a laptop was waiting for him, an older Toshiba A215, a dinosaur. “Welcome back,” said its owner, Harry Schumann, the mayor — or reeve, as they called it — a bald, rotund, cracker-barrel kind of guy. “You been gone three days, and the government of Porcupine Plain has come to a standstill.”
“Still faster than normal, Harry,” a patron called.
Lou sat down. “What’s the problem?”
“Flickers on and off ever since I accidentally sat on it.”
“You need a new computer.”
“Ain’t in the budget. As it is, we’re a hundred and twenty-seven dollars in the hole.” He looked around, lowered his voice. “You been a little derelict, Rob, in obtaining a business licence. I’m empowered to waive the fee.”
Lou didn’t want a business licence, didn’t want his name on any public document.
The mayor handed him a pint. Lou took a gulp, and ran some tests, then began opening up the Toshiba.
“So where you been, Rob?”
“Calgary. I got relatives there.” He had pictures stuck in his mind of Logan sliding on that frozen puddle, Lisa bantering with her new friends.
“Something the matter, pardner?” said Mayor Schumann. He’d seen Lou cover his face.
“Something in my eyes.” Embarrassed, he accepted a Kleenex from the bartender.
The mayor watched gloomily as Lou laid his tools down and shook his head. “Say sayonara to this computer, Harry. I can save the hard drive. I’ll fix you up with one of my spares.”
He retreated to a lone table with his beer, ordered a cheeseburger, took out his iPad. TWELVE JESUS QUOTES YOUR MINISTER WILL NEVER READ. YOU’LL BE WIPING TEARS OF LAUGHTER AT THESE KITTEN VIDEOS. He would have to scour YouTube for those. EIGHT SECRETS TO A LASTING ORGASM.
DOUBT THOU THE STARS ARE FIRE
Arthur was spreading straw over the raised beds of his garden. He’d been a week on Garibaldi, a week of hard work with spade and fork and hoe. The last of the winter pears and apples were in. The hay was in. The root cellar was well stocked, and kale, potatoes, and carrots would continue to provide from the soil. Now, finally, the garden was almost tucked in.
It was Saturday, the tail end of a week of relative peace, getting back to the routines of Blunder Bay, renewing friendships with goats, geese, and sheep, battening the hatches against the mid-November chill. A brief deliverance from the grind of Farquist v. Blake, which had been taking an emotional toll.
He had undertaken Margaret’s defence as a beau geste, driven by a volatile blend of love for her and guilt over his romp with Taba Jones. He had broken his pledge never to step again inside a courtroom and the unwritten rule against a lawyer acting for a loved one. He was consumed by anxiety about failing Margaret, torn up by that fear.
They had managed only a couple of weeks together in the summer, an uncomfortable time, with the stress of the lawsuit and a pending election. Margaret had been constantly on the phone, long distance. She’d spent all but those two weeks campaigning and had remained back East since the election. She had won comfortably, but Emil Farquist’s victory was the more impressive: Calgary’s defamed hero.