Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(77)
“Make up your mind,” Cud growled at Herman Schloss, a retired insurance executive and a man of means but a recovering Transformer. He’d been easy prey for them, in a woebegone state since May, when his actress wife, Mookie, had returned to Hollywood and her B-movie career.
“You’ve got aces showing, Herman, they beat his jacks.” This was Nelson Forbish, who was hovering like a hot-air balloon, kibitzing, his back to Arthur.
“Shut up, I’m concentrating.” Schloss looked dazed, maybe because he was still not fully untransformed. Cud Brown and Emily LeMay, the off-duty bartender, were also at the table, sipping cocktails, a frothy purple potion. Three others were drinking beer: Honk Gilmore, Scotty Phillips, and a sixth player obscured by Nelson’s bulk.
Forbish refused to let up. “Cud’s bluffing, you can see it in his eyes.”
Schloss growled, “Bugger off, Nelson.”
Arthur ordered a pot of tea, and leaned toward Makepeace. “Abraham, surely you know this is illegal. Gambling in licensed premises.”
“It’s legal today.” He went off to fetch the tea.
Schloss tossed some bills on the pile. “I’m calling you, pal.” He turned up his down cards.
Forbish groaned. “Full house beats three aces. Nice try, Herman.”
Schloss rose to slap him, almost knocking his chair over. Forbish retreated, opening up a view of the sixth player: Constable Irwin Dugald, in civvies, cooling out the situation. “It’s only a game, gentlemen. Let’s play cards.”
“He’s a poker fanatic,” Makepeace said “He’s sent his sidekick off to Starkers, guarding stuff. We’re not supposed to tell Zoller about the gambling. He gets uptight.”
Felicity Jones, who worked the Brig’s tables on weekends, squeezed beside Arthur with an empty tray. “Two more of those gupa slushes, Abraham.” She saw the puzzlement on Arthur’s face and explained: “One of the fridges they were giving away had two gallons of cold gupa. Works real good with vodka.”
Arthur looked around. There were Martie Miller and her husband enjoying Silverson’s famous fruit toddy, with its herbs and pinch of Echinacea. As were another couple, weekenders. All of them were acting normal, chatting, smiling.
As Arthur pulled a chair over to Al and Taba’s table, Felicity set down his tea, picked up two empty glasses, and replaced them with the vodka-gupa slushes.
“Bring a booze-free one for Arthur, too,” Al said, then turned to him. “Terrific pick-me-up, old boy. Good for what ails you.”
“I’ll stay with my ailments, thanks.”
“Are you still missing Jason, poor baby?” Taba said to her daughter, over-sweetly.
“You want to know the truth, Mom? He was a lousy lay.”
Al sputtered with laughter.
Arthur said, “You two seem in a celebratory mood.”
“Taba and I have our lives back. We’ve withdrawn our candidacies.”
Arthur was taken aback. “But then we’re stuck with two extremely marginal characters as Trustees.”
“I’m sure Kurt and Ida have the best interests of Garibaldi at heart. They’re both too slow on the uptake to do much damage, especially with their guru gone AWOL.”
Arthur wasn’t sure about that. How would his beloved island survive a three-year reign under the anally retentive Kurt Zoller and his holy-rolling partner? But he couldn’t begrudge his friends their restored freedom.
His alcohol-free gupa arrived, and he just stared at it. The fumes found a fast pathway to his nose, pungent, intense. There was no way he was going to drink it.
As Al was looking away, Taba treated Arthur to a short but emphatic wink. He smiled uncertainly. A conspiratorial message? Or one of understanding: all is well, no one will ever know? Arthur decided on the latter and felt a stiffness go out of him.
Emboldened, he took a sip of the gupa. It tasted not bad.
He let his worries lift free — the trial was months away, he was back on his happy little island, at home, enjoying this pleasant Sunday with friends, the carefree bantering around the poker table. The Transformers were gone, the hay was in, his truck re-muffled. And the weather had shifted, the rain had stopped and the clouds were scattering, pursued by mighty Apollo.
He sat back, smiled, and took another sip of gupa. Carpe diem.
§
Some time later — fifteen minutes? An hour? — he found himself on Hopeless Bay’s public pier, stretched out, leaning over the water, watching it slop and slurp against the pilings, watching the minnows play. Once again, Arthur Beauchamp was at the mercy of an ineffable sense of well-being.
He looked up. A pair of buffleheads bobbed on the waves, occasionally diving, while an osprey patrolled above. The sun was warm, pulling mist from the bay. His worries were forgotten, magically suppressed. Let what comes come; let what goes go.
A shadow fell over him. He turned to see Reverend Al, looking anxious: “Are you all right?”
“I’m at peace with the universe.”
“I’m wondering if you should see someone.”
THE UNCONSCIOUS MIND
“There’s a medical term for it,” said Dr. Timothy Dare. “Genetic sexual attraction.”
Arthur played with that label, rolled the syllables around his tongue. He was pacing about Dare’s office, occasionally stopping to watch the small craft plying False Creek below Vancouver’s downtown skyscrapers.