Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(80)
Other stuff, like the handcrafted panda, came from the local Christmas bazaar, in Porcupine Plain’s covered rink. He’d spent with abandon, buoyed by the news that the Laurentian branch had agreed to restore his thirty-two K.
His plan had been to make a Christmas Eve run for Calgary, an eight-hour drive, to Upper Mount Royal — a quick check to see that no one was around, drop the bags and the bike by the driveway, and scoot. But that was not going to happen. It would take days for the snowplows to clear the highways.
He trudged back to the house, defeated, trying to convince himself it was the thought that counted. This would be the first Christmas he hadn’t shared with his family, and he was haunted by memories of the kids bouncing him and Celeste awake before dragging them off to light the tree and the fire before the attack on their stockings and gifts. Then off to the park to try out the new sled or toboggan, and later back to the warmth of house and hearth and the aroma of a fat bird in the oven.
He sought solace in the comforts of his new home, a solid brick structure, a screened porch and a large attic, well heated and with a handsome fireplace and a full woodshed. The Johnsons had left him most of their furniture.
He had leased it for six months with an option to buy, but remained wary about putting his name on the title — it was a mind-bending effort to avoid a paper trail. He still hadn’t got a business licence or opened a credit union account. He hadn’t even registered the car in his name, and he’d had a close call talking his way out of a traffic ticket. Everything was cash, he’d stopped using his credit card long ago.
He made coffee, lit his lonely little tree, started a fire, sat down at his desk, opened his laptop.
TWELVE ENTERTAINERS WHO DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW THEY WEAR TOUPEES. SEVEN SUPER-SENSITIVE EROGENOUS ZONES THAT WILL DRIVE YOUR LOVER WILD. EIGHT CLEVER WAYS TO TALK YOUR WAY OUT OF A TRAFFIC TICKET. THESE TEN ADORABLE ORPHAN PUPPIES FOUND LOVING HOMES.
That last one had paid really well. A collection of kids with puppies. Hits galore for his client, showing up on Facebook pages everywhere. Merry Christmas, everyone.
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He didn’t emerge from the house for the rest of the day, labouring over his love letter to Celeste, studying the entrails of computers and other techno gadgets entrusted to him, then going online, checking the weather sites, cursing them, reading news feeds, wire services, the dailies. Lots of saccharine mush celebrating this allegedly festive season.
On the political pages, he came across an item about the examinations for discovery of Farquist and Blake, set for Calgary between Boxing Day and the thirty-first. Sort of ringing in the new year not with a tinkle but a gong. Lou knew his name was bound to come up. Margaret Blake would have to confess to their meeting, to having been shown Svetlana’s video. According to Reuters online, the S&M artiste had gone incommunicado in Russia after a sojourn in the south of France. That left the defence in a tough spot, but surely the legendary Arthur Beauchamp would prevail. Somehow.
It didn’t help that Ms. Blake would be in a foul mood. Reports had her being furious at the defection of a prominent Green MP: one of her stars, Dr. Lloyd Chalmers, had gone over to the Liberals, who richly rewarded him with the new ministry of Lands, Forests, and Rivers, created especially for him.
Probably an asshole, Lou figured. That also seemed to be the view of Christie Montieth in her blog, with her gossipy little scoop that Chalmers had been dating a Liberal backbencher — a hot number, as revealed by a photo of the two of them mooning over each other in a bar. The obvious inference being he’d been led by his dick across the floor of the House.
He clicked through to the Calgary Herald online. “Whiter Than White Christmas” was the front-page headline, a story about the big dump, businesses shutting early, tangled traffic. The only good news was that the prowling pedophile had not been seen for six weeks. Though that was bad news too, in that he hadn’t been nabbed. Police had released a cellphone photo of a short, bald man driving slowly past a schoolyard, shielding his face with his hand. The car was grey, probably a Saturn Astra. Despite pleas, the driver had not come forward. No one got the licence plate.
As he had often done since arriving here, he Googled Lou Sabatino. Lots of old Waterfrontgate stories, the Mafia’s attempt to take him down. More recent, an item about the S?reté looking for him, to serve a subpoena for the trial. There was a photo of Lou looking like a frazzled alley cat after nearly being gunned down in front of his house. Beardless, totally not recognizable as Robert O’Brien.
When he searched Robert O’Brien, a million useless hits came up, but when he added Glinka, he found a link to a Craigslist inquiry. “Seeking Robert O’Brien,” said the heading, under the personals, and it showed up in several major cities. “Urgent,” the listing said. “Please call re the Glinka tape. I am a friend. Complete confidence. Text or phone.” And a 250 number, British Columbia. Who was looking for him beside the S?reté?
Lou stared at this scary listing, dazed. It spelled trouble in River City. Any call he made could be traced. So could a text. I am a friend. That sounded sincere, but . . . Lou understood urgent. What was urgent was not getting riddled by an AK-47 in his new front yard.
He tried to convince himself he owed no duty to anyone. He had no choice but to keep his head down, and carry on, guiltily, as Rob O’Brien, entrepreneur, of Rural Route 1, Porcupine Plain, Saskatchewan.
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