That comes like a slap. Before Arthur can devise a face-saving response, Reverend Al does crisis counselling, signalling Rudnicki to rein herself in, putting an arm on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re upset, old boy, and you have every reason to be. As I would be had Zoe’s name been pulled. You’re welcome any night to share our home and our table.”
They have exposed the great icon for what he is, selfish, concerned about his comforts and his stomach. He must stop feeling sorry for himself. Poor Margaret, three weeks of enduring the gross inanities of the local literary lion.
He can barely meet Rudnicki’s eye. “Sierra Legal is rendering its services pro bono, I presume-on a matter of grave importance to our island. I should not have been unwelcoming. I apologize, Ms. Rudnicki. Your first name is Lotus?”
“L-o-t-i-s. Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki.”
Counter-culture parents with a spelling disability? Or named after the nymph Lotis-who, to escape Priapus, god of fertility, turned herself into a flower? When Arthur feels awkward, he will often spout Latin, and does so now, pompously, a line from Terence that he hastily interprets: “Many a time have great friendships sprung from bad beginnings.”
Lotis smiles widely, amused by this Latin-rapping stuffed shirt. “Okay, sorry I cracked on you. Anyway, you’re right, Selwyn and I don’t have much courtroom experience. We’re hoping you’ll join us at counsel table.”
“I regret to say, Lotis, that I am retired. My role will be to applaud vigorously from the sidelines.”
She hesitates, as if considering a further appeal. “I heard you saw the eagles’ mating display. Will you sign an affidavit?”
“Of course, if it will serve a purpose.” He finds himself echoing a local refrain: “What is the law?”
“Section thirty-four of the Wildlife Act makes it an offence to take, injure, molest, or destroy the nest of an eagle, peregrine falcon, gyrfalcon, osprey, heron, or burrowing owl, or, for that matter-subsection c-any nest if it’s occupied by a bird or an egg.”
Recited from memory, it would seem. Arthur entertains a hope that a brain lurks beneath that horror-show hairdo. But he cannot remotely imagine her or this Loo fellow defending Margaret. He will hire a leading barrister, a battle-scarred labour lawyer at ease with injunctions.
Arthur calls to Slappy, but the dog returns to his station at the tree and lies down. Semper fidelis. Arthur must get back. There are arrangements to be made, chores to be done. Life will be lived differently for a while.
5
Nick Faloon is relieved to have wormed out of the main block to what they call Protective Custody, the wing for dangerous sexual offenders, the DSOs, as they call them, plus other unpopular people like gays and trannies and squealers doing a reduced bounce for co-operating with Her Majesty.
The deputy warden was not entirely convinced by the Owl’s exaggerations that a barbarian in the main wing threatened to cut his balls off, but the deputy didn’t want to take a chance on this prized catch, didn’t want to deliver him up to the courts without all his parts. Also helping Faloon’s cause was being a possible nutcase, though the deputy wasn’t buying that. Nor was the couch doctor who analyzed him a few days ago, a young guy, Dr. Dare, who was onto Faloon’s game, he brought a Dutch interpreter with him. Faloon didn’t try to come out as Gertrude, it would have blown up in his face. The shrinker spent fifteen minutes with him, asking a few questions that seemed innocuous but were probably loaded with double meaning, and walked out laughing.
Among the advantages to PC in addition to not getting castrated is that there’s a decent lounge for visitors, and some of the other guests are interesting and intelligent people. There’s a defrocked priest in here who has a problem with underage boys, and they talk about religion, Faloon playing along that he’s a Christian, and there’s a former jail guard waiting sentencing, looking to do both hands for manslaughter or, in his case, wifeslaughter. Faloon gets called Gertie by the gay guys.
Though he has a hope that DNA fingerprinting will clear him, he can see himself eating pressed turkey for all Christmases to come. He shouldn’t have panicked in Bamfield, should have brazened it out, now he’s dug a hole for himself with this Gertrude Heeredam act.
The only thing looking up is that he has a lawyer. Faloon asked Willy the Hook Houston to scratch around for one, but in the meantime out of nowhere Mr. Brian Pomeroy phoned, and he’s coming by this afternoon. He may not be in the league of Arthur Beauchamp, but comes highly recommended in the joint-though you have to look at the source of such endorsements, Mr. Pomeroy didn’t get them off. According to Willy, who is raising a defence fund, he’s a good talker, smart without being sleazy.
Claudette St. John hasn’t visited yet, but she sent a teary letter saying she knows he’s innocent. Faloon is buoyed by that, Claudie being so true-blue despite her suspicions about his night with Holly Hoover, the logging-camp tramp. He kicks himself for that mistake, Claudette’s a superior woman, he’s never known anyone with such an open heart.
He hasn’t been sleeping well, and a couple of nights ago he found himself sleepwalking again, banging into the cell door while unconsciously going out to the deck of the Nitinat Lodge to take a piss.
It is just after the morning count that his new mouth shows up, and the screws let them have an isolated table in the lounge. Pomeroy’s face is somehow familiar, maybe Faloon has seen him in court. He’s forty-five or so, looks a little depraved, maybe because of all the character lines in his face.
After opening courtesies, Faloon asks why Pomeroy has taken an interest in him, and learns a “concerned gentleman left a message.” Faloon doesn’t feel invited to inquire further, assumes it must be Jacoby, his financial adviser.
“I’ve been following your career,” Pomeroy says. “Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m hoping there’s a psychological basis for Gertrude, it’s not just a hustle.”
“I thought it was worth a try, Mr. Pomeroy. I lost my head.”
“I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear that you became Gertrude. Where did you get the women’s clothes?”
“Well, my job is a thief, and I keep different outfits depending on the occasion. I was arrested in a dress once before.”
Mr. Pomeroy was looking fairly bored, but now lightens. “Have any friends seen you playing dress-up?”
“I can probably locate some.”
“How are you fixed for funds?”
The lawyer is one who goes direct to the heart of things. Faloon tells him some allies are raising working capital. Freddy Jacoby in particular, who has got fat off the Owl over the years, with his fifty to eighty per cent lion’s share.
“Multiple personality is the old term, these days it’s dissociative identity disorder.” Pomeroy swings his briefcase up, pulls out papers that look like psychological studies. “Okay, assuming you have this disorder, I think it’s important that you understand it. Important if you’re to be cured.”
The fixer doesn’t wink, but might as well have. What he’s really saying is, I hope you’re a fast learner, because, it turns out, another psychiatrist is coming to see him this afternoon, Dr. Endicott Sloan. What Pomeroy wants, though he’s too ethical to say it outright, is for the Owl to read these case studies, learn the symptoms, get into the role.
Faloon tells him of his brief ordeal with Dr. Dare, who walked out breaking a gut.
“I’ll deal with Dr. Dare.”