Cat plants a kiss on his forehead, her breasts brushing his chin. Arthur is assailed by a nosegay of…not perfume, the scent of her sex. He feels a blush of embarrassment.
Brian rejoins them, still on the phone. “Okay, sweetie, I’ll see you tomorrow. Kiss, kiss.” He pockets the phone. “Expenses will be high, gentlemen. The maestro comes higher.” In a more sanguine mood, relieved of the burden of the trial, he plucks the packet of bills from Jacoby. “Will you be putting this under your pillow, Arthur, or should I deposit it?”
“In a trust account.” Arthur has long stopped worrying where his fees come from-the legal profession would be in dire straits without thieves and swindlers.
Brian places the money in a case, and draws from it an expansion folder, the Faloon file. “I told these good people you don’t come in for under thirty thousand a day plus disbursements, based on a ten-day trial, more if it goes longer.” Nobody blanches, they are smiling.
Arthur is glad Brian dealt with the fees, shielding him from that discomfort. Three hundred thousand dollars will provide a hefty boost to the Save Gwendolyn fund.
Jacoby raises his glass. “I would like to toast Mr. Beauchamp for making this bold decision.”
Others murmur assent, but Brian wants to celebrate with other than apple juice. “Is there a liquor store here, Arthur?”
At the General Store, only two of the usual idlers are about: Emily Lemay and Gomer Goulet. Makepeace is in the aisles helping Winnie Gillicuddy, who is a hundred and three and can’t see well, yet walks to the store almost every day. “No, no, Winnie,” he says, “you give me the list, I’ll get someone to drive by with the whole shebang.”
“I don’t want a shebang, I want what’s on this list, and twenty dollars on Lotto 6/49.” Winnie resists Makepeace’s attempt to wrest away her shopping basket and heads down the aisle.
Jacoby says, “I assume we will not be looking at any bottles of champagne in this fine establishment.”
“Not much call for that here.”
As they settle on a bottle of rye whisky, Emily sashays to the counter. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend from Hollywood, Arthur?” The long-reigning Garibaldi sex goddess decides not to wait for such politeness, thrusts out her hand. Jacoby takes it uncertainly.
“Frederick R. Jacoby, ma’am.”
“I love your movies. We’re so excited that you’re going to do one on little Garibaldi.”
Jacoby looks sideways at Arthur. “So far, ma’am, we’re keeping everything ambiguous.”
“You think you might find room for me on the casting couch, Mr. Jacoby?”
“Wouldn’t be room for anyone else,” says Goulet.
Winnie calls from the back. “You call this shrivelled thing a grapefruit? Where in tarnation have you hid the tea?”
The afternoon is waning as Arthur leads the group, merry with drink, to the ferry.
“If you desire any help with these developers,” says Jacoby, “to make them see reason, I am aware of certain persons you can call upon.”
“Very kind of you, but that will not be necessary.”
After seeing them off, he hastens to the Gap. To reduce traffic in the forest, all demonstrators have moved their tents to the acre of clear-cut by the road. Stump Town, they call it. A banner has been strung up: “Is This What You Want on the Gulf Islands?”
The several reporters here look happy with their item of the day: Reverend Al performed an elaborate ritual this morning-not to be found in the Anglican canons-consecrating the site, proclaiming the protest tree a holy gift of nature. Henceforth it’s to be called the Holy Tree.
Arthur cannot avoid Trustee Zoller, who comes close to his ear. “In case you got the wrong impression that I’m not entirely unsympathetic to saving this forest, you’re wrong.” As Arthur tries to dig through this weedy garden of negatives, Zoller adds to the confusion: “I’m more useful working from the outside. As an insider.”
“I’m glad you’re coming around, Kurt.”
“They say it’s going to be an epic, with Sean Penn and Woody Harrelson. Somebody told me they pay extras two hundred a day.” Arthur hurries up the trail, Zoller clinging to him. “Maybe you could put in a word.”
The rumours have also scaled the Holy Tree, with added distortions. After their shouted words of greeting, Margaret asks if it’s true he was rehearsing the bedroom scene with that platinum floozy he was seen with earlier. She has a big laugh over this. She continues to be in fine spirits up there, smiling royally down at her subjects. The press like her. Plucky is the overused adjective.
“All will be revealed tomorrow when I post a letter.” It will include a polite plea to give someone else a turn.
Margaret posts her own letter, a paper glider. It’s a list: fresh underwear, socks, pyjamas. Arthur will fetch her robe too-he doesn’t want her parading about in nightwear in front of Cudworth. Ground observers are guarding against Felicity sneaking him booze or pot. Stimulants have been known to cause the oaf to lose his veneer of civilization.
One supposes he pries and spies, denying her privacy. Where do they change clothes? Hey, you got your bra strap twisted. They must constantly be in each other’s hair-one table between them, one desk, one potty. Arthur can’t imagine what they do all day, how they exercise. Yoga maybe. Hold that position. Now stick out the butt.
Cud appears, shirtless, brushing his teeth. He lets go a spume of white spit that arcs past Zoller. “Oh, sorry, man, didn’t see you down there.” Once more, Arthur dismisses any notion that Margaret might find this fellow of romantic interest.
9
Faloon is learning the routines at VI, one of which is sitting around in the lounge after lunch, him and a bunch of sedated zombies, watching the cartoon channel. He wonders who came up with this brilliant idea of a forced diet of Porky Pig, they probably think the inmates can’t handle anything more complex, or you’re supposed to laugh, a kind of therapy.
But no one cracks a grin, the humour lost on, for instance, the two oxen sitting over there, both killers, one of them chopped up his mother-in-law and the other put down a neighbour on orders from God, and has an erect dick tattooed on his forearm. But the real fun guy was the Nazi punk, who took an irrational dislike to Faloon on first encounter, and kept whispering things like, “I’m going to eviscerate you, Jew boy.” Fortunately he was taken away the next morning for what Faloon hopes was a lobotomy.
It’s two o’clock on an average Sunday in the ding ward. An hour to wait for Claudette St. John, who got herself a visitors’ pass, who is finally coming from Bamfield to see him. Her letters are the only warm spot, she believes in him.
This is gratifying because he and Claudette were on the outs after the incident with Holly Hoover, who caught him in a weak moment. Holly was about to do a circuit of the logging camps and needed a room for the night, plus she’s a very hot product, terrific body, and they ended up trading. Claudette got wind and accusations flew. Despite Faloon’s lies, things didn’t go well for a long time.
But Faloon isn’t much cheered by Claudette’s support-for him hope is gone. The air went out of him like a flat tire when Arthur Beauchamp walked out of that courtroom, looking grim and severe, like he was disappointed in the Owl, somehow betrayed.
If he beats the rap on account of insanity, this is his future, right here-the Owl will be spending the rest of his life where every day you got to worry there’s been a goof-up, they forgot to trank down Weird Harold, who’s decided the quivering lump of jelly over there is reading his inner thoughts. “Tell me why you feel threatened,” the local head fixer said, who spent most of that session cleaning his glasses and working at his crockery with a toothpick.