“Enchanté, Sénateur,” replied Jack.
That was a genuine surprise. Now we were moving up in the world. One of the toughs crossed his arms and I revised my opinion: they weren’t farmhands but hockey players, though in Quebec the crushers were usually one and the same.
“You have been very foolish, I think,” said the Senator.
“You might say that,” said Jack.
“You disappoint me. This wildness. It is not good. Time for it, I think, to end.”
“Now that I’m of no use to you.”
“It is true. This business with Charles Trudeau and Pierre Martin is how do you say, irresponsible. These man are innocent.”
“So you say. I say they sold me out.”
“Impossible. For them I vouch. For you that is enough.”
“Or what?”
“I am not so cold. For what you have done in the past I am willing to turn the blind eye for this indiscretion. An opportunity of grace, I think.”
“Mercy buckets,” said Jack.
“You will stay away from Monsieur Trudeau and Monsieur Martin. I protect them.”
The Senator stroked his terrier. I couldn’t help but think we were Bulldog Drummond before Fu Manchu the way he gloated. My life had become a story from Black Mask. The Senator motioned to his toughs and spoke a fast incomprehensible quacking French, the sort from up in Gaspé. It was pure Greek.
Jack turned his head to me, looked down, moved his right boot and looked back up. There was some weapon there, I surmised. Our Webleys remained on the table before us. The Senator said something to the farmhand who’d photographed us; the brute picked up the camera and left by a different door from the one Jack and I’d used to enter the apartment. The odds were better now. I flexed my bonds as the dog on the Senator’s lap yapped then curled a hind leg over its head to lick at its vagina.
“Alors, what is it we will do with you, I wonder,” the Senator mused.
“You could recommend us to Mackenzie King.”
“It is very droll, but, I think, unlikely.”
“I know what,” Jack said.
“What?”
“You could cut us in the line-up to fuck your wife.”
“Quoi?”
“She’s been had by every hack in Ottawa.”
The Senator rose and his dog leapt. The remaining tough stiffened and balled his fists. My bonds seemed loose; they’d tied us badly, the peasants. My left hand slipped free. I waited.
“Connard,” the Senator breathed.
“Yep, your missus is the biggest roundheel on the Hill. Takes it up the trou as well.”
“Infâme,” whispered the Senator.
There was no way of knowing what’d been planned for us. I couldn’t see a Liberal Senator having us killed, unless he learned we were Tories. A good beating was more the Grit style. Nevertheless, Jack’s strategy of provoking the man didn’t seem the soundest. Even if Jack had a knife in his boot we still had to cut ourselves free. The Senator’s dog scrambled to a corner and seemed to start laughing. The Senator, breathing heavily, placed his hands on the table before us. I could see his swarthy skin darkening with fury.
“Perhaps I am making a mistake with you, Monsieur Jack. The police will perhaps be interested in you and your friend here. Some information anonymous, I think.”
“What good’ll that do you?” asked Jack. “You were the Minister of Customs when this started. You think that because you’re in the Red Chamber King’ll protect you if I start to spill?”
The Senator motioned to his thug and the helpmeet came over and punched Jack hard in the stomach. Jack buckled and gagged. The goon blew his knuckles and turned to me. The Senator patted the thug’s shoulder and brushed him away.
“This I find distasteful, as I do your treatment of Charles Trudeau. But you are fortunate today, I think. I am merciful. It is simple: you and your comrade will leave the city. You are allowed to live a little more, hein? You should, I think, be happy.”
It was possible. My left hand was free and I could simply reach out and pick up my revolver. They’d been damned careless and arrogant, mocking us in our powerlessness. It was the same mistake we’d made with crafty Charlie Trudeau. Jack gulped air and the Senator loomed above me. I didn’t like his smell, rosewater and dog intermingled. My mouth was parched and my head still repercussed with the blow that’d knocked me out. The dog started pissing against a rotting wall, distracting the Senator and his tough.
“Rex!” the fat man barked.
Very cleanly I picked up the Webley with my left hand and pulled back the hammer with my thumb. The fat man froze. The tough backed up against the kitchen wall. Jack laughed, and slowly the Senator joined him in a baritone.
“You will not shoot me,” he said.
“You’re right.”
I pointed the barrel at Rex. The terrier came to me, interested.
“Aimez-vous votre canaille?” I asked.
“An Englishman would never harm an innocent creature,” the Senator said, his eyes widening.
“I’m Irish,” I said.
I pointed the barrel at the tough and fired. He dropped to the ground screaming: “Calice! Calvaire!”
With eyes screwed shut he grasped at his upper thigh. Lucky bugger. I’d aimed below the belt buckle. The dog skittered away in fear.
“You’re next after all,” I told the Senator. “Cut Jack free.”
The fat man’s skin had paled beneath his freckling. His dog and tough both whimpered. Smoke and a cordite reek hung in the close air. If the police caught me and I wanted to pass a paraffin test I’d have to scrub my face and hands with eau de cologne or an abrasive soap. The Senator moved stiffly to the countertop and found a rusty knife.
“Attention,” I said.
Awkwardly I hopped the chair around to keep the Senator in my line of fire. With thick, stupid fingers he sawed at Jack’s bonds. Partially free, Jack took the knife and finished the job. He stood, stretched, and gently prodded the Senator with his index finger.
“Get in the corner with your dog,” Jack said.
The Senator complied and scooped Rex up. The tough was shivering and putting pressure on his thigh where dark blood oozed out between his fingers.
“Hurry up,” I said. “We don’t want a shooting match.”
Jack cut me loose. I stood and felt my body itch and tingle upon its release. Jack’s face swelled and my head was logy and sore, ears ringing, copper in my mouth, bladder fit to burst. I leaned over the man I’d shot.
“You’ll need a doctor,” I said.
His shivering redoubled. I’d used the revolver at last, a prophecy come true. The Senator tried to make himself small and cradled his bitch. Jack picked up his own shooting iron and turned to the door. We heard the hard pounding of feet up the back stairs. More trouble there. Jack went over, laughed, and snapped his fingers in the fat man’s face.
“À la prochaine, monsieur.”
With that we scarpered. I started slipping down the stairs halfway down and rode the treads on my heels, turning backward at the door and bashing out onto the sidewalk. I landed on my coccyx but felt nothing save dizziness and exhilaration. Jack mounted the Auburn and pushed in the keys. A long black saloon ’car with chauffeur was parked opposite but the driver did nothing. He’d heard the shot and seen two bloodied men with guns come tumbling out of the building and decided his salary didn’t include getting plugged. Wise bird.
Jack started the engine, choked into gear, added essence, and swung around into the black ’car, the fender screeching across the enamel of the Senator’s ride. I jumped on the running board and waved my Webley.