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Tourists

Steve Wheeler

Copyright 2009 by Steve Wheeler

Smashwords edition

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TOURISTS

by

Steve Wheeler

CHAPTER ONE

Hal Henderson made a good living in Ottawa for a while as a private detective. He was known to everyone as “Henny”, short for Henderson. He picked up the nickname in high school.

There were many lawyers who employed Henny’s services to dig up dirt on politicians and sneaky spouses in the nation’s capital. When Henny got greedy, he tempted some of the wrong people into compromising situations, some with drugs, most with girls. He recorded everything. The rich and famous were willing to pay Henny off, but he asked too much. The police charged him after a victim complained about blackmail. It went downhill from there.

Henny did some time for crossing the wrong people. A vicious attack by the prosecutor and a judge who was a friend of the victims made sure he did. The judge could have let Henny off with enough community service hours to compensate for the court case, but the powerful interests which he had offended, even though none of them were exposed, made it known that he should be punished. They were vindictive and proud of it.

When Henny got out, he was delirious with joy. He was so glad to be free and alive that even the halfway house in which he lived seemed fine. His credit was no good, officially. When he landed in the slammer, those to whom he owed money, gave up. He moved to a boarding house, got a job skating on the canal for the first winter.

They had First Aid standards that Henny had to meet, papers he had to have, but he managed to get on the Skate Patrol. Fast talking and a friend who could forge almost anything got him in. He didn’t know for sure what he’d do if a skater had a bad accident, but the skate patrollers traveled in pairs. Henny figured he could follow orders and fake most things.

The other patrollers were students, younger and keener than Henny. The odd one wasn’t keen but bored too. Henny smoked some joints at night with the bored ones.

The winter on the skate patrol led Henny back into the world of security work. It used to be hard to tell who the bad guys were, but Henny had learned his lesson. The rich and powerful had the money. You could work for them or compete with them, but you couldn’t rip them off. They were touchy about that. For Henny, it had become very simple: his employer was the good guy. The guy who paid him was right. Why sweat all the problems of an employer when you could work for somebody else? Henny knew no one made real money working for someone else, but at least they were free.

It was easy for Henny to get into the security picture at the Tulip and Blues and Jazz Festivals. He did menial work as a security guard on night shifts. Watching the drunks crawl around in the piles of plastic beer glasses after everyone else had gone home bored Henny, but he stuck it out. He carried an illegal taser for self defense. There were some places, even in Ottawa at festival time, when it was dangerous to be seen in a security guard uniform. He somehow managed to score a good security job at Winterlude, Ottawa’s most famous festival.

Henny had learned that cliched piece of wisdom which everyone hears at some time or other, “Watch out who you piss on, when you’re on the way up”. The lesson to be learned from it: Be good to people or they will piss on you if they go up and you’re on the way down. Sort of like the golden rule. When Henny got out of jail, he didn’t have any friends.

The security job was a nice one. It consisted of driving up and down the canal at night in a van to check the speakers and lights. There were installations of special lights for the ice sculptures in Confederation Square. Music was wafted through the frozen air by speakers which were so big and heavy and tied down that it was too much trouble to steal them. Installed along the length of the canal, they functioned until the last tired employee skated home from work, the dedicated speed skaters sat down, changed into their boots. Or eleven PM, whichever came first. There were sealed lights designed to work in the cold all along the canal and in Jacques Cartier Park in Hull.

The van was warm when Henny made his trips over to Hull every night to check the speakers and lights. The only thing wrong with the job was the hours. He worked graveyard shifts for the sound and light company. A joint and a few sips of the spiked coffee in his thermos made the midnight shifts pleasant enough so he couldn’t complain about the work. The trouble was, he was living opposite to the rest of the world. While they were sleeping, he was awake. When they were working, he was supposed to be sleeping. But he couldn’t get enough sleep. He suspected his relationship with Carol was suffering.

At parts of the canal, Henny drove up onto the parkways on either side to check on special installations. At three in the morning, he’d pull over in the van or go back to headquarters, a garage with a makeshift office, for lunch.

Ottawa was beautiful along the canal on cold winter nights. Lights had different kinds of halos, depending on the weather. Steam and exhaust rose in white plumes. Snowy nights were perfect for driving in the warm van from the Arts Centre to Dow’s Lake to Carleton University. No one was crazy enough to try to steal the lights or speakers in the windy, blowing snow.

On nights like this, Henny drove slowly with the radio on low, tuned to an old rock station. He smoked a joint of hash and tobacco. Led Zep took over when he followed the NCC plows and sweepers.

He waved at the crew standing by a crewcab pickup. It was parked by a hole in the ice. The gas driven pump chugged along in the back of the truck, extracting water from below the canal ice. They pumped it over the newly plowed and swept surface. In cold weather, the ice became a perfect, smooth sheet. It was a never ending job, like painting a big bridge: by the time one end was finished, the other end was ready for work. They went, night after night, dressed in NCC issue insulated coveralls and skidoo gear to hose down section after section of ice. Henny knew most of them were stoned on something, but he kept this job separated from his smoking. It was too complicated. He had learned to do his own time in jail. It was cunning and survival 101. Better just to wave and keep going.

Henny liked going home at the end of a shift. He had the bus timed so that he only had to dash from the warm garage to wait for a few seconds at the stop. He was sleepy and dull in the heat of the bus, but the sight of the hundreds of cars full of people on their way to work, cheered him. In the mornings, the bus which took him home from the garage on Main Street was almost always empty. Everyone was heading into the city to work. He was traveling in the opposite direction.

Soon Henny would be lounging around in his long underwear in his apartment while the workers would be in their offices working. It was a small satisfaction which came with working night shifts. Now, he watched the traffic through the circle on the frosted window beside the back seat. Henny could see that the motorists were filled with the tensions of getting to work in the morning. The kids and traffic and weather weighed on them. They sat in their cars at the stop lights. The slippery roads and blowing snow slowed them down.

At his time of going to work, before eleven at night, Henny didn’t notice the traffic. He was more worried about not getting enough sleep because of the neighbour’s barking dogs. His tuna salad sandwich and fruit would get him through the night. Then he could go home to rest for the next shift. There wasn’t much long term thinking involved, for Henny. He was more interested in getting weeks of paid unemployment insurance premiums out of this job.

Maybe, if they both saved, Henny and Carol could rent a motel room with dirty movies and a waterbed for a weekend. Henny hoped that that would shake his relationship with Carol out of its indifferent state. They were comfortable with each other, Henny figured. Maybe too comfortable. There certainly was no passion. Henny, in his mid forties, wondered if this was the onset of old age.

Carol was divorced with teenaged kids. Henny had tried to live with her when they first met, but he couldn’t stand the kids, they couldn’t stand him. After fighting with each of them, he realized that, in the end, their mother would side with them. Henny decided to live on his own. Carol helped him with the first and last month’s rent when he rented a bachelor apartment. The arrangement suited everyone. Even Carol’s son and daughter, Jeb and Lorraine, warmed up to him. In fact, Henny found that he had stumbled upon a personal dealer. Jeb always had a lot of weed and sometimes, some hash. He did a brisk trade selling it at his high school. Lorraine smoked, but wasn’t into dealing. Henny thought that was good: he was kind of old fashioned that way.

Henny usually phoned Carol at her part time office job before he went to bed for the day. It was impossible to see each other, except on weekends. They had tried it, but both found themselves exhausted during their following shifts. It was too much trouble. At least on the weekend, there was time to rest.

Jeb and his friends, on the occasions when Hennie was at the house and Carol wasn’t home yet, entertained Henny. First they smoked a big joint and jammed for a bit on the electric guitars in the basement. There was a set of drums there also, manned by Kit, a drummer, who only showed up sporadically. Jeb and friends would regale Henny with stories of the RCMP dogs inspecting their lockers at high school, close calls they’d had with pagers and cell phones.

Henny listened to the stories because it killed time until Carol arrived and because he’d heard similar tales for years. There were a lot of smart dealers in jail whose close calls had turned into nightmares. He shook his head in wonder when Jeb and his friends bragged about the money they made. It seemed crazy to Henny that the high schools which were reputed to be the toughest or the best at sports or drinking in his high school days should now be rated on a scale which judged them by their abundance of dope smokers.

Some snowy mornings when Henny arrived home, he turned on the early morning tv news. With a pint of beer at his wobbly kitchen table, he watched the daily horrors and thought about jail. The dealers he had seen in stir were connected to cocaine or heroin suppliers. They were bad news, users of people, so he kept out of their way. He actually agreed in his heart that society was right to lock up the craziest ones. They weren’t fit for the normal world. When they got out, there would be no chance of them following the rules. Some would do so, to stay legal in the eyes of the system, but most would continue to live as they always had, according to the law of the jungle.

Jeb and his buddies, to Henny, were different than the dealers he had seen in jail. There were a few Orientals arriving in jail while he was finishing his sentence. Henny suspected that they were doing time for selling the weed they grew in their grow houses. Jeb and his friends, with their homegrown weed, pagers, cell phones and fast cars, were somehow, more innocent to him. They were supplying the whole school system with Ottawa Valley weed, there was an insatiable appetite, so what was the harm? It was better than all the boozing the adults did as kids, that they were still doing now. Less violence and death, when it’s only smoke. The Dutch were ahead of everyone on that and prostitution from what Henny’d seen on tv.

It was at Carol’s one Saturday night just before Winterlude was about to start, when Henny proposed. They watched the hockey game with a case of beer. Jeb and his friends had blasted them with power chords from the basement, backed by Kit’s manic drumming, before they left for a concert. Lorraine and her friends were patrolling the mall.

It was romantic. Bob Cole’s voice droned along in the background, the Leafs lost another one, the nachos bowl salsa holder sat empty, the roach of the hash joint burned in the ashtray. Henny popped the question, just like in the movies. Carol said yes with a kiss. The sound of beer glass and bottle rang out a toast. Henny snuggled up to her on the couch.

Henny knew that he had made a big commitment. He thought about it the next night when he drove down the metal ramp from the Queen Elizabeth Driveway onto the canal. He wanted money and luxuries for Carol like the goodies he’d had when he was a private investigator but, at the moment, he couldn’t have them. Henny had come to value patience in jail. He didn’t have a way to get the money necessary for things at the moment, but you never knew what could happen in the future.

He was glad to get a job driving a van up and down the canal. The man on the phone made sure he was who he said he was and that he knew the canal. He was told to be at a garage on Main St.

Henny was hard pressed to stay casual when he showed up for his first night at work, drove out of the garage in the van. With a heater and a radio, what more could he ask? He had to be available by walkie talkie in emergencies, but that was ok, it meant that he had to stay close to the warm van.

He met the boss, Mr. Singh, a few nights later. The Indian gentleman with the turban shook his hand, welcomed him. He looked into Henny’s eyes, turned his back to talk to someone on a cell phone. Henny thought it was a strange way to hire a security guard, but he wasn’t complaining.

He was hired for enough months to qualify for unemployment benefits even though Winterlude only lasted for three weeks. He didn’t question it, it was a gift. It meant that his luck had started to turn back to the good. The first weeks were just regular shifts which went smoothly until the third week. The meetings in the back of the van, started then.

Mr. Singh waited at the garage one night for Henny to arrive for his shift. A howling, cold wind full of snow had chased him from his bus stop into the garage. It was like exhaling to feel the warmth and hear the quiet. Mr. Singh nodded at him without a smile. His eyes stayed on Henny while he listened to a cell phone. There was a low radio playing a sports talk show on the desk. The day shift guys, whoever they were, Henny had never seen one, must have left the radio on. Mr. Singh said goodbye to someone on his cell phone, clicked it off. He stared at Henny.

“So, hello, Mr. Henderson. How are you tonight? How are we?” Mr. Singh purred.

Henny hesitated for a moment, not used to being addressed in this way, never mind someone asking him how he was. He smiled.

“Uh, fine, thanks”

Mr. Singh had a moustache and beard which were being trained, by means of a net, to rise up and grow in the direction of his ears.

“There will be a few passengers in the days to come,” Mr. Singh began. He watched with dark brown eyes while Henny took off his coat and placed it in the van. Mr. Singh’s eyes followed each piece of snow which flew off of Henny’s toque when he shook it over the cement floor.

“People will come, people will go, you know” Mr. Singh continued in his singsong English with the accent which Henny had heard comedians use on tv. Mr. Singh’s dark brown eyes had turned black and piercing behind his smile. Henny had seen the smile on con men of all kinds, in and out of jail. It was insincere, calculated to mesmerize the susceptible watcher. Susceptible to the visual image. Bound to believe their own eyes. Mr. Singh was smiling, but there was no warmth or pleasure in it. Henny knew that he was supposed to buy it, so he did.

“You will be told to drive them somewhere on your route. You will do so. If you look into the van, you will see that we have installed a soundproof window between your seat and the back of the van. It is better for all if you don’t hear their conversations. Just drive. You will be told where to go” Mr. Singh’s eyes had now taken fire and were smouldering like hot coals.

Henny wondered if the man realized his eyes were smoldering. Driving whoever up and down the canal was fine with him.

“No problem. I’ll pick ‘em up and drop ‘em off.” Henny told Mr. Singh. As he spoke, the Sikh man’s cell phone played a tune in his hand. The fire which had appeared in Mr. Singh’s eyes was gone. He answered his phone, turned his back to Henny.

Nothing more was said about it that night. Nothing happened on his shifts in the next few nights. Henny didn’t mention the incident to Carol, nor that Mr. Singh had asked for both his and Carol’s phone number. Henny figured he’d be called for some irregular hours, that Mr. Singh was just another strange guy. As long as the pay was there every payday, Henny didn’t care.

CHAPTER 2

George Gilroy was a large, attractive man. His wife, Sharon, called him her “big teddy bear”. He hated the snow and cold which Winterlude was based upon, but found that the festival was a good time for lobbying powerful people. George made public appearances for his company, The Weasels. Since the general public called lobbyists, “weasels”, anyway, George had made a joke of it, incorporated his company around the name. George’s company hired itself out to all comers. The Weasels distinguished themselves by lobbying anyone at any time for anything. Their goal was the dollar, preferably American, as many as possible. They knew that money paved the way. The rich and powerful liked to deal with their own kind.

Most of the public appearances were at charity functions. Ottawans showed up in droves to the events. The important ones made themselves accessible for a brief moment: a wise lobbyist took advantage of it.

George started the car in his laneway from inside the house with a remote starter. He was carrying a briefcase and his winter coat when he stopped at the breakfast table to kiss his family goodbye.

“Bye, Dear” George bent down to kiss his wife’s cheek. Sharon gave him a quick kiss while she held onto the arm of a four year old who was trying to escape from the table.

“Bye Dear, have a nice...come here and sit down, Chucky, I won’t tell you again!...day dear.” George raised his eyes to the heavens and the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. He could hear the twins fighting. They were eight year old girls who were screaming at each other. The sound rolling down the stairs changed as they fought from room to room, getting ready for school. George decided that it would be useless to yell at them, even to say goodbye. He walked out, wondering if all the effort was worth it.

George wiped some of the snow off of his car door before he opened it, threw in the briefcase. He leaned in, turned on the wipers, emerged with a combination brush and scraper.

Brushing the snow from his car, George looked down his evergreen street in the west end of Ottawa and did a double take. The lights of the city truck with the plow on the front were heading his way. The truck would leave a big wave of snow and ice where his laneway met the road. He had to avoid that at all costs. Sharon was on her own. George brushed snow like a madman, leaving the passenger side of the car untouched. He jumped into the car, threw it into reverse, backed out into the street.

He let out a big sigh of relief, pulled over to the side. He could now take his time arranging the car for his trip to work. Radio on, tuned to the old rock station, heater set to low, controls directing the warm air onto the windshield, seat belt done up, George was ready to go.

The new snowblower was sitting, full of gas, in the garage. Sharon was getting good at it.

He would stop at a Tim Horton’s for a large double double given to him in his special, plastic mug by the harried young girl at the drive thru window.

Today was an important one for The Weasels. George had a meeting with the developers. A successful conclusion to this deal would mean a big profit for The Weasels. A more prestigious name was in the future, George could feel it. Access to the corridors of power produced many rewards.

George drove through the blowing snow and down the Western Parkway into the city. There were cars ahead and behind. The Ottawa River, to his left, was a freezing expanse of white somewhere out there in the darkness. Snow flew from a bus’s wheels as it passed him in its special lane on his right. Headlights approached in a steady stream on the other side of the median dividing the parkway. The old rock station spewed commercials.

George felt satisfied because he had received the go ahead from the police security checks. He was one level below top secret. He had access to levels only his top competitors could hope for.

The meeting with his associates was at the office in a downtown high-rise building. He was the boss. He commanded three other lobbyists, Percy, Graham and Bill, who they called “Blinky” because of his propensity to look sleepy while fully alert.

It was agreed that Blinky could look like he was sleeping during the most important discussions which were really negotiations on the cost of hiring The Weasels. The technique involved lulling the prospective client into a false sense of security. By the time the customer had finished enjoying his superiority over the disinterested, pathetic, somnolent, lobbyist, Blinky suddenly woke up. He handed the customer a pen and a contract to sign. Usually, after Blinky gave a quick, accurate summary of his services, the customer signed. Blinky could encapsulate his abilities in a few words, point out his accomplishments simply, so that the client could see the advantages of hiring The Weasels. George didn’t believe it himself until he was taken by Percy to watch Blinky in action.

There was a one way mirror in Blinky’s little office, through which the pair watched him.

Slug like, slothful, slow, his eyelids fluttering like moths, the youthful, red haired Blinky, produced a pen, got the customer, the son of a politician, to sign. He was now on the board of a company where he really represented his father. The company needed the politician’s push in the corridors of power. Their product, a hardened plastic version of the thin skinned vehicles the Canadian army was forced to use in Afghanistan, was available for a good price. They were a little short on the armor end, but they could scoot. In and out, lightning raids at high speed. It didn’t matter to anyone, except the soldiers, that they were dangerous for regular patrols. The only soldiers in that part of Ottawa were from the DND building which straddled the canal across from the Rideau Centre.

There was unlimited money to be gained by dealing with the government. The trick was to find the right buttons to push, the proper levers to yank. Blinky succeeded by using indifference. George didn’t care. Connecting the companies to the money was their job. George hired Blinky, took over his customers immediately after the meeting. Blinky was glad to be paid good money for doing his magic. This way, he was free of the hassles of running an office. Secretaries, phones, rent, it could all be looked after by his new boss, George. Everybody was happy. It was a win, win.

Coffee was served at the table in the boardroom by Miss Craig, an attractive twenty something whose rear end was a source of lustful sighs for the lobbyists. Sexist comments ended quickly, however, when her boyfriend, a big body builder, showed up once to meet her.

The Weasels knew the office rules well enough in any case. Bitter experience with illicit affairs and Christmas party indiscretions had long ago ensured that none of his three employees needed to hear George’s annual speech on the subject. They all sat and listened once a year as George spouted the old cliches about office romances.

It was agreed at the meeting that George, being the boss, the only one with such a high security clearance, would meet with the developers and the government people. Graham, a former politician whose hand got caught in the cookie jar so often that even his colleagues publicly avoided him, had picked up, through his contacts, that Defense and Public Works were the government departments involved. They were ready to dole out some big contracts.

Graham was still well in with procurement officials at DND and Public Works. He knew the ins and outs of the systems, the people making decisions about bids and applications.

The only thing The Weasels didn’t know was which developers were involved and what they were going to develop.

George pondered the meager information as the others left the boardroom. They would meet again, after he talked to both parties. Information is power, someone said that. McCluhan? Looking out of the window which faced Sparks Street, George watched the snow blowing on the hurrying pedestrians. In the reflection, on a precise angle, he watched Miss Craig’s heart shaped bottom, as she gathered up the coffee cups.

When he pulled off this coup, there would be a reward. The important politicians and power brokers in Ottawa couldn’t ignore The Weasels then. There was some kissing up, but a man had to look after his dependents and they were expensive.

George looked at his watch. There wasn’t much time before his meeting with the developers in another office building. He used the washroom, took the elevator to the ground floor. He jumped into a taxi which Miss Craig had called for him.

George strode into the office of the largest developer in the city, Frankland Corporation. The shapely, young secretary showed him into an office where he took a comfortable seat.

In the chair beside George’s was Randall Scott, a local builder, behind the desk facing him, Frank Mann, the famous real estate developer. Both men acknowledged George’s entry with a nod and a forced smile. They didn’t like the idea that lobbyists had to come between them and the government officials. But, in this age of deniability, it was the cost of doing business.

George knew that he was regarded as a necessary evil by most of his clients. They observed the layers of rules which were added on by the government to provide transparency, so they needed him. He didn’t care how they felt about it. As long as they got the contracts they wanted, they paid him well.

“So, George, how are you?” Frank began. He had a permanent dark tan, a healthy, positive manner. Frank’s famous grey curls sat perfectly on his head. His desk was shiny and empty.

“Fine. Fine, Frank. We’re getting close to the big day. Won’t be long now”

“Just exactly when will we meet these guys? I’ve got men and materials ready to start in the spring” Randall looked at George with open impatience.

“Soon. Any day now” George didn’t like Randall’s intense manner. It was like the man was going to explode if he didn’t get what he wanted right away.

“It better be. We’re paying you good money to cut through the bullshit. What’s the delay, anyway? We already know it’s DND and Public Works. Why all this secrecy and security, anyway?” Randall demanded.

George squirmed. What did he think this was? Some connect the dots game? Big contracts took time to land. The man had done it himself enough times before. George felt Randall’s aggression.

“Well, they’re waiting for someone from the States to get here. Should be here next week”

“We understand” Frank, smoothly.

“Sometimes we think it’s like the old days, but it’s not. A fishing trip here, a vacation there, spread the goodies around and the politicians tell the departments who to give the contracts to. That’s how the Maritimes got paved, we all know that”

They chuckled together at Frank’s last remark. It brought a more benign, easy mood, damped down the tension.

“Will we meet the guy who’s authorized to award the contracts next week?”

George decided to be honest. He held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“I hope so. We’ll definitely know who we have to see, anyway. It is a bit mysterious. I really have never seen this kind of security over contracts before.”

“And why are they doing it here, now?” Randall gestured to the snow blowing up against the window.

“Well, that’s the only clue they’ve given me. They’re doing it during Winterlude because whatever Americans are involved, their families want to see it” George, looking out the window, shaking his head.

“Hmph, some security.” Randall snorted.

“We could have had this meeting in Florida or somewhere in their country where it’s not so goddam cold”

George knew that he had these clients hooked as he was hooked. He was sure there was more than just their fee to be gained by this highly secret operation. He was looking forward to the meeting himself.

There was no time to lose. George tucked in the twins, kissed Chucky good night. His little angels they were. If he had a moment, he could pack some of his suitcase now, but Sharon always demanded special attention the nights before he left on his trips. It was with fervent hope that his wife of ten years would not get pregnant again, that the stuff she used worked, that George made love to Sharon. George’s mind was on his other life in the country.

The next morning, George pondered relationships as he drove north to his other wife and family, Suzie and the boys. The farm was near Calabogie, way back in the bush. So far back that it was safe. He knew that these business trips were not totally honest but total honesty wasn’t what relationships needed, anyway. Everybody should just get along. He looked at the snowy fields on either side of the highway. Dead in the winter. Dead. And alive again in the spring. The country music station played old time tunes. Life, as Charlie Campbell, was good up here.

When Charlie drove up the long, straight laneway, he noted with satisfaction that it had been plowed nice and wide. The trees hid the farmhouse in among them far from the road. Suzie walked out of the barn to welcome him. She wore rubber boots and tight jeans below her sweatshirt, blonde hair shining in the sun. She smiled a greeting.

Charlie parked by the house, walked across the yard to her. They embraced, Suzie smelling like fresh horse. She had ridden them, was grooming them now. Charlie sighed with pleasure. She was so desirable to him, still, that he told her to hurry up, while he moved his things from the car to the house.

Later, in their bed, Suzie laid staring up at the ceiling, her head on Charlie’s outstretched arm.

“I’ve got a roast in the oven. The kids’ll be home soon”

“Mmph” Charlie was exhausted.

“You leaving Monday morning again?” She was sated but energetic.

“Mmhm” Charlie’s eyes were closed. He didn’t move his mouth to make the sound.

Suzie sat up to look at herself in the mirror at the foot of the bed.

“Where to, this time?” She fluffed her mussy hair.

“BC” Charlie sighed, started snoring. His government job, highly secretive, took him out of town, almost every week.

Suzie kissed Charlie on top of his head, jumped out of bed. She carried her clothes into the bathroom, down the hall. She used the toilet, dragged a brush through her hair before she dressed. There were still the horses to finish and eggs to collect. If she did the chores in a hurry, she’d be able to sit around with Charlie after the kids were in bed.

Charlie enjoyed his boys after supper. He wrestled with them on the living room floor while Suzie puttered around in the kitchen. Tommy and Timmy were seven and eight years old. Timmy was a strong, little bugger. When he tucked them into their beds, they kissed him goodnight, exhausted, happy to see their Dad.

Suzie had a bottle of home made wine uncorked when Charlie joined her in the living room. They stared at the tv, sipped their wine. Suzie handed Charlie the pile of mail addressed to Charlie Campbell. They were bills which he paid every month.

There were some chores to do tomorrow, but the weekend would be a lazy one. Suzie would bake some bread, give some riding lessons in the field. Charlie would get some well needed rest. If the kids had hockey games, he’d enjoy watching them play.

There wasn’t any disloyalty in Charlie’s behavior, as far as he was concerned. He loved his wives and kids, equally. They wouldn’t understand, right now, but in the future sometime, maybe when he and the wives were in their sixties, they’d all be happy together.

Charlie’s gaze switched back and forth between the horrors of the late news and the fireplace while Suzie dozed against him. He’d have to split some wood soon. Then again, Suzie was doing well at it. She was stronger than her slight frame looked. Even with the horses, she was in command. Charlie looked down fondly at Suzie’s sleeping face on his arm. He reached for the wine bottle, disturbed her. He pushed her gently down, in the other direction, so that her head rested on a pillow.

Saturday groceries. He had completely forgotten them the next morning, but he had time to pick them up while the kids were at the local rink. They liked to see him in the stands but an appearance at the beginning and the end of a game along with his fussing over them in their dressing rooms, was enough.

Charlie parked beside the little IGA with Suzie’s list. He should be able to get everything in this store, make it back in time for the end of Timmy’s game. The cashiers checked him out with the usual questions about the health of Suzie and the boys. He flirted playfully with the old girl, who had herself borne eight children on the family farm. Charlie respected the toughness of the farmers he knew. They all thought he did something secret and therefore, important, for the government.

Charlie had a feeling of well being as he drove back to the farm with Tommy and Timmy’s excited chatter in the background, a good old country song low on the radio. He always felt this way at the end of a satisfying Saturday. No, Charlie, mused, the two wives meeting wasn’t something he’d wish for any time soon.

CHAPTER 3

“I am a direct descendant of Magus Taylor, clan chief of the Taylors from the Highlands. This has gone far enough” Wilbur declared. He was the oldest of two brothers, Manson the other one, dozing at the front table, flowing red beard resting on his massive chest, long moustache fluttering when he exhaled.

“In the early eighteen hundreds my great grandfather was granted twelve hundred acres of prime land here and some was granted to your families, some he sold them.”

Wilbur looked out upon the group sitting around the Legion hall tables. He had more than a few doubts about the literacy of those gathered before him. He knew that they could do three things well: drink, fight and hunt bear. Some of them, like old Donald Mcnab, were getting up there, but most were still in good shape. They could damn well handle any city boys who were foolish enough to tell them what to do.

The problem they had to deal with, and fast, was that the government had outlawed the spring bear hunt.

“We have decided, Manson and me, that we’re going to be proactive in this. We have no choice”

The crowd of outfitters and guides looked at each other. They didn’t know what “proactive” meant, but it sounded good and Wilbur seemed determined. They followed the lead of old Mcnab, at the table in the back, applauded. Manson started in mid snore, sat up. He looked around, realized where he was. He exchanged the look of sleepy confusion for a posture of rapt attention. Wilbur continued.

“Manson and I have decided to go the limit on this. We have spent our lives building the hunting camps and no damn government’s going to end it all for us now”

The group of outfitters and guides applauded again. Manson, a giant of a man, looked around with steely eyed determination. Wilbur had decided whatever he had decided for both of them. “There’s no more use in sending letters and telephoning James. He’s as useless as tits on a boar hog”

The “James” Wilbur was referring to, was James Jamieson, the provincial representative for their constituency. He had been, for as long as anyone could remember. He had survived for many years by dodging his constituents on serious matters and sending anyone who liked hunting, north to the bear hunt. Lately, though, rumours had been repeated about his mental condition. It had even been said that he was placed in a nursing home where he spent his days stealing the teeth out of other old men’s mouths.

The sad fact was that the bear hunting industry was under represented. This banning of the

spring bear hunt was evidence of James’ ineffectiveness.

“With your approval” Wilbur looked long and hard at the assembly.

“Manson and I’ll be going to Ottawa. We’ve heard that there’s a secret meeting planned for the second week of February during what they call “Winterlude” down there. Our MP, Harvey Wall, will be there. We’re going down to lobby him. If he doesn’t respond, if he even hesitates, we’ll lock him in a room with Manson for a few minutes. That should work. If it doesn’t...”

Wilbur gave the crowd a resigned expression with eyebrows raised, hands held out, palms up, while Manson nodded, flourished a huge skinning knife over his head.

Clint Ross rose from his table, an empty quart bottle in hand. He burped and walked purposefully to the bar at the back of the room to exchange it for a full one.

Cinnamon, black and brown were the colours of the bears which the hunters sought where the spring bear hunt had long been a tradition, around the small town of Oregano. The Legion hall was the gathering place for the community. Tradition had, slowly but surely, turned into a lucrative business. Many American hunters became customers over the years. They spent enormous amounts of money for the pleasure of shooting a black bear. Canadians from the big urban centres also spent a lot of money but the Americans used US greenbacks and the exchange was good. The locals didn’t always understand their customers’ motivations, but that didn’t matter. The local mine had closed down and the forest industry was suffering from tariffs. Jobs in the few mills in the area couldn’t be counted on for work from year to year.

Large, small, old and young were the characteristics of the bears, considered “varmints” by the

locals, trophies by their customers. The locals observed the restrictions on which and how many

bears could be harvested every spring, sometimes to the chagrin of their southern based

customers.

“Isn’t it the province that banned the hunt?” asked Ronnie Orme from the back. He held up his

hand as if Wilbur was the teacher and he the pupil.

“Aha” Wilbur pointed at him.

“A good question there, Ronnie. It was the province, but at the urging of the feds. This meeting they’re gonna have in Ottawa should bring them all together. We heard that the tree huggin’ animal rights people are there too. Right in Ottawa. Greenpeace, David Suzuki, all of ‘em, they’re there in Ottawa. See, that’s what we heard, the bunnyhuggers are puttin’ the pressure on the feds and they’re pushin the provinces”

The group gave a collective grunt of disbelief and disapproval.

“See, that’s why we’re goin. They’re there, lobbyin. So that’s what we’re gonna do, me and Manson, we’re gonna lobby too.”

Bryce Young chugged at a quart, burped loudly, rose from his seat.

“Them politicians should see our dump. Goddam bears’re thick as flies on a cow’s rear end. Get some of them fellers up here. They’ll soon see the nuisance the bears are causin”

Bryce nodded his shaggy head, pursed his lips, wiped a thick moustache. There were general noises of agreement. Everyone in Oregano and the surrounding area had dealt with the nuisance, some even on their front lawns.

In the case of Lotty Moran, neighbours had happened by while she was trapped in a closet by a big black bear. It ransacked her kitchen. She had opened the door to let her dogs in and was confronted by the hungry beast. It was only with half an hour of coaxing that the neighbours had saved her by drawing the bear out of the house and shooting it on the back porch. The dogs were saved, but Lotty’s blueberry pies, favourites at the Legion, were lost. The bear, an old, battle scarred male, had been quickly skinned and disposed of. The meat was too stringy for the taste of local connoisseurs, but Lotty’s dogs and their friends enjoyed it.

Wilbur found that addressing the crowd came naturally to him. There was no doubt that he had their support. It was Magus’ genes. He had no difficulty collecting a good sum to speed he and Manson on their way. Sending Manson’s hulking presence around the tables to make a collection with his baseball cap didn’t hurt the cause.

The meeting broke up. The outfitters and guides downed the last of their quarts, wished the brothers well.

Wilbur and Manson climbed aboard their skidoos, made it home in record time. As they pulled into the yard of their big, cedar log cabin, they could hear the baying and barking of their bear dogs (especially trained and licensed for such work). They had arranged with Woody, their