1995
The Smell of Napalm
in the Morning
IT’S A WEEK before election day. Max is staring at page three, thinking about the nice job the City Editor and the Indonesian did putting it together. The road to nowhere story was so outrageous that the Other Paper had no choice but to assign reporters to it. The other media picked up the signal and followed suit.
“I and my colleagues have nothing to apologize for,” the Premier is telling the broadcast hacks, over and over. “This government is not afraid to help Nova Scotians. That is all I have to say. What I can tell you is how much I wish the newspaper that published the so-called story had given us a chance to comment. But they wouldn’t have a story if they did that, would they?”
As well, all the competing media jumped on the priest story because the church is now officially a target. And they all hate Bentley & Steele, so that was a no-brainer.
But oddly, even though he came in early just for that purpose, Max hasn’t been fired yet. The phone rings and it’s the Lawyer. The Cobra must have asked her to do the firing.
“I’ve been taking calls all morning,” she says. “The libel actions and the contempt investigation have been dropped. Human Rights is backing off, too. I’ll have to dial-down my vacation plans, but I’m happy for you.”
Max needs a moment to absorb the news.
“You don’t find it all a bit strange?” he asks.
“Nothing about your Paper surprises me any more. Bye, Max.”
In his fevered fantasies, Max’s private homage to Apocalypse Now never got past Robert Duvall extolling “the smell of napalm in the morning”.
Now, Max thinks, this could truly be “the smell of victory.”
He calls the Wife at work.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Definitely. A courier just delivered a note from his Excellency — copied to the board chair — praising my work.”
Max asks what she thinks is going on.
“Maybe they’re trying to get you to drop your guard. Maybe someone will shoot you in the parking lot tonight.”
“Yep. That’s it. You’ll miss me, then?”
“Oh, terribly. Gotta go, but while I still have you on the line, do you have that car dealer’s number by any chance?”
“He’s not nearly enough man for a woman like you,” Max says.
• • •
Max is as fond of the City Editor as ever, but their meetings have been duller since she started dressing professionally, swearing less and making fewer suggestive remarks.
“This came for you,” she says, pulling a video cassette out of a courier package, popping it into Max’s VCR and hitting play.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” he says. “Feel free to play it.”
She hands him the sealed envelope that came with the cassette.
Onscreen they see a colour image of a naked white man, middle-aged with a considerable paunch. He’s on his hands and knees atop some kind of bench about four feet off the ground.
“Excellent definition,” the City Editor says.
A skinny woman with breasts held up by a pointy half-bra enters the frame wielding a ping-pong paddle. She lines it up with his backside.
Whack!
Max and the naked man flinch in unison.
“Is this one of the tapes from R v Spadinsky?” Max asks.
“Well, it’s not Mr. Roger’s Neighbourhood.”
Whack! The young woman strikes an especially effective blow. The man groans. “Now shush,” Spadinsky urges him. “This is what you signed up for.”
Whack! Whack! A deeper groan.
“Ewww,” the City Editor says. “I hate it when they dangle like that. I like ’em high and tight, you know?”
“Of course,” Max says solemnly. “Everyone says that.”
There’s a break in the action. The naked man turns his head back to face Spadinsky.
“Recognize anyone?” the City Editor asks.
“Well, it’s not his best angle, but is this . . .?”
“You bet it is,” she says. “Wait ’til Mother Mary sees this.”
Whack!
“Make friends with the paddle, your Excellency,” Spadinsky says, coaxing him on.
“There was a note taped to the cassette,” the City Editor says. “There are four other names on it, all of whom you’ll know.”
Max scans the note: “Well, certainly they’ve all been bad boys. Very bad.”
Whack! “Oh!”
“Take that you nasty little boy!” the City Editor barks to the screen.
Whack!
“Should I put the Weevil on it?” she asks.
“No. It’s their private lives,” Max says. “The important thing is that they believe we’ll use this stuff, if they’re not careful.”
“Well, why did you fight the ban then?”
“It’s what we do,” he says. “Anyway, the Spadinsky case is toast.”
Max has no doubt the tape explains all the conciliatory phone calls and other positive news this morning.
He opens a sealed envelope that came with the package. Inside is a card with the words GCPR in gold across the top. And below that the words “Communications and Public Relations Consultants.”
There is also a handwritten note:
Max — Found this in our office yesterday. No idea where it came from. We felt the ethical thing was to send copies to all those depicted. (No, I don’t mean you’re one of them. Maybe next time.) We just thought you might be interested. And remember, our invitation to join our rapidly-growing firm remains open.”
It was signed by the CEO.
The City Editor leaves and Max calls the Dancer’s special number, which turns out to be a satellite phone.
“Maxie!” she shouts. “Sorry it took so long to answer. The concierge had to bring it to me. You should be at this party. No one’s wearing any clothes. You’d love it!”
Happily, the party turns out to be in Milan.
“Where did you get the tape?” he asks. “I thought you were out of that business.”
“I don’t know what tape you’re talking about,” she says. “But if I did, I would say that selling real estate, a person meets all kinds of people.”
They chat for a bit, but the Dancer has to go: “It’s cold just standing around.”
The City Editor knocks on his door: “The Crown just dropped the Spadinsky case.”