Twenty-Nine

DR. JEAN-PAUL MANDEL rises every morning at 5:30. He takes a half-hour jog. He showers and shaves. Breakfast consists of kippers and mash as he reads the Globe and Mail then the Financial Post. He’s chauffeured to work at 7:00 precisely and he’s behind his desk at 7:15. He has lunch most days at the Château Grill, table six, overlooking the west block of the Parliament Buildings, from 12:00 to 13:30. He invariably has the veal. Occasionally, he’ll bring a client to the Laurentian Club and dine there. He plays squash from 14:00 to 14:45. He’s back at the office for 15:15 and he rarely leaves before 18:00.

I was amazed that Mutant Gene knew all this, but apparently Mandel’s minutest personal habit is part of Deltech company lore. And. Sure enough. Mandel was behind his desk at 7:15 this morning. But fourteen hours later, he was still there. And so were a lot of his employees. And so were we.

Industrial espionage-wise, today would have to be termed a bust. Mutant Gene didn’t get the gear from his accomplice until late last night, so he spent most of the day rewiring his mobile headquarters. Or. Van Halen, as he refers to it.

My gig was to man the spotting scope and keep an eye on Mandel. Even though we’re almost a mile away, the unit, which Gene claims was developed for the British SAS in the Falklands, is so powerful I can see clearly right into his office.

Unlike a lot of the other high-level offices I could peer into at Deltech, there are no awards or plaques decorating Mandel’s inner sanctum. His Nibs doesn’t have to remind anybody who he is. No. The Dynamic One sits at his mammoth, yet streamlined desk under a solitary Emily Carr canvas of a barren, almost primordial landscape. And the contrast, whether contrived or accidental, between the stark, hauntingly gaunt scene and the elegant, distinguished figure beneath it is arresting. It’s that of the Primitive versus the Modern.

I started to get fuzzy on Mutant Gene’s second-hand smoke at around ten, so I trekked over to a nearby shopping centre and bought the papers. There was the usual stuff, of course. Another truce in the former Yugoslavia. Some white supremacist cult in Minnesota holed up at their armed encampment after popping a couple of State Troopers. But unfortunately there was nothing catastrophic about Deltech. Almost as good, though, there was plenty on Rod First.

The leading daily is owned by the same media conglomerate that controls Channel 10, so they’ve hardly acknowledged Rod’s little “fender-bender” at all, but the local tabloid has been splashing it all over the front page. They’re trying to turn the incident into another Chappaquiddick. And it does have a lot of the same elements, I suppose. A celeb. A car crash. A corpse. And. I love this part. Booze! I couldn’t believe it when I read that one of their reporters somehow unearthed Rod’s previous drunk driving convictions. That’s been the best-kept secret in this town for years. The article also quoted Duck as saying that in spite of the police department’s denials, Rod “smelled like a goddamn distillery” after the crash. As if to support this argument, the text was accompanied by an unflattering picture of the bleary-eyed anchor hoisting a bottle of rye at a company Christmas party.

But on the side of fairness, the Pro-Rod forces were given equal space inside.

My fave was Sergeant Barb’s. They even included a picture of her. And placed it directly beside the tab’s daily pinup. Intentional or not, BEAUTY AND THE BEAST immediately leaped to my mind. Barb couldn’t confirm or deny the allegations against Rod claiming that a warehouse fire had destroyed many files a few years earlier. But Barb went on, speaking for herself, mind you, to vehemently defend the venerable co-anchor. Barb’s comments echoed Channel 10’s station manager, the mayor, Senator Gagnon, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, the Archbishop, and Rabbi Blumburg that Rod was the finest human being to have ever drawn breath on this or any other planet in the entire history of recorded time. Not in those words exactly. But that was the gist of it.

So. Somebody finally noticed that Emperor Rod is in the buff. All this with the ‘KIDS ’R PEOPLE 2’ telethon a day away. And to think. I began the day in a shitty mood.

The afternoon passed slowly and uneventfully. The TV wasn’t hooked up yet. So, I was forced to listen to Gene’s CD collection. And Gene’s musical tastes make DEATHWATCH sound like Percy Faith. What I came to realize over the course of the day is that Gene is fine as long as he’s grazing. Or gassed. Otherwise it’s all conspiracy theories (“So the CIA, man … figuring that disco would … like … destroy the kids’ fucking spirit … financed the whole thing.”), tirades about legalization (“Queen Victoria used to toke up when she had the rag on, man. Historical fact.”), or possible methods of extermination for Mandel and Emile if his Softcell–2000 plan doesn’t work (“So when the plane goes down, see … they chalk it up to pilot error … there’s no way they can trace it back to me, dig?”).

To keep things on an even keel, then, I frequently raced out for burgs and rolled a lot of joints.

Late in the afternoon, Gene got the tube working. In time for one of Humphrey’s updates. Humphrey has been quietly questioning the postponement of the Softcell demo on his show for a week, so he delivered today’s report with a certain amount of relish.

“Rumours are swirling in hi-tech circles today about Deltech. Informed sources tell us that it wasn’t only J.P. Mandel’s much-publicized squash accident that pushed back the release of the Softcell–2000 but that it has more to do with defects in the product. In the past few days, there has been a round of firings, and the word being circulated today is that a high-ranking VP has left in protest. None of this negative publicity has affected the Deltech stock, however, which remains firmly at forty-eight.”

Gene has made a bunch of calls and found out who the VP is. But he couldn’t track the guy down. Gene is of two minds where he is. Lying low. Or. Dead at the hands of Emile and Red Brigade assassins.

In spite of his lapses, the last lingering doubt I’ve been harbouring about Mutant Gene has vanished. He’s been on the button about everything from day one. The only thing that hasn’t happened is the stock’s dropping. Something we’re both at a loss to explain.

Around eleven o’clock, the catering van from the Château Laurier pulls up at the front door, and we realize that Mandel is going to be burning the midnight oil. So we pull up stakes and head back to my place. Gene comes in for a nightcap. Then, before he leaves, he gets me to come out in the van to do a final test on the electronic listening device that he almost had working earlier. After a few minutes of my pointing the mini-satellite dish in various directions and Mutant Gene adjusting knobs, we hear voices. Initially, I assume we’ve picked up the movie channel because of the corny dialogue and the dubious accents.

“Which car we put it under, man? I like the red one.”

“I don’t care which one you like, man.”

“I was only telling you I like the red one, man. You don’t have to put the fucking thing there if you don’t want.”

But it’s not a bad flick! I peek out the window and realize the voices are coming from a few feet away. It’s the Revenge Cult mercenaries from the other night. I have a momentary panic attack, but it subsides when I realize that I’m not their target after all. Chubbers is.

“How about the Jeep, then? We kill more people.”

“Yeah. Maybe we get some of his bitches, too. Let’s go.”

As the two hit men sneak across the street, I pick up Gene’s cellular and am about to dial 9-1-1. But something tells me to call Chubbers instead.

“Hello, my friend. How are you?”

“Listen, Chubbers. I’m over at my place here, and … I don’t know how to put this, but there are two guys on their way to your house and they’re going to put explosives or something under your car.”

“I see.”

“Do you want me to call the cops?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. Thank you, Poet. I’ll attend to the matter myself.”

“You’re sure, eh?”

“Yes, Poet. I’ll be fine. But while I have you on the line … have you reflected on my last offer on the Fairlane? It wasn’t final, you understand. I’m still prepared to negotiate — ”

“We can talk about the car tomorrow, Chubbers. Maybe you should get out there.”

“Oh, of course … and Poet … can we keep this to ourselves?”

Mutant Gene and I crawl up to the cab and have a ringside seat for the drama that follows. Neither of the commandos notices Chubbers ambling down the laneway with the aluminum baseball bat. One of them is too busy attaching the device to the bottom of the Toyota Land Cruiser. The other one, allegedly the lookout, seems infatuated with his reflection in the Allard’s hi-gloss paint job. Anyway, when they do see Chubbers bearing down on them, it’s way too late. Their eyes are the size of harp seals’ the instant they realize what is happening. And ironically enough, what transpires next reminds me of something Brigitte Bardot tried to get banned in regards to those same aquatic, fin-footed mammals.

After he’s finished, Chubbers drags the two lifeless bodies up the walk towards his garage, then stops for a second, knowing that I must be watching from somewhere, and offers up his signature smile.

“Nice neighbourhood,” says Mutant Gene.

* * *

“Man the scope, Poet. We don’t want to lose them.”

“Don’t worry. I know where they’re going.”

We’re in Bard of Avon Estates. And it’s not too hard to deduce where Mandel is heading. I tell Mutant Gene to pull over about a block away from Sheila’s house and use the binoculars to catch Mandel sprinting up to the front door. Where Erika greets him with a kiss. Not a deep probing one, but it isn’t a peck, either. As Mandel escorts her to the limo, I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen Erika in almost two weeks. She looks amazing. Funny thing. Every day we’re apart she looks better. And I look worse. I’m pretty sure this means something.

“Who’s the woman with Mandel?” asks Mutant Gene. “I’ve seen her before.”

“That would be my wife,” I explain.

If it’s possible, Mutant Gene looks more incensed than me at the moment.

“And she’s going out with that prick?” Gene wails in horror. “That’s it. He’s fucking dead. I know where I can cop a Sidewinder missile, man. I swear to God! Let’s nuke this motherfucker once and for all! What do you say, Poet?”

I ponder this intriguing suggestion for a moment. Then. “Let’s stick to the original plan, Gene. Hit him where it hurts most.”

“Yeah. Okay. I guess.”

Mutant Gene has been hyper all day. It started last night with the somewhat gruesome scene in Chubbers’s driveway.

“We have to call the pigs, man,” Gene kept saying. “This is heavy shit.”

Maybe I’ve been desensitized by too many Road Runner cartoons, but I couldn’t get too excited. They were gonna take him out. He got to them first. You have to wonder, though. There was a matter-of-factness to the way Chubbers went about his business. Like maybe he’s done this kind of thing before.

You should have seen Chubbers’s place this morning. Armed guards. Security barriers. Something is definitely going down. I’ll call him up later and get the scoop.

Today’s been boring for the most part. I did put the bug on Mandel’s limo this morning. That was neat. I went into the Deltech lobby on the pretext of seeing Judy. Who, fortunately, was off with the flu. Because I have no idea what I would have said to her. Then when I was leaving, I bent over like I was tying a shoelace near Mandel’s parking spot and stuck it on the inside of the rocker panel. Then it was back to Van Halen. Where I spent most of the day in front of the ubiquitous box.

The white supremacist cult in Minnesota? Guess who their leader is? Catfish. He’s going by another name but it’s him all right. You don’t forget those eyes. Plus. When they demanded a plane with enough fuel to get them to Vietnam? I knew for sure. I wonder if they’ll connect Catfish to Jimmy Ponds? I couldn’t be that lucky, could I?

Bad news on the cable front. The All-Star Wrestling people held a news conference today to announce that the Wrestling Specialty Network would go on the air within six months. Maybe I’ll call Basset Squared later. See if I’ve got a case. Probably not, eh? What a drag, though. That was one of my better ideas.

I caught a bit of Evette’s program this afternoon. Her final one, as it turns out. The syndicated sex show came through, and she’ll be moving to the Big Apple. It will give her a chance to see Clarence and Nils more often.

A television mobile unit pulled up in front of Deltech at around two, and we were wondering what was going on until we saw a promo for Serious Money and found out that Mandel would be Humphrey’s special guest. We tuned in eagerly. Hoping for some fireworks. But Humphrey thoroughly wimped out and went easy on him. Gene figures Mandel offered Humphrey some lucrative consulting work before they went on air.

Anyway, Mandel put in a marvellous performance. Unctuous as ever. He admitted that a VP had left the firm, but said that it was for personal reasons. Then he denied there were any problems with the new Softcell. Everything was on track. Copasetic. Tickety-poo!

Somehow Mutant Gene has a computer set up in Van Halen and he’s able to monitor the latest stock market quotes. Deltech had a dip in early-morning trading. Down as much as two and an eighth. But it’s rallied in the last half-hour or so. Gee, I wonder why? Wouldn’t have anything to do with this little tryst with Erika, would it?

We follow the limo down to the market area and it pulls up in front of an ultra-posh noshery. The entire staff, bowing and scraping obsequiously, are out to greet the Dynamic Duo before they even get to the front door.

I was so keen to spy on Erika, but now that I have the chance, I can’t bring myself to do it. Neither can Gene. But then another limo pulls up and as soon as I see the ornate walking stick, I realize it’s time to fire the gear up. Pronto.

I keep aiming the portable satellite dish microphone at the restaurant, and we pick up various conversations. Every group we zoom in on is tickled that Mandel is in the restaurant. And most comment about what a stunning couple he and Erika make. And they do, I guess. The identical tans. Even their clothes match, ferchrissakes. What do they do? Call each other ahead of time?

“I say. I’m going with a dark blue, single-breasted Armani suit, old girl. You might want to entertain something in a teal or chartreuse to bring out the charcoal fleck in my silk tie.”

I jiggle the satellite dish around for awhile until I hear a familiar voice.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to freshen up.”

It’s Erika. This is followed by the sound of some chairs being shuffled. Then, after a pause, Reverend Buck’s evangelical drawl.

“That’s heavenly pussy, pardner. If you’re not getting on that, I might. Okay. Dump the ape. I wanna talk to you alone.”

“But Emile is my — ”

“Now! Or I’ll throw the pea-brain out of here myself.”

Emile materializes in front of the restaurant a few seconds later. Moping. And despite the fact we’re in a parking lot, across the street, safely behind tinted glass, the very sight of him precipitates a mild form of cataleptic shock in Mutant Gene.

“So, I don’t have a lot of time here, I got that piss-ass telethon to go to, but I wanted to hear it from you, straight-up, Johnny-boy. What in thunderin’ Jesus is going on?”

Mutant Gene and I exchange an amused glance. Johnny-boy? This is far out! How much do these dish things cost? I’ve got to get one for myself.

“I told you. We’re waiting for the third-quarter results, then — ”

“Don’t gimme that party-line crap. I’ve got a stack of chips riding on this caper.”

“You’ve been great. And believe me, I appreciate it.”

“First I have to shell out for the production run. Now you need all this additional cash to prop the stock up — ”

“We’ve got a few minor glitches, Buck. Nothing to worry about.”

“The prototype worked, didn’t it? You told me that yourself. This Brophy character, your meal ticket, you had him check it all out?”

“The test results were exceptional.”

“You’re spreading the wealth around, aren’t you? You’re not nickel and diming the help are you, Johnny-boy? Because I know what a miserly shit-heel you can be.”

“That’s not fair play, old chap.”

“Don’t start that pip-pip-tally-ho bullshit, okay, Johnny. You’re from Chicago. Just like me. You came up here to Indian country to dodge the draft and you stumbled onto this hi-tech scam. Let’s call a spade a spade, here! I know who you are. You know who I am. Spare me.”

“I’m sorry, Buck.”

“What about the VP they mentioned on television? Who’s this dummy?”

“Nobody. A malcontent. Emile’s already taken care of that situation.”

“And how come my spies inform me Brophy’s vanished?”

“Okay, um, this is on the q.t., but I have him down at Princeton working with some of the top people in the field. Gene is my right-hand man. We’re in constant communication. He’s on the case, as we speak. Working on all our problems …”

If Emile weren’t outside, I swear Mutant Gene would run screaming into the restaurant and bludgeon Mandel to death with a pepper mill. Instead, he pulls out his stash and furiously rolls another monster jay.

“And are we close to resolving those problems?” asks Reverend Buck, like he’s addressing a child. “Are we?”

But before Mandel can answer, a waiter arrives to take their drink order.

Mutant Gene uses the stoppage in play to run up to the front of the van and come back with one of the Softcell–2000 prototypes. He hands it to me and smiles almost beatifically.

“Close? Not only does the anti-bugging technology not work, all your private conversations end up on the a.m. radio bandwidth. It won’t hold a charge longer than an hour. What else? Oh yeah. I sent an inside message to Johnny-boy. Press O.”

I press the O and the melody to “Jump” by David Lee and the Lads kicks in.

“Jump?” I ask, trying to discern the symbolic significance of that particular tune.

“What did the investors do in 1929?”

“You’re warped, man.”

“Yeah, they’re close.”

“Close enough for rock ’n’ roll.”

“You have my word on it, Buck,” declares Mandel. “Three weeks. A month tops.”

“You better be right, Johnny-boy. I don’t want to end up like Jim Baker, thank you. I like pussy too much. Speaking of which — ”

The conversation turns civil all of a sudden. A sure sign that Erika is back. We listen for a few more minutes, but it’s only small talk so we shut down.

This is painful. Seeing them together like this. It’s heartbreaking is what it is. It’s like seeing one of your albums in the delete bin. I keep getting haunted by a song lyric. I can’t remember whose.

Don’t it always seem to go — That you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Joni! That’s who it is. They paved Paradise. Of course!

I wonder if Erika will be better off with him. Simply because I think he’s a goof doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he treats her nice. Maybe I’ve misjudged him? Maybe Erika’s found somebody who’s going to make her happy and I should just step aside and give them my blessing?

Another notion keeps creeping into the back of my mind.

I wonder if Gene was bullshitting about the Sidewinder?