William Deverell - Snow Job

Makepeace came by with the portable phone. “Normally, as you know, this establishment frowns on personal calls, but this here is from a foreign dignitary.”

“Who?”

“President pro-tem, he calls himself, of Bhashyistan. Don’t tie it up all day.”

Arthur was slow to recover from the shock of hearing, from halfway around the world, the liquid-clear voice of Abzal Erzhan apologizing, of all things, for this intrusion. “Forgive me, Arthur, but someone at your house said you could be reached here.”

“Good lord, is that you? Truly?”

“Weary but more at peace than when we shared our last adventure. I apologize for deserting you in the night, but you can appreciate the reasons.”

Arthur recovered sufficiently to ask after his family.

“I just got off the line with Vana. She’s well, the kids are in excellent health and spirits. I expect they’ll join me here after their school year. Hopefully, things will have settled down by then.”

He’d reunited with his siblings, who were also well — “all things considered.” His bitterness at the tyrant who had tortured them and murdered his parents seemed somewhat mollified by his easy, triumphant victory. “There has been enough blood, Arthur. Better that Ivanovich and his bootlicks spend the rest of their lives in solitary contemplating the hatred the nation feels for them. Oh, incidentally, our technologically savvy friend Mukhamet has denounced his pere — thinking to save his skin — so he may be a useful tool.”

Arthur could hardly believe he was hearing these unguarded, confident words from a man who’d seemed congenitally moody and taciturn. It struck him that he’d not got his true measure during their few days together.

“There’ll be elections, of course?”

“When we’re ready.” That was too ambivalent. Arthur was reluctant to ask about the ominous influence of the Russians. He feared that this educator, however well intentioned, despite his impressive show of leadership, might prove unschooled in the politics of power.

Abzal asked after Brian Pomeroy, and Arthur was able to tell him the lawyer-turned-goldseeker had been reported alive and reasonably well.

“It will be too much to ask you, but maybe Brian Pomeroy — We’ll need help organizing a justice system.”

“An invitation to serve as adviser to the Bhashyistan minister of justice might tempt him to emerge from hiding.”

“And Djon Bajramovic, have you heard from him?”

“He’s on holiday in southern Italy.”

“Well earned. I’m sorry I never had a chance to meet Mr. DiPalma before his sad end.”

Makepeace was wagging an impatient finger. There would be time enough to tell Abzal of the eight million dollars negotiated on his behalf. “Tied up as you are with affairs of state, you obviously have little reason to come back.”

“Oh, no, I’m looking forward to watching you in action at the commission hearing. Very important to see justice done.”

Arthur stifled a groan.

Parking was tight when he arrived late at the Hot Air Holidays proving grounds, so he left the Fargo by the gate, deep-pocketing the keys. It was a cold, crisp day, the sun unable to muster the energy to melt the leavings of yesterday’s snow clouds. These had deposited a white film on roofs and untrampled foliage, making Stoney’s car lot less homely. The ribbons, banners, and helium balloons — a clever touch — along with the swollen, red-striped airship, gave the feel of an inelegant amusement park.

Stoney’s cronies were all present, along with the bulk of the Centre Road neighbourhood — though not the next-door Shewfelts, who were constantly at daggers drawn with Stoney, dragging him to court under the Unsightly Premises Bylaw. No sign of Constable Pound, who’d likely found the ballooning regulations too complex to be enforceable.

When Baldy Johansson offered a swig from his hip flask, Arthur looked at him severely.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’re AA.”

“So are you.”

“Had to take a break from them meetings, I get too emotional. Besides, it’s the year’s biggest social weekend. How late did you stay at that Starkers Cove ring-dang-do?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“I’d of sworn you was in the hot tub with us. Man, they had half a steer on the spit. Kegs of beer, enough to fill a bathtub, wine galore, not from kits either, the real stuff. Live music, Skunkweed from Port Alberni, played all night until their lead singer passed out. Everything kinda died out around four.”

Arthur thanked him for this update, and carried on to join the folks massing by the balloon. It was tethered to a stripped-down chassis, the propane burners on low burn in the gondola, an oversized basket. Stoney was in there, doing last-minute checks, Dog standing beside him, looking decidedly ill at ease in his hockey regalia.

Stoney turned to the eager watchers, grinning. “Houston, do you read? All systems are go.” His own system, however, seemed less primed. Crawling over the basket’s guardrail, he floundered and fell, losing one of his untied sneakers. He brushed himself off, weaved over to the tether rope, slurring: “Ladies and genermen, you are about to observe hishtory in the making.”

The Starkers event had clearly done him severe damage. Arthur could only hope that Dog wasn’t similarly challenged. His impulse was to demand a halt to this, but he hesitated, not wanting to act the wet blanket.

“Turn up the burner, Dog!” Then: “We have liftoff!”

As the balloon suddenly rose, Stoney followed. Somehow, in the process of untying the tether rope, he had looped it around his wrist. His ground crew, led by Hamish McCoy, led a dash to catch him by his remaining sneaker, but it came off in their hands. Stoney spiralled into the sky, clutching the rope, caterwauling: “Turn down the burner, Dog! Turn down that burner! Move! Open the vent!”

The test pilot was immobile, staring down at him over the rim of the basket, but he finally came out of his fugue and set frantically to his task. By this time, they were floating above the Shewfelts’ roof. Sheep were stampeding in the pasture across the road.

“Turn the burner down , I said! Not off! ” This final instruction came too late: the balloon quickly went limp, and in seconds Stoney was entangled in plastic hooves and antlers, the entire rooftop display collapsing, with Rudolph going stiff-legged over the edge, plummeting to the Shewfelts’ walkway and shattering into shards of plastic. The gondola came to rest on Santa’s sleigh, Dog crawling from under the fabric of the balloon.

Mrs. Shewfelt ran from the house screaming, and her husband came barrelling out after her, knocking over lawn elves like bowling pins as he bolted to the safety of the road.

Everyone watched, stunned and silent, until Stoney rose in a tangle of Christmas lights, barefoot and dishevelled. Then they all whooped and cheered.

“You got troubles, partner?”

Thiessen’s reddened eyes rose from contemplation of his pint of ale and sought focus on the weather-beaten face of the character on the adjoining barstool, a trapper maybe, or a prospector.

“I got troubles,” Thiessen said.

“Wife?”

“Not yet. But those are coming.” The bar was called Gold Diggers, a log structure in Yellowknife’s Old Town, poorly lit, good for hiding in. His searchers hadn’t found him here, nor in his new digs at Captain Ron’s Bed and Breakfast. They’d finally given up, fled back to Ottawa.

“With me, it was wife,” said the grizzled man. “Kicked me out on my patoot.” Late forties, fifties, it was hard to tell. Salt-and-pepper hair, a full set of whiskers, his nose and earlobes scarred from frostbite. “Things went downhill from there.”