William Deverell - Snow Job

“With me …” Thiessen shrugged. “I just blew it.” He was sporting a five-day stubble. He’d put away his suits — he wasn’t Charley any more — and clad himself in newly bought work clothes, a floppy hat to shade his eyes. Longjohns. He was determined to survive up here.

“You new in town?” the stranger asked.

“Yeah. Getting my bearings.”

“I just rode in myself. So what’s going on in the world? Haven’t seen a paper in months.”

“Not much.”

“You on the run?”

“Guess you could say. Starting over.” Thiessen took a gulp from his pint, wiped his lips, saw that the other guy only had a coffee. “Buy you something stronger?”

“Wouldn’t mind. I am currently resource depleted, as they say in the prospecting business.” He called the bartender. “Same as my buddy here.” To Thiessen: “Starting over? At what?”

“Thought I might open a law practice.”

The prospector grunted, a kind of laugh. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a rooster?”

Thiessen canvassed his wide inventory of lawyer jokes. No roosters. “I give up.”

“When a rooster wakes up in the morning, its primal urge is to cluck defiance.”

Thiessen laughed when he finally got it.

“UBC, class of eighty-seven,” the prospector said.

“You’re also a lawyer?”

“Was. Where’d you practice? You look familiar.”

“Ontario. Stint in Ottawa. Made the mistake of getting into politics.” Thiessen sensed he was getting a physical once-over, his broad shoulders, his thick, pink fingers.

“Those hands ever seen a pick and shovel?”

“Not for a while.”

“You look like you played a little football in your time.”

“Winning tackle in the Vanier Cup, 1990.”

“Shouldn’t take long to shape you up.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ve got rights to an assload of gold, a registered claim up by Nanacho Lake. The project needs a small cash infusion. I’m looking for the right kind of partner.”

Maybe it was empty talk, but sometimes you stumble into things. Thiessen wasn’t going to hand over any blank cheques, but this could be the new life foretold by those dancing northern lights, God’s portent, a divination.

His new friend stuck out his hand. “Brian Pomeroy.”

“Call me Chuck.”

After dinner, his blood still racing from the hot-air disaster movie, Arthur took to his club chair with a pile of unread magazines. But he couldn’t concentrate. Not because of the sniping from the living room over a game of Boggle, but a feeling, still plaguing him, that one of his regular, tedious duties had gone ignored since his return from Europe. Some odious task, like cleaning the toilet or disposing of dead mice …

It came to him he hadn’t looked at his emails for almost three weeks; a prospect so dreadful he’d repressed it. In Arthur’s view, the world had been more civilized before electronic mail, less threatening — who knew when some clicking error would unleash a penis-enhancing deluge, or viruses or worms or adware or whatever they call those things that broadcast your every taste and inclination.

Surely if something was important, the concerned party would phone.

But to dampen the niggling worry that some message of worth was craving attention in his in-box, he rose with a sigh and slumped into his desk chair and turned on the computer and watched his creaky old monitor display a series of accusatory messages — impossible to get rid of — complaining of files not found.

Finally, the computer let him open his mail program. He was dismayed by the flood pouring in, as if from a burst dam. Uncaught spam whirled by, news updates, notes from lawyers, friends, acquaintances barely remembered, plaintive pleas from Wentworth Chance.

When the storm finally let up, he grappled with the thought of adjourning this task until the morning, when he’d have more vigour. But as he idly scrolled through the bulging account, a sender caught his eye: DiPalma078@hotmail.com. It rolled past, and he feared he’d lost it, but finally zeroed in on it. It had arrived two weeks ago, Sunday, January 2, at just after eight in the morning here. Five p.m. in Tirana. An hour before DiPalma was found hanging from a beam.

Arthur felt a little wobbly, and before opening the message he went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the spicy herbal tea that Savannah kept in a thermos. On his return, as he passed by the living room, she and Zack looked up from their Boggle game. “You okay?” she asked.

“Me? Oh, fine, yes. No problem.”

He quietly shut the parlour door, and clicked on the wrong message, from Cinny who wanted to meet him. Finally, DiPalma’s letter came up on the screen. He printed out its several pages and retreated with his tea to his club chair, adjusted the lamp, and began reading …

Yo, Arthur, I know you hardly ever check your mail, so by the time you get this I’ll be in heaven or hell or whatever is out there, and you’ll probably be on Garibaldi, just back from squeezing teats in the goat shed. I didn’t want to leave you confused and worried about whether I got snuffed. I only have one real enemy who dislikes me enough to do that. Guy named Ray DiPalma.

Remember that little Internet cafe around the corner from my hospice? Well, it’s not just a cafe — they also serve something to liven your spirits. Skenderbeu konjak , nectar of the gods. I was working on a jug of it in Gjirokaster, whatever happened to it? Goes pretty good with the Zykoril. Which they’re threatening to stop giving me, they don’t like my moods when it wears off. Man, when it does, you’re ready to kill for more.

Latest medical news: they did a brain scan, and they won’t confirm or deny but — how did the neurosurgeon put it? The risk of permanent brain damage cannot be eliminated. Brain damage. Well, Ray DiPalma declines to spend the rest of his life on head meds. Not this shitty life.

Remember that lecture you gave me in your Ottawa office? It’s stayed with me. Solicitor-client communications remain privileged, you said, even after the client pegs out. So it looks like you’re stuck to the end of time with keeping my secrets. Funny how that works. Privilege outlasts death. So it’s just you and me, Arthur, unless someone pirated your password and infiltrated your in-box — and if they have, well, fuck them. I bet you never thought that word was in my vocabulary. I actually had to bite my tongue a lot while I was hanging with you and Margaret. Appearances, appearances.

I didn’t need a high-powered receiver to pick up Margaret’s distrust. She suspected the klutzy thing was an act, didn’t she? The blatant following, the shuffling and stumbling. She was right. I think she’s got an innate sense about people. She always made me feel skittish around her, exposed. Not you, Arthur, not you, never you. You wanted me to be who I wasn’t, you wanted that badly.

The Parkinson’s thing too, that was part of my legend. The greening of Ray DiPalma? That was a little harder, couldn’t get totally into character. But, hey, I’m green, you’re green, today we’re all green. The planet’s going to shit. Another good reason to attrit myself.

The God thing was a problem too. I tried believing …

The nervous breakdown? Probably real. Hard to tell, I’d never had one before. But, yeah, I was kind of screwed up. But I figure I deserved an Oscar as the neurotic spy. Hope you agree.

Here’s what came naturally: nicotine and booze. I wish the lush thing had been a put-on, I wouldn’t have buggered up so many times. I get just one digit wrong, and suddenly Ledjina’s father is calling Moishe’s Bagel Bakery on Rue St. Laurent.

You’re supposed to think with your cortex not your testosterone in this job, but I never figured out how to do that. Telling a girl from Gjirokaster you’re a multimillionaire developer and offering to take her to Canada, object matrimony — these are not the kind of mistakes that make you want to live.