William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

In less than a minute her panties were dangling from her ankles, and Lance was between them. At the transcendent moment of merging, it came to him that he hadn’t locked the outer office door. This ugly realization was confirmed when Hank Chekoff walked into the inner office, red-faced and spitting bile as he yanked out his police issue Smith 9 mm.

“It’s her fault!” the coward screamed, and the burlesque queen died in a hail of bullets.

It had to be done. The author had lusted for Rosy but never loved her, and she must be buried in the graveyard of the stereotypical. The subtle essence of L’Eau d’Hiver was wasted on this femme pornographique, save it for a sidekick with cool, with class.

Widgeon, Chapter Nineteen, “The Credible Sidekick.” Ever since the pioneering Dr. Watson, the role of best supporting actor-the foil, the mirror against whom your hero humbly shines-has been crucial to the success of mystery series. If I may be allowed to drop the name of my own Constable Ed Marchmont, it was no easy task to create a totally humourless character and make him interesting!

Brian remembered to back up, then put his weary old Mac to sleep. He must gird himself for the office, for Cudworth Brown and his ill-meant apologies for his ill-mannered accusations. He cut up some coke for the road, poured it into a little envelope torn from a Craven A packet.

He didn’t feel especially bonkers now that he was off Xanax, which had done little, merely stabilized him. Cocaine seemed a more natural remedy, curative; he felt healthier after a snort or two, sharper, confident. And it helped cut down the drinking.

He shrugged into his coat and descended into the bowels of downtown, a gloomy day, a cold drizzle. An ATM on Georgia Street coughed up three hundred dollars. He was going through his account fast, that was the drawback of his mood enhancer of choice.

He had to buy presents for the kids, find a way to smuggle them in. The shops were busy, depressing. Dumbly smiling elves in tinselled windows, syrup from speakers, tunes for illiterate ears, Christmas lights everywhere, sputtering, blinking, inducing a new phobia, fear of epileptic seizure.

He tarried a while outside the Bay, listening to a pretty violin-playing busker play a stripped-down version of the Four Seasons . He gave her twenty dollars for trying out for Rosy. Then down to the pimped-up waterfront, right on Cordova, then a ramble up Water Street, and you’re at Maple Tree Square, and that’s when you realize you’re being followed again. It was the same thin guy in the overcoat, or his brother. Dark complexion, Brian hadn’t noticed that last time. Who does he represent?

He hurried into an ugly so-called heritage building, avoided the elevator, took two flights of stairs, checking behind him at every landing. Yes, he’d shaken off the thin man. He entered through the portals of Pomeroy, Macarthur, Brovak, and Sage, whose freckled receptionist greeted him with a frozen cheery smile. “Good afternoon , Mr. Pomeroy.” Loud, so everyone could be warned.

Cuddles wasn’t here yet, just a couple of white-collar criminals in the waiting room. Brian had time to powder his nose. But stepping out of a doorway in a confrontational way-arms outstretched to hinder progress-was Maximilian Macarthur III, his dear friend, his woe-sharing buddy and partner of two decades.

“We need to talk.”

“I agree, Max. I’ve got a client coming by, let’s set a time.” Brian couldn’t get by, Max blocked all the holes. He was a little guy, bald and wiry, a runner, over-healthy. He pulled Brian into his office, closed the door.

“The divorce is over, Bry. It’s time to get normal.”

Brian stared grumpily out the window. Max had a pigeonless view, a choice view, over Burrard Inlet, a tableau of sea and mountains.

“Christ, you were coming around. Why did you relapse? For the last three months you’ve been like some ghoul who wanders in occasionally to spread gloom. Was it because your secretary quit? Roseanne got married. That happens. She’s pregnant. That happens too.”

Brian listened sullenly. Max doesn’t understand. No one understands. They can’t reach me, they can’t get to where I am.

“We’ve got you another one. She’s in your office now, restoring order from chaos. April Fan Wu, two weeks out of Hong Kong, she worked in a major law office there. Knows the lost art of shorthand.”

“Appreciate it. I think my client’s here.” Brian edged to the door.

Max had to reach to put an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll look after that disturbance charge, Bry, don’t worry about it. But I want to know what’s going on with you. Everyone’s concerned…”

“Did they ask you to check me out?”

“Who?”

“Everyone. You used the word everyone . Who is that, I want to know. Who is everyone?”

“Your partners, Bry-Augie and the Animal and me. Wentworth too. The conspiracy doesn’t go any higher. Where the hell have you been staying; why won’t you tell us?” The tone was of a social worker admonishing an adolescent runaway.

“I’m in a cabin in the woods, Max. I’m centring. I’m a Buddhist now, I’m studying the ways of the ascended masters. Listen, Max, I love you for caring, but if I act a little crazy, I’m just putting you on. It’s my sense of humour, Max, noir is in fashion. How’s Ruth? How’s little Jackie?”

“Jacqueline is not little any more, she’s thirty-five, she’s doing her Ph.D.”

“I knew that.” Brian made it out the door, waving goodbye, walking backward. “Later, right? We’ll talk later.”

“Let’s hoist a beer at Happy Hour, okay?”

“Happy Hour, claro , excellent plan.” Brian escaped down the hall, relieved he’d passed the test. Max hadn’t guessed the full extent of the damage.

He locked his office door, withdrew his A’s, fished out his bindle of blow, then turned to the sound of a soft “Hello?” He’d forgotten about his new secretary, hadn’t noticed this Modigliani masterpiece by the filing cabinet.

Brian tucked the bindle away, annoyed at himself, annoyed at her for smiling in such a knowing way. Why was this woman a legal secretary? Why wasn’t she on a runway in Milan? Five-foot-eight, mostly leg, flat chest, catlike eyes, and that infuriating smile, as if she reads him, knows his addictions, his sicknesses. Poised, assured, masking her repugnance.

“I am pleased to meet you, I am April Fan Wu.” The voice was musical, the accent British over a hint of Cantonese. “You are Mr. Pomeroy?”

“No, I’m the pigeon control officer. Mr. Pomeroy asked me to get rid of them; they’re driving him mad.” Preening on the sill outside, beady-eyed, occasionally taking a shit.

“It is bad chi to kill a pigeon.”

“Who told you that?”

“My grandmother.” Still studying him.

Brian looked about-his office didn’t seem in its usual disarray.

“You have not opened your mail for two months.” Matter-of-fact, patient, as with a child. “Almost two hundred e-mails, faxes, and telephone messages, some urgent, some not, demand answer. Dr. Epstein, your psychiatrist, is anxious that you call.”

“Did she describe me as a menace to all of society or just to myself?”

“I do think you ought to see her. You are obviously unwell.”

“Where did you get your medical training, Ms. Wu?”

“Sarcasm is a tool of the unimaginative.”

“Your grandmother?”

She nodded. Her unforgiving smile.

“I’m under a court order not to see my children. I am an emotional mess, I’m having some kind of massive stress disorder. On top of that, I’m being followed. Dr. Epstein is part of it. Illegal drugs bring temporary relief. My preferred form of humour is sarcasm. I’m not sure, but I think I’m also suicidal. You will hate working with me.”