Michael Slade - Headhunter

As Chartrand stood now in front of the window contemplating the implications of what the Attorney General for British Columbia had told him, the telephone rang. He put down his coffee cup and caught it on the third ring.

"Chartrand," he said quietly.

"Francois, this is Walt Jessup. I'm calling from the coast. We've got a serious problem."

"I've already heard, Walt. By a different chain of command."

The Deputy Commissioner of "E" Division snorted. "I'm going to need muscle and machines, Framjois. This'll be worse than Olson. Even there we had vigilante squads and private police forces and phony ransom demands and God knows what else. I don't expect the feminists to be as restrained as parents."

"You'll have them."

"What else are we going to do? What shall I tell the

press?"

"Leave that with me, Walt. I'm thinking about it now. I'll call you back shortly once I've made a decision. I promise I'll give you something. You just give me time for a second cup of coffee."

The Deputy Commissioner managed a shallow laugh. "All right. But no longer," he said. "Or I'm going to sneak out of town."

After replacing the receiver, Chartrand walked through to his kitchen and poured himself another cup. He lit a third cigarette and went back to his study. And it was then, with the advancing light of dawn, that the idea struck him.

He knew what had to be done.

For when you are the head of an organization with both a sacred duty and a mythical legend in trust —

You use the very best you've got.

Even if you no longer have him.

Vancouver, British Columbia

8:15 a.m.

Genevieve was dying.

He held the rose bush gently in his left hand and carefully examined it for signs of blight or disease. But all he could find were two minuscule white dots where the flower joined the stalk. Whatever they were, he had never seen this symptom before. That's the problem with exotic plants, he thought. They contract exotic diseases. Outside the greenhouse lay a world of dazzling snow. The maple trees, and the city far beyond were blanketed with white and the sun now blazed down, bouncing off the snow crystals and the prisms in the greenhouse's glass walls. Rainbows were everywhere.

Except for the weather, it was a bad day all the way around.

As usual, he had begun his work this morning at five-thirty. But the moment he sat down in the white wicker chair and placed the clipboard on his knee was the moment that he knew the block had settled in for good. He merely sighed with resignation. To be honest with himself, there had been a lethargy about the project from its very beginning. Did the world really need another history of the First World War? Hadn't Fay and Albertini, Tuchman and Falls and Liddell Hart said what had to be said?

He put the plant down gently and in the doing knew that the book had died.

Now Genevieve was dying too.

While lost in thought he had not heard his wife open the door of the greenhouse that led to their home. She touched his arm as she always did and spoke to him in French.

"Robert, on tu demande au telephone."

He looked at her for a moment — the auburn hair now piled on top of her head, here and there a wayward strand tumbling down to her shoulders, then he nodded and went quietly out of the greenhouse and into the living room, across the pegged wood floor with its Persian carpet, and into the entrance hall where he picked up the telephone.

He felt a little depressed. The day was shot. What else could go wrong?

"Hello," he said in English. "This is Robert DeClercq."

4:55 p.m.

He was smiling as he stopped just inside the door to the pub, his eyes skipping from table to table, checking to see who was strung out and twitching and looking for some smack. He knew that for a moment all eyes in the Moonlight Arms were furtively sizing him up to see if he was holding. Especially the blond jerking and jumping in the corner. She was always here, waiting — but then she was a big girl and a fix wouldn't hold her long.

The Indian moved among the tables, closing in on her.

Not ten minutes ago he had been fronted two bundles of junk. The Man had said it was the best around since the last time the Horsemen had done a sweep of the street. "But move it fast," the Pusher said. "Harness bulls get a whiff of this an' they'll kick in the door ablastin'." "Why the front?" the Indian asked. "That's not usual practice?" "I trust you, my man," the Pusher said. "Now where would a motherfucker like me be without a little trust? Just move it fast, my man."

The way the Indian figured it, he'd push forty-five caps and save five for the fix. Mixed with a little bouncing powder, the speedball would have him in space by eight. It had been at least a month since he had done a borderline fix and his heart was beating fast.

Tonight would be the night. As soon as he moved the bundles.

"My man," the blond whispered as soon as the Indian came within earshot. "Am I glad to see you."

Her face was twitching like dead matter coming alive.

"Sorry to disappoint you, blondie, but I couldn't score."

But it was just the old pusher joke, getting off on the interplay of hope and anxiety on a junkie's face, tasting the feel of power, the power to give or withhold, then opening his mouth a little bit to reveal the balloon behind rotting teeth, reveling in her sigh of relief as he said, "Oops, my mistake. I had some all the time. You got a place?"

The blond shook her head. "Not near here. Fix me, my man, fix me. Then just let me split."

"You want one or two, lady? It's seventy-five a hit. This is de-e-e-lux goods."

There was a slight flicker in the blond's eyes, but that didn't matter. She was in no position to balk.

The blond nodded twice.

"Meet me out back in five," he said. Then the Indian turned away.

It was at that moment that they both saw the black man who had just walked in through the door. His shoulders were thick, usurping the space where his neck should have been, and his chest strained the material of his blue denim shirt. He wore wide bell-bottom blue trousers without a belt which looked as though any second they'd be down around his ankles. Under the edge of his white toque peeked a receding hairline. His face was round and he sported a pencil-thin moustache on his upper lip. The man was weighed down with jewelry: several gold chains in the hair of his chest, eight small rings on his manicured hands, a single stud in his left ear. Judging from his look, however, there was little chance that even in this part of town anyone would try to take them off him.

The Indian blinked at the man who nodded toward the back door. Then the black turned on his heels and left by the front. The Indian slipped among the tables and went out through the rear.

When they were gone, the blond stood up and quickly made her way to the back of the pub. As she entered the hall leading to the washrooms a man of about fifty with running pimples all over his face slipped a hand between her thighs. She pushed him away and entered the women's room.

The room stank.

There was the smell of urine everywhere and three separate puddles where people had puked on the floor. A soiled Kotex floated in one of the puddles. The only window was open to the alley as if the smell of garbage would somehow freshen the air.

The blond entered the toilet cubicle that was directly beneath the window. The seat was missing from the toilet. She stood up on the edge of the porcelain bowl and peeked out through the window.

For less than a minute the woman watched the black man and the Indian talking. They exchanged something. Then they turned away from each other and walked in opposite directions.