The Best Laid Plans Part 17

As well, I was able to retire my unwieldy diving mask though I'm sure I cut a fine figure in it out on the ice. Daniel, bless his kind soul, bestowed upon me this evening the very leather flying kit and goggles his great-grandfather wore in dogfights over France in the Great War. He flew the Sopwith Triplane, the Camel's forebear, in the famed all-Canadian "Black Flight." He shot down 42 German fighters but finally fell to Ernst Udet, second only to Richthofen in Allied kills. I was touched to my core.

I cannot turn my brain to politics tonight. There's nothing left for it. I will say I'm enjoying myself when I reckoned I never would. It is liberating when you answer only to what you believe to be right and just. How often do we enjoy such luxury?

I gave a little after-dinner address the other night at the quarterly ES dinner. It seems my unscheduled political sabbatical has caught the attention of some. The Faculty Club was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with folks I'd never met and who had never set foot on the science side of campus. I figure some of them think engineers drive locomotives. There were a few cameras on hand with their blasted blinders shining in my eyes throughout my little talk. I could barely see a yard before me. I prattled on about these connections I've been lately making between my old life and my new one. I'm finding that my beloved laws of science are not nearly so narrow but hold sway in other arenas. They gave me a little award for something. I could have done without that, but they're well-meaning, I grant them that. Enough of this marginalia.

I somehow feel as though I've reached the other side, crossed some kind of threshold. Can you make sense of it? I cannot fathom it, cannot see it clearly. I guess I'm not yet there. Tonight I'm tired and nearly content, yet never whole.

She floated and flew tonight. Aye, she did, my love.

AM.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

I sat across the table from Muriel and Lindsay. We were in Daley's, one of Ottawa's best hotel restaurants, just off the lobby of the Westin. Its proximity to Parliament Hill made it a gathering place for the political elite, at least when no tables were left at Mama Theresa's over on Somerset. We'd come on a whim after Muriel had spent the day in the Centre Block office. She'd never been.

Angus had fussed over her all morning, making sure she was comfortable. At one point, I feared she might swat him, but she knew his ministrations were well-intended. Muriel worked away on copy for our first householder, due at the Queen's Printers within the week. At about one-thirty I took Muriel's arm and escorted her, at her own speed, to the Members' gallery across from where Angus sat. It had been years since Muriel had been in the House, and she craned her neck like a first-timer, taking in the polished chandeliers and ornate stonework.

"It really hasn't changed all that much since the forties," she noted, scanning the chamber. "The carpet is new, and the television lights make it much brighter. Other than that, I can almost conjure up Mackenzie King waltzing in to take his place."

At two o'clock sharp, the Speaker rose from his throne, prompting six young pages, who had been sitting discreetly on the carpeted steps below, to rise in unison.

"Statements by Members," he intoned. The Speaker immediately looked towards Angus. I had cooked this up with the Speaker's office earlier in the morning. "The Honourable Member for c.u.mberland-Prescott."

"You'd better not have," Muriel hissed as Angus stood up. As usual, his desktop was bare. He turned to face the throne.

"Blame Angus. I was just his indentured emissary," I replied. She scowled but returned her gaze to Angus below.

"Mr. Speaker, I rise today to recognize in our gallery abona fidelegend of Canadian politics. She is 81 years young with an unbridled zest for life I'd long to have at my age, let alone in 20 years. Muriel Parkinson toiled for Mackenzie King at his height and spent many an afternoon in this chamber observin' these honourable proceedin's from where she sits today. Since leaving Parliament Hill followin' King's tenure, there has been no more stalwart a Liberal in this land than Muriel Parkinson. Many Honourable Members will know of her exploits on the campaign trail. When no other Liberal would, five times she stood for public office against withering odds. Mr. Speaker, Muriel Parkinson's dedication to public service is reflected today in her indispensable role as my personal adviser and grand marshal of our const.i.tuency office in her beloved town of c.u.mberland. She already enjoys my respect, admiration, and affection, but Mr. Speaker, I submit she deserves the same from the House this afternoon."

A chorus of applause, "hear, hear," and enthused desk thumping followed. My discreet index finger on her hip prodded Muriel to her feet where she waved with palpable modesty before sinking back into her seat. The Liberal side of the House was on its feet. I clapped, too.

"Codswallop," was all she said under her breath in the midst of the ovation. But her eyes betrayed pride and grat.i.tude as they found Angus below.

"Order, order, please," commanded the Speaker as he held up his right hand as if in benediction. "The House welcomes and thanks Muriel Parkinson."

Lindsay had been tied up, teaching a first-year poli-sci tutorial all afternoon but joined us later for dinner. She was crestfallen over missing Muriel's tribute in the House. Angus had a rare evening committee meeting he was loath to miss, so just the three of us went to Daley's.

Muriel's eyes were alight as the menu competed with the a.s.sembled "politerati" for her attention. Four Cabinet Ministers, a former prime minister, two senior political commentators, and three amba.s.sadors were on hand, making it a rather slow night for people-watching.

For Lindsay's benefit, I provided a detailed account of Muriel's triumphant return to the House, complete with dead-on impressions of Angus, the Speaker, and the cacophony of "hear, hear" and bongo desk drumming. I had brought the statement Angus had written (he wouldn't let me near the drafting of it) so that I could give Lindsay the most accurate simulation.

I was just closing with the Speaker's final comments when our harried waiter happened by. Or perhaps it was his tag-team partner who administered freshly ground pepper with a deft twirl of his right hand. I was having some difficulty keeping them straight.

"Order, order, please," I performed in my most authoritative voice. To my chagrin, I was interrupted before I could recite the Speaker's final line for my rapt audience.

"I'm sorry, sir, please bear with us. I'll take your order as soon as I'm able. We're quite busy tonight," replied the waiter before hustling over to another table.

Our burst of laughter earned us some annoyed glances from neighbouring tables, but nothing could dampen our spirits that night.

Except perhaps Rachel Bronwin. Yep, the Rachel Bronwin. I caught sight of her dining in a quiet corner with the Honourable "d.i.c.khead." Lindsay noticed the altered look on my face and followed my gaze.

"Is that her?" she asked.

"Yes, that is she," I replied, unable to hold back from correcting the grammar mistake daily made by the vast majority of Canadians.

"Well, she's certainly an attractive gal," offered Muriel.

I didn't think Rachel had seen me yet. I thought it was time I closed that book. "Would you excuse me?" I said as I pushed back my chair. "If our waiter returns, I'm having the strip loin, medium rare."

By that stage in our respective relationships, Lindsay and Muriel had both heard the late-night rubber-plant-rendezvous story in about as much detail as decorum and good taste permitted. Worried looks played across both their faces.

"Calm yourselves. I'll be right back," I a.s.sured them. The concerned looks persisted. "Don't worry. You know how I detest confrontation."

I strode out of the restaurant and across the hotel lobby to the elevators. I ascended three floors, walked along the corridor, found what I was looking for, and returned to the restaurant. After a quick briefing with the bartender, I slipped him a twenty and returned to the still-befuddled Lindsay and Muriel.

"What's going on, Daniel?" Lindsay asked, looking skeptical. "Are we about to be thrown out?"

"No matter," Muriel piped in. "I've been thrown out of nicer joints than this." That seemed to slacken the tension. I smiled sweetly and took her hand in mine.

"Fear not. I'm merely putting the past where it belongs behind me. So it's easier to focus on the future, if that's not too maudlin an explanation."

Lindsay, Muriel, and I all watched as the bartender took a gla.s.s of white wine on a tray over to where Rachel and "d.i.c.khead" were engrossed in quiet conversation. She looked up, puzzled, but took the wine gla.s.s and placed it before her. He then handed her the rather large do not disturb sign I'd pulled from a doork.n.o.b on the third floor. He pointed towards us, and Rachel eventually caught up. When Rachel's eyes fell on our table, the three of us as if on cue, yet utterly spontaneously, raised our gla.s.ses in a toast to her.

We watched the penny drop. Rachel threw down the sign and pushed back her chair with such force that it toppled over, landing on the foot of an older man at the next table. She stomped towards the lobby and was halfway there before "d.i.c.khead" processed the scene. He shot a malevolent look my way as he trotted to catch up to Rachel. The three of us again raised our gla.s.ses to him as he blew by.

"Was that good for you?" Lindsay asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Oh yeah, I think that went quite well," I responded.

"Game, set, and match," was all Muriel said with her gla.s.s still raised.

"I think I've changed my mind," I commented as I reopened the menu. "I now feel like having the filet of catharsis with a side of flam-beed 'just desserts.'"

We had a wonderful meal that night and laughed more together than we ever could have apart. I regretted that Angus had missed it in favour of tedious debate over procedure and the Standing Orders.

I escorted Muriel into the Riverfront Seniors' Residence while Lindsay waited in the idling Taurus. "Thankyou, Daniel dear, for a wonderful day and a delightful time tonight. The dinner was perfect in every way," she said as she hugged me. "I'm so glad Lindsay was there to see that little harlot's exit."

"So was I." I kissed her cheek and moved towards the door.

"I'll let Lindsay's mother know she need not leave a light on," Muriel offered with a lascivious wink, and I was out the door.

Angus and the Minister of Correctional Services both held those cheesy silver spades used in all ceremonial sod turnings. With Eric Cameron replaced by a Liberal, Cabinet had quickly approved the federal halfway house for newly paroled inmates to be erected on the southern edge of c.u.mberland. It had been on the Government's books for the previous three years, but Cameron had easily wielded enough power to stall and, given enough time, even kill the project. With that obstacle eliminated and Angus supporting it, it was sod-turning time, accompanied by the de rigueur grip-and-grin photo op with the Minister. It would make satisfactory fodder for the still-unfinished householder.

The Minister looked a little nervous as she stepped up to the microphone after tossing her shovel-full of dirt to one side. Attending the ceremony were about 20 supporters, 5 or 6 journalists, including 2 cameras, and 60 or so angry citizens of c.u.mberland, protesting the halfway house. Regrettably, the "not in my backyard" syndrome was a common enough malady in Canadian society bred through the arrogance and apathy of affluence. According to several independent studies, including one paid for and discarded by the Prescott Coalition Against Crime, c.u.mberland was ideally suited for the halfway house. The town offered a reasonably prosperous local economy; a local police detachment, featuring a team of parole officers; adequate distance from the criminal temptations of the big city; and a local community college to help equip parolees with the skills they would need to integrate more easily into today's society. It just made sense to build the facility in c.u.mberland, full stop. But when ex-cons are involved, logic seldom prevails in the chosen community.

The Minister spoke only briefly, skipping several pages of her prepared address, and looking longingly at her Lincoln Town Car and driver parked 14 feet away with the engine running and the rear door open. Despite the efforts of her political staff to stimulate applause at the end of each paragraph by clapping like crazed wind-up monkeys, the booing and heckling still drowned her out. She turned her desperate countenance to Angus as a tomato hit the lectern and splattered over the platform party. I was standing off to the side, and eluded the tomato shrapnel. Ever chivalrous, which he argues in no way conflicts with feminism, Angus stepped forward to stand at the podium, shielding the Minister.

"Hey hey, that's enough ofthat if you value yer throwin' arm, laddie," exclaimed Angus. I was forever counseling Angus not to threaten const.i.tuents with physical a.s.sault, but my pleas went in one ear and out the other. "Now, let's all take a breath and calm down. I want to a.s.sure you that the process and the exhaustive research undertaken to identify c.u.mberland as the ideal site for this important correctional facility were above reproach. I've reviewed it myself and have spoken at length with the Minister and her senior officials. As citizens of this great country we all bear obligations that reach beyond payin' our taxes. And one of them is welcomin' this halfway house and the men who will pa.s.s through its doors to this community" Angus said in his best Obi-Wan Ken.o.bi voice.

That's when the melon flew. "Incoming!" someone cried.

A less than athletic protester had thrown an overripe cantaloupe at the Minister while still holding onto his large and heavy RAPISTS OUT OF c.u.mBERLAND placard. Under such circ.u.mstances, John Elway would have had difficulty making such a throw. The cantaloupe arced gently towards the stage where Angus caught it deftly before it reached its mark. A great many lazy Edinburgh days of cricket played in the shadow of Arthur's Seat engendered excellent hand-eye coordination. Before either Angus or the protestor knew what was happening, the newly elected MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott hurled the cantaloupe right back with pinpoint precision. It burst on the forehead of the placard-bearing agitator, coating him and everyone else in a five metre radius with nearly rancid juice. About a thousand slippery seeds exploded from the melon-on-melon impact, lodging in hair, moustaches, ears, and even a few nostrils. When the seeds finally settled, I noticed that the offending protestor sported nearly half the remaining cantaloupe sh.e.l.l on his head like a gladiatorial helmet. Ivan Reitman could not have created a more cinematically comical scene.

I was quite sure that throwing rotting fruit at your own voters was not recommended in the re-election handbook. I hoped the Betacams had been packed away before the melon melee. Upon closer scrutiny, both cameras were right in the fray. From the cantaloupe entrails on each camera, I figured they were close enough to have shot some award-winning footage. By the time the OPP arrived from the doughnut shop two doors down, Angus had safely escorted the Minister to her waiting getaway car, and she had left in a puff of tire smoke.

"Well, your guy likes to keep things interesting. I'll say that much for him." Andre Fontaine approached. I reached out and removed the chunk of melon rind that rested on his shoulder beyond his peripheral vision.

"h.e.l.lo, Andre. Just another day in the exciting adventures of Angus McLintock," I replied, hoping he was in a good mood. Unfortunately, the tone of media coverage and the story angle itself were often directly influenced by what kind of day the reporter was having. But it was what it was.

"I'm impressed with your man's arm, not to mention his quick hands."

"Ah well, he's the product of a misspent youth on the cricket pitch," I explained. "I suppose you're running with this, eh?"

"Well, I'm torn between writing up this little event you know, where our new MP beans a const.i.tuent with a rotten melon or going with a story on the Legion bake sale I visited this morning," he mused, trying his best to look undecided. "It's a tough call. See ya, Daniel."

He walked down the street towards the editorial offices of The c.u.mberland Crier. For the first time, I noticed the camera dangling from his shoulder. Excellent.

"If some sod chucks a melon at my head, I'm gonnae return fire whether I'm an MP or not!" Angus bellowed.

We'd made it back to his house and were again sitting in his living room.

"Angus, I hear you, but you must understand, you're held to a higher standard now. You must rise above the juvenile tactics of protestors and stay on the high road," I implored.

"Dinnae be givin' me any b.o.l.l.o.c.ks about the high road! That's my song. Yer in my glen now. It's not whether you take the high road or the low road that counts. It's how you conduct yourself, whichever road you're runnin', that'll dictate who reaches Scotland first," Angus said in a hissing tone. He paused to take a breath before barreling on. "I was protectin' the honour of a Minister of the Crown, and I'll not apologize for layin' out a hoodlum with the very projectile he fired at her."

I raised my hands in surrender.

I needn't have worried. Angus had so high a balance in the Canadian Imperial Bank of Popularity that the extensive media coverage served only to burnish his image further. The videotape captured the snarling protestor taking careful aim and launching the cantaloupe with a look of rage normally reserved for the Intifada. The footage showed Angus stepping in front of the Minister, catching the melon, and throwing it back. It closed with Angus hustling the Minister to her car like a Secret Service agent blocking the sniper's shot so the President can escape in the bullet-proof limousine. He looked almost heroic. At least that's what 17 editorials in Canada and the United States said the next day. Larry King was quite effusive as well when he ran the video (though Angus declined the interview). He also said no to People magazine, The New York Times, and Oprah Winfrey.

There are some honest and upstanding politicians in this country who try every day to do the right thing, make the right decision, and choose the right path, yet still, seldom get it right. They're not dumb. It's just not that easy. Angus wasn't even trying, beyond just being himself but could do no wrong. He didn't even want it, and he had it. The man was a walking news story. If you tailed him long enough, something interesting, if not breathtaking, was bound to unfold. It was a miracle the hovercraft story had not yet come out. I figured Angus opted for night testing to lessen the likelihood of media exposure.

Camille entered my office to alert me that our guest had arrived. I asked her to show him into Angus's office in a minute or two. Angus was at his desk, scribbling in the margins of the Standing Orders as CPAC droned in the background. I switched off the TV "Are you ready? He's here," I said, casting a thumb towards the reception area.

"What are we doin' again?" asked Angus.

"Ottawa River Aggregate Inc. Remember?" We'd prepared carefully for this encounter.

"Aye, I remember, I remember," he said, annoyed. "I'm just yankin' yer leg."

I stood up as the lone suit entered. He looked to be about 50 but wore his hair slicked back with enough petroleum gel to heat Iqaluit for a week. I couldn't have afforded his black, pinstriped suit if I had sold the Taurus. A heavy, gold chain, hanging from his left wrist, occasionally banged against his large, gold cufflinks. A neon blue, patterned tie lay against his bright yellow shirt, kicking off a glare that hurt my eyes. He wore shiny black, pointy shoes. When I was a kid, we called them "nose pickers." To Angus and me, he would always be known as "Slick."

"McLintock?" said Slick, turning to Angus. "Whoa, quite the beard you got there, big guy." His thick Southern accent grated like a circular saw in concrete.

Angus smiled congenially and shook his hand. "And yer name, sir?" inquired Angus, bordering on obsequious.

"Todd Haldorson from International Aggregate out of Cleveland. We own Ottawa River Aggregate and 127 other gravel traps around the world."

"Good day, Mr. Haldorson. We've been expectin' you," oozed Angus.

"Well, it's nice to meet the man who sent that Cameron fellow packing. But I gotta admit, Cameron was sure enough good to us always helping us out of jams and the like. I'm kinda sad to see him go," Slick noted wistfully.

I stepped forward and held out my hand. "Mr. Haldorson, I'm Daniel Addison, Mr. McLintock's EA. Welcome to Ottawa."

"Yeah thanks, nice little town you have here," he said as he made himself comfortable on the couch. "Man, I've been trying to get in to see you now for three weeks, but that old broad at your other office doesn't seem to like me much."

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We had no idea there'd been any kind of delay" I replied, feigning concern. Muriel knew what he was after and had kept him hanging. I was in the dark until I happened upon an errant voice-mail message on the const.i.t office answering machine and realized what was going on. I sympathized with Muriel's viewpoint, but avoiding a meeting was really not an option.

Angus piped back in. "So, Mr. Haldorson, what brings you to Ottawa, and how can we help?"

"Well, let's get down to it, then. I like a man who can cut to the chase."

Angus and I took the two easy chairs facing Slick.

"Well, gentlemen, the Ottawa operation has been providing gainful employment for the good folks of Sunderland now for five years," Slick opened.

"c.u.mberland," Angus noted with an ingratiating smile.

"What'd I say?" Slick asked.

"Sunderland," I replied.

He shook his head, mad at himself. "Ah h.e.l.l, we got a little facility down in Sunderland, Texas. I'm always getting them confused. Anyhow, I got good news for y'all."

"Do tell." Angus again.

"Well, as we like to say at IA, 'grow or die.' So we're on the grow in c.u.mberland. The big boys in Cleveland wanted to shut you down, but I talked them out of it, provided we can build the addition and take advantage of what I guess they call economics of scale."

"I believe the term is economies of scale, but we understand." Angus was laying it on thick.

"Right, whatever. So it means about 75 short-term jobs to get the addition built and another 50 permanent jobs when it's up and running on top of the 82 jobs already there. So it's what we call down in Louisiana a big win-win."

"Why, that's terrific news, Mr.... um ... Haldorson. I'd be pleased to help cut the ribbon," offered Angus.

"Well, you see, McLintock, if we don't get your help long before that, we'll be cutting jobs, not ribbons. To get the big boys to approve this plan, I promised that you and I'd work together to make a few things go away before we'd start pouring dough into an expansion," Slick said with no diminution in confidence.

Extraordinary gall. Here we go.

"Well, we are at yer service, Mr. Haldorson. What needs to be done to expedite this most generous investment?"

"Now you're talking, McLintock. Well, we got two little problems that need to disappear to keep the padlock off the front gate. First of all, some of our more militant worker types have taken some trumped up health and safety issues to the Ministry of Labour, and we're catching some heat. There's some hearing coming up, and I've told my guys in Cleveland that I'd fix it so the hearing never happens."