A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) (12 page)

A block away from my house Mr. Reese asked, “Have you ever been to Riding Mountain Park?”

“No.”

“It’s fascinating. An escarpment—a mountain almost—rising up from the prairie with unique wildlife and vegetation. Lots of elk and deer and all looming over the fields and prairies. It’s the closest this miserable little lake-bottom province gets to an actual mountain.”

I checked and he was smiling.

“You should take the kids. However, there is a long hike listed on top of the, quote, mountain, and it is a nightmare. Close underbrush. Mosquitoes. Biting flies. Elk. And at the end of it a view of nothing because the trees haven’t been cleared in decades. Skip it.”

The car ride was smooth and finally I asked him what he was driving. He patted the dashboard with every appearance of affection.“A Bentley Flying Spur. Not very common. English and very well bred.”

We drove in silence out of the city and headed west and north. Reese set the cruise control at 110 klicks and then spoke again. “Do you know the name of our client?”

“Aubrey Goodson.”

“Excellent. How do you know that? I know Dean and Brenda would never have told you.”

I had turned in the slick leather seat and was watching Mr. Reese carefully. “A man called Cornelius Devanter approached me energetically to betray Mr. Goodson.”

“You agreed?”

“I did.”

He pursed his lips in thought. “I see.”

“No you don’t. He offered me ten grand to throw the election to his good friend Rumer Illyanovitch. After bargaining the offer went up to twenty.”

Mr. Reese stole a look at me and nodded. “You have no intention of following through on the agreement?”

“The term ‘throwing’ the election is a slippery one.”

He nodded. “True.”

“I can ‘throw’ and he can avoid ‘catching’ and the deal is still met. So I want to see what Mr. Goodson offers. You see, Mr. Devanter and his lawyers pulled guns on me. I hate that. So, what does Mr. Goodson have on the table?”

Mr. Reese looked unconcerned at the mention of guns. “Well. To start he offers to finance your election entirely out of pocket. Once elected, the income of the chief commissioner is $21,000 per annum.”

“That’s not much.”

“Can you pour me some coffee? It’s in the thermos back there.”

I did and tasted it and it was good. “Timmie’s?”

“Yes. Tim Horton’s finest. Let’s break that down: the $21,000 is paid for attending eighteen meetings, each roughly three hours long. So fifty-four hours of work. Plus homework, say ten hours for each hour in a meeting for a total of 594 hours a year, which makes for an hourly wage of $35.35 for four years, the term.”

“But there’s no guarantee I’ll get elected?”

“True. So make me a counter-offer.”

He drove and we ate small fresh whole wheat buns, slices of Thüringen sausage, ripe black olives, chunks of Gouda and black cherries. And while we travelled I thought and then I made an offer. “Okay. Guaranteed election expenses, including covering house expenses I’d normally contribute—roughly a thousand a month—plus one-year salary to be banked in case I lose. Plus you let me take Devanter for the twenty grand.”

Mr. Reese smiled. “Make it six months’ salary and it’s a deal.”

“You don’t have to talk to Mr. Goodson?”

“No. Not about this. He pays me for my decision-making ability.”

Hours had passed and we were approaching a slowly rising chunk of land off to the right.

“Almost there.”

“Fine.”

Mr. Reese drove without effort and finally opened his mouth. “What’s your definition of a fanatic?” He seemed genuinely interested in my response. I leaned back in the seat. Two responses quickly came to mind and I considered them both before pitching them into the abyss.

“A fanatic,” I said slowly, “Is someone who has only read one book.”

Reese’s mouth narrowed and tightened. “That’s hardly original.”

“Let me finish. Someone who has only read one book and who has had that same book explained to him at length by someone who agrees with them.”

Reese turned his head quickly and then back to the road and we swerved a little as he answered, “Ah. Well, Mr. Goodson is not a fanatic. He’s the opposite of a fanatic.”

I wondered what that meant and we turned left off a secondary highway to a well-gravelled road that snaked through brush. Above the entry off the highway was a wrought iron sign that read “Goodson Ranch.”

I
trust my fellow man to fuck things up. I’m generally right. It’s kind of a business and life principle for me.”

The old man was strangely compelling; he had stayed up on the wide cedar porch that surrounded the three-storey wooden house when we drove up in the late afternoon. We’d walked up the steps to meet him where he sat on a rocker hand-made out of antlers, with a red wool Hudson’s Bay trade blanket tucked over his lap. Around us were thick stands of trees.

His first words had been a formal hello and his second had been about how he expected men to fuck things up.

I stared openly at him and didn’t answer. He was old, in his seventies, maybe older, and he looked like he’d been awake for every second of it. The man’s face was thin and sharp with patchy white hair and his brown eyes were set deeply into his skull. He wore a grey wool long-sleeved shirt buttoned to his neck with yellowed bone buttons and faded jeans that ended above his ugly, twisted toes sticking out of a pair of battered leather sandals.

“Look there.” He pointed at a heavy-barrelled rifle and a scratched metal case beside his chair. I reached down and picked up the rifle by the butt. It took my breath away.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s a drilling. A three-barrelled rifle/shotgun. That one’s Nazi German, issued by Goering to German Luftwaffe bomber crews in North Africa in case they were shot down and decided to survive. The aircrew were expected to be shot down and they were expected to survive. That gun reminds me of my rules that people fuck up.”

I took the weapon out. The blueing on the barrel was slightly faded and the walnut stock was scratched but beautiful. I could still make out “J.P. Sauer & Sohn Suhl” on the butt plate. On the right side of the butt was an eagle carrying a swastika and the pistol grip was finely checkered.

Bringing the weapon to my shoulder I found there was a selector switch on the receiver. I moved it to the centre and a folding site rose automatically graduated out to 100 metres. On the side of the barrels was written Krupp-Luftstahl and 9.3x74 R in one place and 12/65 Eagle/N in another. I looked up at the old man. “The calibre?”

“Ya. I have to hand load them but that’s not hard, just painstaking and precise. I can’t do it no more so I pay a smart Filipino in Brandon to do it for me.”

I put the weapon down and looked at the case. It had a leather handle and two locking latches and held a wooden cleaning rod with brass fittings, some bore-cleaning brushes and boxes of shotgun and rifle ammunition.

“Beautiful gun.”

“Thank you. Very old. Very accurate. I brought it out to start the conversation, better than many other things like a whore or cigars or a fine wine, don’t you think?” He gestured to the west. “Over there I’ve planted different kinds of grasses—timothy, orchard grass, clover designed to grow at different times so something is always young and tender, which elk like best. There are also patches of raspberries and blackberries for bears and deer. Then I go shooting.”

“Off-season?” I said it mildly.

The old man shrugged. “Shooting. Not hunting. I kill for the pot. I feed the animals and the animals feed me.”

“What about the game laws?”

“All this land is mine for twenty kilometres every which way. I don’t normally let the game wardens onto it. What do you think of my habits?”

“Not very fair.”

The old man kept his eyes locked on mine. He was trying to tell me something very bluntly. “Not interested in being fair.”

“Then you have a good system.”

“Ya. Sit down.” He gestured to another chair made out of antler pulled up against the side of the house. I dragged it out and got uncomfortable in it while Mr. Reese leaned against the split log railing that ran around the porch.

Mr. Reese started. “Mr. Haaviko would like the election expenses, his home operating expenses and $11,500 banked against the chance he loses. Call it roughly $40,000 total. He’s also been approached by Mr. Devanter to accept $20,000 to throw the election towards Rumer Illyanovitch.” He turned his head towards me. “Is that about right?”

“Yes.”

The old man kept his head poked forward and nodded. “You accepted the deal, Mr. Reese?”

“I did, on your behalf.”

“Then you are an idiot. I have no desire to pay for a campaign that will benefit that prick Cornelius.”

I cut in, “My agreement with Devanter is for $20,000 to throw the election towards Rumer. Nothing else.”

He scratched his head. “Those are the terms? To throw it towards Rumer? No guarantees? And he accepted?”

“He did.”

“You did not guarantee victory for his candidate?”

“No.”

“Or that you would lose?” His face was tilted to the side and he was thinking hard.

“Exactly.”

“Now why would the dumb prick accept that kind of deal? Wait a minute; are you smart enough to make it happen? Or are you jerking me around?”

“Yes, I’m smart enough. I don’t like the idiot so I’m motivated.”

The old man laughed until he choked and, when he recovered, said, “Good.” He thrust his hand towards me. “Good to work with you, Mr. Haaviko. With the help of Brenda and Dean we’ll beat Devanter’s bum boy like a drum.”

We shook and I kept hold of the hand. “Two things. First, the money?”

Goodson was amazed and astounded at my distrust. “The money? The money? Mr. Reese will provide that as needed, have no fear of that.”

“It’s always easier to pay someone in promises. That’s like rule number 601 in life and it’s served me well, just like yours. The money up front, please.”

“That’s insulting.”

“They’re my rules.”

He argued, wheedled, cajoled, bitched, whined and whimpered while Mr. Reese and I watched and I, at least, admired his technique and stamina. When he was done he got up and went into the house and I noted that he had a thick felt pad on the sharp, uncomfortable antlers that made up the seat of his chair.

After about ten minutes he came back with a well-used manila envelope. Inside it was $40,000 in fifties and hundreds, all old bills, all used, none consecutive. Both men watched as I counted it out and then dealt it back out of sight.

Then Mr. Reese spoke again. “You said you had two things, what is number two?”

“Number two is a question. If you lie to me then I will keep the money and hand the election to Rumer or quit, whatever will cause you the most pain and suffering.”

Both men looked amused and the old man said, “Ask.”

“Why do you want to win the election? Why is it important to you?”

Goodson looked uncomfortable and squirmed around for a few seconds. I felt sorry for his ass until I remembered the felt pad and then I didn’t feel so bad.

“It’s,” he looked at his lawyer who shrugged almost imperceptibly,“… complicated.”

“I’ve got time.” My ass was numb so of course I had time. If I tried to stand up I’d probably fall down.

“All right then. I don’t want to win, I want Devanter to lose. There’s a difference. I knew Cornelius Devanter’s father back in the sixties when we were both wheeling and dealing all across the west. We fought for timber rights in provincial parks when all we had were a couple of pickup trucks and we fought over flight times and hangar space when we were bringing in supplies to mining camps. We fought over liquor licences for bars and distribution rights for outboard engines and we fought over women and staff and customers.”

The old man picked up the drilling and broke it open to check that it was unloaded. He did everything slowly and, when he was done, he continued, “Basically we fought. Anyhow, the old bastard finally died in the early 1990’s, his heart blew out while he was trying to convince a client of mine to file a lawsuit over some transformers I was late delivering. But his son, Cornelius, now he’s something special. He just picked up the feud and kept going—but hard, you name it; class action suits, criminal complaints, civil judgements, patrimony suits, blackmail, low balling, industrial espionage, localized sabotage, injunctions and so on. He just goes like a fucking bunny.”

The old man looked at me and there was a kind of twinkle in his eye, he was enjoying it. “Now he wants this asshole Rumer Illyanovitch as chief commissioner of police—no idea why. So I want someone else in place.”

“You really don’t know why Cornelius is backing Rumer?”

“Nope. No idea at all. The position can’t appoint anyone. It doesn’t control a bureaucracy. It doesn’t have a budget. The only thing it has any kind of influence over is the police force. And it doesn’t have much of that.”

I stared at the old man and had to agree.

“Anyhow, I figure the friend of my enemy is my enemy and that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, so I picked you. I got Dean and Brenda to start looking for someone to counteract Rumer Illyanovitch, backed as he is by Cornelius’s money. Rumer’s got star power and influence and ability.”

“And what do I have?”

“The freak factor, the unknown, the x. You are a walking example of the biblical quotation ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ You will get everyone’s attention and that will sway a certain percentage of the vote. My weight and Brenda and Dean’s skill will help as well.”

I stared at him and didn’t bother telling him that the thief quote wasn’t in the bible.

“Now,” he said off-handedly, “you might want to find out what kind of plan Cornelius has for Illyanovitch.”

He said it oh so casually but I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Nope?” He was slightly pissed I’d say no to him.

“Yep. Nope. If you want me to find out I’ll try but it’s a lot of extra work. It’ll cost you another $5,000.”

He cursed and whined and bitched and again Mr. Reese and I watched him and finally he agreed. We talked over how to explain the money and the old man came up with the idea of claiming it was a wager between me and him over cards. I agreed and Mr. Reese noted that since it was a wager for pleasure, as opposed to professional reasons, it was untaxable.