The Best Laid Plans (35 page)

“Hey hey, that’s enough ofthat if you value yer throwin’ arm, laddie,” exclaimed Angus. I was forever counseling Angus not to threaten constituents with physical assault, but my pleas went in one ear and out the other. “Now, let’s all take a breath and calm down. I
want to assure you that the process and the exhaustive research undertaken to identify Cumberland 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 pass through its doors to this community” Angus said in his best Obi-Wan Kenobi 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
UMBERLAND
placard. Under such circumstances, 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 Cumberland-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 shell 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.” André Fontaine approached. I reached out and removed the chunk of melon rind that rested on his shoulder beyond his peripheral vision.

“Hello, André. 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 constituent 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 Cumberland 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 bollocks 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 constit 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.

“Cumberland,” Angus noted with an ingratiating smile.

“What’d I say?” Slick asked.

“Sunderland,” I replied.

He shook his head, mad at himself. “Ah hell, 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 Cumberland. 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.”

Angus was having so much fun he could contain himself no longer. “Blast those damned health and safety zealots! Do they have no idea what it takes to make a buck in this day and age? The bastards!” Angus clenched his fists in mock outrage. Slick was lapping it all up. No warning bells were sounding in his brain; it was full speed ahead.

“I like your style, McLintock. I really do. But there’s more. We just had a little visit from Environment Canada the other day when we weren’t exactly expecting ’em.”

“The dirty blackguards,” Angus muttered under his breath. I coughed to stifle a giggle. I held up my hand, signaling that I was breathing again and that the meeting could proceed. This guy was nothing but a caricature.

“Anyhoo, those pricks at Environment said there’s some kind of discrepancy between what we’re dumping in the river and what we’re reporting to them. I’m sure it’s just some kind a clerical fuck up, but it would sure help if the local MP stepped in to ‘clear the water’ you might say,” explained Slick.

“Well, how about if I arrange to have the effluent limits lifted so you can dump whatever you like in the river?” Angus proposed with great sincerity.

“You could do that? Well now, that would be fine, just fine. Hell, Cameron tried and said it couldn’t be done, and he was the goddamn Finance Minister. I am surely pleased to make your acquaintance, McLintock.”

For a moment, neither Angus nor I knew how to proceed. We thought for certain our dim guest would have picked up on the performance long before now, allowing us to deliver the real message. But he was still bathing in our little act.

“Hell, this is the best news I’ve had all month. I gotta tell you, if we weren’t able to take care of those two little problems, the plant would be in shutdown mode,” Slick commented in passing.

Angus took his cue. “How soon could you be gone?” he asked, straight-faced. Slick looked at him but then chuckled in a “you almost had me there” kind of way.

“Damn if you’re not a pistol, McLintock. So when can you get the tree huggers off my ass?”

“Answer the question, man. How soon could you pack up the plant and be gone?” Angus bore down on Slick, who had finally noted the change in temperature.

“What’s your game, McLintock? Am I reading you wrong? Where’d the guy go who was going to cut us loose from all that dang red tape?” Slick smiled, still not quite sure what had just happened on the previously smooth road to regulatory subversion.

“No game here, Mr. Haldorson – just a little misunderstandin’ on yer part. We have no interest in aidin’ and abettin’ a rogue company in ravagin’ our river, scarrin’ the shoreline, and endangerin’ the lives of those who sweat for you,” Angus said. “I hope the picture’s becomin’ a tad clearer for you now.”

“You’ve been playing me, you sorry-assed mountain man. Who the hell do you think you are? I come in here trying to save you some jobs, and you play the game and make nice, and now you’re breaking my balls? What is this shit?” Slick was on his feet, spoiling for a fight.

“Sit down, Mr. Haldorson,” Angus directed calmly. “I’m sorry we led you on, laddie, but we just couldnae believe you were still with us. This isnae the bayou, man. We’d like yer jobs but not if it means despoilin’ the water and imperilin’ the lives of the workers. Are you daft? Can you really get away with this elsewhere?” As he finished his battery of rhetorical questions, Angus tilted his head slightly to drive home the quizzical look on his face. It was a nice touch.