it later?”
“Sure,” I said. “And by then, I may have some insights for you. Later on this morning I’m meeting a woman who ran an escort service.”
“Why ever would you do that?” Zack was very still and his voice was almost a whisper. I’d seen him use that technique in court. It had a way of making witnesses feel small, foolish, and exposed. It didn’t work on me.
“Jill thinks the Cristal Avilia case is going to be big news,” I said.
“And she wants you to get involved.”
“We thought it would be useful if I acquired a little knowledge.”
“You’re making a mistake, Joanne.”
“Well, I won’t be the first one to do that, will I?”
Zack looked at me hard. “No, you won’t. So, do you want to take another shot at me, or can I go to work?”
I picked up a towel and started wiping off the sweat. “Go to work,” I said. “There’s not a lot to hold you here.”
He winced. “Jesus, Jo. Let’s not start the day this way. Can we just let this go – at least for a while?”
For a beat we just looked at each other. The shadows under his eyes were pronounced. I knew he wasn’t sleeping well. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll start again. I saw something neat on my run this morning. The American avocets are back.”
“The ones who do that crossed-bills thing? Where were they?”
“Down on that little beach by the Broad Street Bridge.”
“Want to go over tonight and have a look?”
“If the rain keeps up, it might be tough to get down there in the chair.”
“I’ll manage,” Zack said.
“You always do,” I said. I picked up our dishes and took them to the sink.
“So who’s the woman you’re seeing?”
“Her name is Vera Wang.”
“Well, you’re in good hands.”
“You know her?”
He nodded.
“Did you use her services, too?”
“Nope,” Zack said. “She used mine. Vera kept what we, in our archaic legal way, call a common bawdy house. Section 210 of the Criminal Code has a problem with her line of work. I’m a lawyer, Joanne. From time to time, people who run afoul of the law come to me.” With that, he started to wheel out of the room. “I’m not always the bad guy. Cut me a little slack.”
Ginny’s breakfast was being held at the Pile O’ Bones Club; the name was a romantic allusion to our city’s past, but the club itself was a utilitarian concrete structure that, ugly as it was, had been constructed within Palliser riding, and that was all that mattered. When I got into my Volvo to drive to the event, I tuned in Jack Quinlan’s show. There’d been new polling the night before. Nationwide, the election was still too close to call and of Saskatchewan’s fourteen federal ridings, nine were considered in play. Palliser was one of them. The topic for the morning was predictable: what do you think the outcome will be on Monday? I recognized the voice of the first caller. Malcolm had been a staunch supporter of my old party for years. He was knowledgeable and wildly partisan. Our former premier used to say that if our party had nominated Judas Iscariot and the opposition had nominated Jesus Christ, Malcolm would have voted for Judas. That morning, Malcolm was ruminating on Ginny’s changing fortunes. He was surprisingly even-handed, saying he felt the personal attacks on her had been boorish and unfair, but expressing surprise that the polls had turned so dramatically because of the outcome of the custody suit. Malcolm’s view was that, whatever she did in her personal life, Ginny had a political record that thoughtful voters should peruse, and when they saw what Ginny was politically, they would reject her for the right reasons. At first, it seemed the next caller’s comments grew out of Malcolm’s. She argued with enviably perfect diction that while the Honourable Ms. Monaghan’s personal life should not be an issue, the excesses of Jason Brodnitz – “a well-known denizen of the city’s red light district” – should concern decent citizens of every political stripe. Quinlan warned against slandering and took the next call. By that time, I was at the Pile O’ Bones Club.
The parking lot was filled, and so were the parking spaces on the streets adjacent to the club. I had to drive three blocks to find a parking space. Ginny’s campaign was clearly moving in the right direction. In my lifetime, I had probably attended a hundred breakfast rallies. They were easy to plan because the menu was as invariable as the program. The faithful chowed down on watery scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and cool, limp toast while a local MLA with a reputation as a wit warmed them up. Then a colleague of the candidate introduced her, the candidate took centre stage and wowed the crowd, and after party supporters had handed over their money and promised to get out to vote on E-Day, they were free to leave.
When I walked into the Pile O’ Bones Club, Keith Harris was right inside the door. I checked out the room. “Another good sign,” I said. “You had to open the concertina wall – that means you’ve got at least two hundred and fifty people.”
Keith smiled. “Three hundred and twenty, and counting,” he said. “And the most important one just arrived.”
“Smooth talker,” I said.
“I have to do something to make up for the food,” Keith said. He pointed to the steam table. “You know the drill,” he said. “Fill a plate, and listen to your arteries scream for mercy.” He smiled. “I guess a septuple bypass would indicate that my arteries have already spoken. ”
Even after a night’s sleep and a fresh shave, Keith’s colour was not good. I reached into my bag, pulled out the container of yogurt, and handed it to him. “Eat this,” I said. “I’ve had a run, and I’ve got a long day ahead. I can use a manly breakfast.”
I filled a plate and we found the table at the back where the professionals always sat. Milo O’Brien was already there, stabbing at his BlackBerry and eating his Crispy Crunch. He gave us an absent wave, but he made no attempt to join us.
Our timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just forked my first bite of sausage when the warm-up man, the local MLA, ran onstage. His blond toupee looked thatched, like a roof in a fairy tale, and his stories were cringe- inducingly blue. After a joke about the number of political bones that had been present in Ginny’s body, Keith made a moue of disgust. “How did this idiot get elected?”
“The Liberals and the NDP split the vote, and he slithered up the middle.”
“How did he get nominated?”
“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”
“The bar for political candidacy does seem to have been lowered,” Keith said equitably. He looked at me. “Is that why you stopped being involved with your party?”
“Partly. And partly I just got tired of sounding old – harkening back to the days when political discourse was civil and people had principles. The new gotcha politics makes me sick.”
“Is that why you were so open to Ginny?”
I nodded. “I thought there was an excessive licking of chops when the details of her private life became public.”
“But it’s more than just principle,” Keith said. “You like Ginny, don’t you?”
“I do.”
His smile was sly. “So are you going to vote for her?”
“Now that would be a huge step. As one of Jack Quinlan’s callers said today, a vote should be decided on where a candidate stands on the issues, not on personality.”
“Ginny’s not that far from you on most issues, and you know the argument there: better to elect someone who can be in the government tent arguing for you than to vote for someone who’ll be a voice in the wilderness for the next four years.”
“So you think you’re going to form government again?”
“Probably with a minority, but yes, I think we’ll pull it off. We’ve got our political base. If we can get them to the polls, then convince enough Canadians we’re not as crazy as our political base, we’ve got it nailed.” Keith glanced up at the stage. “Looks like Buddy Hackett’s finished. Can I get you some more coffee before the main
