Work Text:
UN
"And now to Moncton, New Brunswick, where students at Leonard Jones Memorial Elementary School got an unexpected day off. Morning classes were just beginning when a bomb exploded in a trash can in the school's parking lot, shattering its front windows and destroying a statue of the former mayor that had stood on the school's front lawn since its opening in 1998. No one was injured."
As the scene cut to a shaken-looking third grader gazing bravely into the camera with tears in his eyes, squeezing his father's hand for comfort, Martin muted the television. The boy leaned into his father's side; Martin rested his head on his hand and sighed.
With Jonathan away at Concordia, the house was finally tidy and peaceful, the way Martin had always strived to achieve. Now, he was climbing the walls. He'd nearly picked a fight with a pink-haired teenager on the streetcar just for the thrill of it. He'd decided better, though – kids these days were armed to the teeth and if he tried anything, he'd probably end up in a dumpster with his throat slit. With the way he'd been packing it on since he'd given up the beat for the security of a desk job, he doubted he could best anyone in a fight. Especially not in civvies.
The camera panned across a scene of destruction: broken playground equipment, melted vinyl siding, and at the edge, a little girl speaking earnestly to a police officer. The camera zoomed in on her ash-covered face, streaked with tears. Was that – dark hair, jeans, at least three days worth of stubble, the professional demeanor of a punch-drunk wolverine, but it couldn't be; he didn't work in New Brunswick – Bouchard?
Martin reached for the remote.
The phone rang.
"Ward."
The camera moved away, zooming in on a long line of yellow school buses arriving to take the children home.
"Dad, hi."
Jonathan's voice. Martin braced himself for conflict. The last time Jonathan had called, he'd asked for $200 for tickets to Radiohead at the Bell Centre.
"Are you out of your mind?" Martin had said.
"Dad," Jonathan had replied, matter-of-fact, "It's going to be totally sweet. Radiohead hasn't come to Montreal since, like, 2008. They're a huge influence on my music and there's no way I'm not seeing them. You don't want me to get arrested trying to sneak into the venue; that would look really bad on your service record."
"What you do has no bearing on my –"
"Sucker," Iris had muttered, affectionately, as Martin had written the cheque.
This time, nothing. A pause.
"Would you like to come home for Christmas?" Martin asked.
"Um, no. Seriously, Dad, there's no fuckin' way I'm comin' to the T-dot to indulge your WASP fantasies of familial bliss over figgy pudding or whatever. Save the desiccated turkey carcass for the homeless and get yourself Chinese take-out like the lonely bastard you – "
Martin hung up.
The phone rang again.
"Dad, I was just calling to tell you that I –"
Martin hung up again. He glared at the phone and considered unplugging it. It never bore good news.
The phone rang again. Against his better judgment, Martin answered again.
"Ward, MacDuff here. I need you at the detachment in five."
"Ten," Martin said.
"Just be here." His tone, a threat. Then the dial-tone.
This time, Martin did unplug the phone.
***
DEUX
On further reflection, Martin didn't know why he had agreed to work in Montreal over Christmas.
He was pretty sure he had finally worked off his debt to MacDuff, to the Ontario Provincial Police, and to Her Royal Highness Elizabeth Queen of Canada for the tattoo killer fiasco and was finally entitled to say no, but the RCMP Sergeant, with his stupid apple-cheeks and his rumpled red serge with its row of boy scout merit badges had just seemed so pathetic. And when he had told his terribly sad story about little old ladies – grandmothers – and ID fraud, and tiny-wide-eyed children clutching empty stockings, blinking away tears and gazing up into his face saying, "Why, Santy-Claus, why? Why have you taken our presents away? WHY?" Iris hadn't been there to smack him upside the head and tell him to grow a pair.
Besides, the RCMP's entire fraud section had been sent on language training indefinitely – no one's fault, it was Official Languages' brilliant plan – and only Martin was bilingual enough to tackle this coast-to-coast commercial crime caper; his country needed him.
At least, that's what MacDuff had told him. Martin suspected he had actually accepted because he hadn't had anywhere more important to be over Christmas. He'd been vulnerable. That was something he wasn't about to admit to anyone.
Nor was he prepared to admit that it rankled that no one had stopped by his office to invite him to the C-Division Christmas party. Three weeks in the office and he still hadn't had so much as a "Bon matin, détective Ward." It was like they thought he was a symptom of the organization's deeply-rooted, systematic privileging of –
The door to Martin's office burst open and the Commanding Officer staggered in, eyes bloodshot, a Tupperware bowl clutched tightly to his chest.
"Ward! Make yourself useful!"
If Martin was a symptom of anything, he knew, it was of someone else's bureaucratic incompetence.
"Right away, sir. What can I do for – "
"Hide me!"
The C.O. dove under Martin's desk, clutching the base of his wheely-chair like a drowning cat clinging to an inflatable life ring.
Martin sat down. He aligned printouts of three spreadsheets neatly along the edge of his desk. He sharpened his forensic accounting pencil. Then, he leaned back and asked, sotto voce, "Hide you from what?"
"Céline Dion! She thinks I took all the Jell-o shots."
Martin wondered who would be driving Buffalo Taxi that night. He had the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't get out of there soon, it would be him. It was "osti d'tête carrée" at the morning briefing, but when the shit hit the fan after dark, "notre estimé collegue de Toronto."
"Did you take all the Jell-o shots, sir?"
"Shh..." The sound of Jell-o being slurped from sticky fingers.
Something wasn't right in column C of the second spreadsheet. Martin made a tick-mark next to it and compared it with the third.
"Is there a reason you took all the Jell-o shots, sir?"
Wait, wait, those numbers looked familiar. Martin paged through his notes from the day before. He was just putting A and B together to make the Grinch who Stole Grandma's Life Savings when the C.O. spewed blue and red Jell-o all over his shoes.
***
TROIS
The Minister of Education for New Brunswick, Willy Flanrock has been abducted. Security guards at the Minister's office report that he signed in to the building early this morning, but when his receptionist arrived at 7:30, he was nowhere to be found. There was no sign of a struggle. A group calling themselves "L'Ordre de la tête du cochon" is claiming responsibility for the disappearance.
Minister Flanrock was in the process of negotiating a landmark deal that would amalgamate the French and English language school systems in Canada's only officially bilingual province. Proponents of the deal claim that the current separate system is akin to Apartheid, aggravating conflicts between the two estranged cultural groups. Advocates of the separate system, including prominent members of the Acadian community, argue that refusing francophone children the right to education in their own language is a violation of their human rights and will result in an irreparable cultural loss.
No one from the Minister's office was available for comment.
The deli was packed when Martin arrived, shoes sloshing, tie askew. The line-up stretched out the door, into the street, and half-way down the block. It was beginning to snow; clusters of flakes the size of quarters seemed to dance in the air, twirling, never coming to settle on the ground. Martin's thoughts careened to Gabrielle Bouchard, light and graceful at her ballet recital, then wobbled erratically back to the smoked-meat-starved mob in front of him, grumbling and shoving each other against the cold wind.
Martin excused his way to the front of the line, in French then in English, then in French again.
"Excuse me," he said, as an over-styled woman in purple tweed and horn-rimmed zebra-print glasses started to body check him ("Wait your turn, tabarnak!") but got a whiff of his shoes – sour cherry-medicinal – and visibly reconsidered.
"Vous avez pas pensé prendre une douche, Monsieur?"
He should have stuck with French. He ignored her.
"Pardon me," he said to the host at the door.
"Hmm?" said the host, not looking up from his book.
"I was just wondering if my son were here. I was supposed to meet him at two o'clock, but was held up with a very serious problem at work. I expect he has waited for me, and I was hoping you might direct me to his table."
The host glanced at Martin, then over his shoulder at Furple Tweed.
"For two?" he asked. Purple Tweed smiled. Perfect teeth.
"Yes," she said, in unaccented English.
"J'vas vous en câlisser une," Martin thought, and mentally gave her the finger.
Finally Martin spotted Jonathan waving at him from across the room. Suspicious; on a normal day, Jonathan would have pretended that he and his father were complete strangers sharing a table because the restaurant was full, conversing only to pass the time. Had half a term at university changed him so much?
Perhaps Jonathan missed the comforts of home. Maybe he was even beginning to think that his dear old dad wasn't such a square after all.
Martin wasn't that naif.
"Dad," said Jonathan. Cheek kisses. Martin wondered where the Toronto special, the awkward one-armed hug had gone.
There was small-talk: a new girlfriend, a vigorous debate over whether or not Québécoises were prettier than Upper Canadians with a unanimous conclusion, a few war stories, which Jonathan had already heard, and a few tales of the music scene, which Martin hadn't. And most importantly, there were thick, succulent sandwiches and piles of crisp, greasy fries and creamy coleslaw, topped off with a kosher dill.
"... now I just need to figure out what they're doing with the money," Martin said, "and we can arrest them. The case is waterproof."
"I'd kill myself," Jonathan said.
"If you lost all your retirement savings?"
"If I had to do your job."
"Forensic accounting is surprisingly fascinating."
"I'm sure it is, Dad. Surprisingly."
Martin chewed. He brushed at his blazer then adjusted his tie. Jonathan was wolfing down his coleslaw like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
"How's university?" Martin asked.
"Oh, yeah. That's, uh, what I wanted to talk to you about the other day when you hung up on me."
"That was just after Thanksgiving. Over two months ago." He paused. "My turkey is very tender, I'll have you know."
"Whatever. Look, I know this goes against your petit-bourgeois understanding of personal success, but I have decided that university isn't for me. It's all 'Ivory Tower' and, like, I'm more 'Real World'. I've been focusing on my music, on developing a career –"
"You what? When was the last time you went to class?"
"Oh... the beginning of October, I think. Yeah, the third of October. But that doesn't matter because I've had gigs at--"
"This is not some DJ throw-down we're talking about here," Martin said. As his voice got louder, conversation in the deli stilled.
"This is your future! You may be the great DJ-man now, but in thirty years, when you're looking into the vast chasm of the future and you have nothing – "
"Dad – "
"—but trackmarks on your arms and a few broken records to show for it, you'll wish you had – "
"Dad!
There was a commotion near the door; the crowd was parting to let someone through. They hadn't been so acquiescent when Martin had been looking for Jonathan.
Finally, the seas parted, and who should emerge from the crowd, next to Martin's booth but –
"Bouchard."
***
QUATRE
On the bright side –
There was no bright side. It was snowing harder by the second, they'd passed three cars in the ditch since they'd left Montréal, and Martin doubted Bouchard had had the good sense to have snow tires installed.
"Savais-tu que le taux d'accidents corporels au Québec est vingt-cinq pourcent plus élevé qu'en Ontario?" Martin asked the silence, cheeks tight with the tension in the car, his European vowels.
"Savais-tu que t'es aussi chiant que la derniere fois qu'on s'est vus?"
Martin fingered his cell phone in his pocket.
"J't'ai pas kidnappé," Bouchard said. "Tu voulais pas mal venir quand on a quitté Schwartz."
"Je prenais mon souper de noël avec mon fils. Je – "
Bouchard froze. "Ciboire! Gabrielle!"
"Eyes on the road!" Martin shouted, as they came within a hair's breadth of hitting a Jetta with five pairs of skis on its roof. Bouchard grabbed the wheel, made an entirely-unregulation U-turn up on two wheels, and headed back toward Montréal.
"Oké, so. On passe chez Suzie chercher ma fille, on reprend la route, on s'arrête prendre le souper de noël à Saint-Louis-du-Ha!-Ha!, pis on arrive à Caraquet avant le coucher du soleil. Moi, j'crisse une volée à quelqu'un et toi, tu résouds mon problème de comptabilité. Je libère le ministre de l'éducation; si j'essaye de l'assassiner moi-même, tu m'empêches. Je m'achète quarante livres d'homard frais, pis on décâlisse. Si on est pas mal chanceux, on pourrait être en ville avant le réveillon du jour de l'an. Si c'est l'cas, on party."
"Je ne suis pas comptable," Martin said.
"La section des infractions commerciales de la GRC est en 'training language'. T'es la seule tête carrée que je puisse tolérer," Bouchard replied.
"Ça ne change rien."
"Pis, j't'ai déjà dit que t'avais l'air d'un comptable homosexuel. It's not that much of a stretch."
Martin resigned himself.
"Peut-on au moins s'arrêter au Tim Horton prendre un café avant de reprendre la route?"
"Enwaye, Ward. T'en prendras un avec ta dinde au 'Danseuses Super Sexy' à Saint-Louis du Ha! Ha!"
Martin buried his head in his hands.
***
CINQ
Martin had to admit, feeling dirty for even looking, that Gabrielle looked terrific in the slinky silvery thing that Bouchard had bought her for Christmas. It caught the light just so and, more importantly, it showed off her bellybutton piercing.
With the instincts of a member of the ERT Team, he had scoped out the circling coyotes and had them in his sights, though he was pretty sure Gabrielle would deck anyone who took their chances before he and Bouchard even noticed them move; she was like a shark.
Susie swayed back and forth and stomped to the music, holding hands with her new English-speaking accountant boyfriend. He seemed nice enough, Martin thought vindictively. Y'a rien de pire qu'un comptable hétérosexuel.
David nursed his beer and looked even more homicidal than he had when Minister Flanrock, freshly rescued and recovering in his patrol car, had told him that he had only been doing "la meilleure chose pour la jeunesse francophone de Canada."
The minister had a broken nose for his efforts (courtesy of Bouchard) and a bad headache (courtesy of Martin) but was generally intact after his ordeal. He had resigned from his position in the provincial legislature, claiming mental hardship, but L'Ordre de la tête du cochon, it seemed, had not been placated. Even with their most important source of income busted and many of their members (disgruntled civil servants all) in prison, they would not admit defeat. Their ancestors hadn't spent one hundred years in the woods to be silenced by a bit of petty bureaucracy.
At the back of the club, Jonathan juggled beats, keeping the dancers moving. He was good. In the DJ booth, he had a self-assuredness Martin had never noticed before. It wasn't such a bad way to spend his time, he supposed. At least, for the time being. As long as it put food on the table.
It was nice, Martin thought happily, snapping a photo of his son, to be returning home to Toronto alive, well-fed, and with his dignity mostly intact.
- fin -