Politically Detained

By Graham Clews

Fed up with bad federal policy, needless giveaways, and the perks, right-speak and often outright duplicity of our politicians? So are a few others, and they’re prepared to do something about it. In a uniquely ‘novel’ approach, the author brings action, humour and thoughtful introspection to an otherwise dry and often dull topic. With an ageing cast of characters determined to actually do something about the problems, he targets several pieces of defective legislation, and the self-serving flaws built into the election process by the politicians who created it.
The minister of finance, Jim McGregor, is tired and frustrated after eight years implementing financial policy issued from an increasingly dictatorial prime minister’s office (the PMO), and decides to resign before the next election. His dissatisfaction is deep, however, and he intends to go out with a huge bang, not a whimper.

In the small town of Westlock, Alberta, a small group of Saturday morning coffee/breakfast regulars at Mew’s Road House Cafe are equally dissatisfied. Half a dozen well heeled, geriatric males, all retired or semi retired, they too are fed up with the workings of government. Having griped and complained about Ottawa over the coffee table for years (as happens every day, and everywhere, all across Canada), they decide to take notes; serious notes that include solutions. And there is a connection with Jim McGregor...

One member of the group, Willis Walters, attended the U of A with the finance minister, and while sharing accommodation for three years they became good friends. They meet again at an alumni reunion at a time when the finance minister is particularly depressed. Problems and notes are shared, and over the ensuing months Willis plays on McGregor’s desire to ‘go out with a bang’. An action plan is gradually formed that will grab the public’s attention and focus on what both parties see as needed change.

The minister of finance is scooped off the street on a visit to Edmonton, and taken to a fishing lodge in northern Alberta. Under the belief that this unexplained absence will provide maximum publicity, formal legislative changes are tabled by the minister’s office after he has gone missing. Each is publicized individually in national newspapers over a three day period, while the PM is also away in New Zealand. But to make public attention even more assured, one member of the coffee group, along with his wife, serves citizens’ arrests on two politicians. They are a man and a woman who are generally believed to have committed crimes for which they were never charged: a former prime minister for tax evasion and possible receipt of bribes; the second a female senator for fraudulent expense claims.

Matters start to go wrong when a female MP for Edmonton Centre is accidentally scooped up in their net, an act that is initially viewed by the Edmonton police as a kidnapping. The RCMP and other federal organizations become involved, and they set out to track down the two politicians and their abductors. Along the way, they begin to find a grudging respect for the finance minister as one by one his legislative amendments hit the newspapers. Nonetheless, they are duty bound...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Clews
• Release date: Aug 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310239359

Graham Clews

I’m a retired chartered accountant, who loves to write.My tales include fascinating award winning fiction novels: well rated tales about first century Roman/Celtic Britain and the violent, yet poignant, clash of cultures; an accidental hero, a 60 year old accountant with a tainted past; a tongue in cheek look at the political mayhem in Canada; and finally, an unique magical world for YAs where time is destination, not a state of mind.

Book preview

POLITICALLY DETAINED

GRAHAM CLEWS

Copyright 2015, Graham Clews.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author and publisher.

Published by Rubicon Developments Ltd, Westlock AB Canada / Smashwords Edition

Hard copy ISBN 978-1-927588-96-3

Dedication

To the voluntary one-term politician. If any such creatures are ever found, trust them—they’d be the only Members in the House whose votes and decisions are not tainted by dreams of re-election.

Table of Contents

The author wrote an Author’s Note to introduce the book and explain why it’s a novel and not the usual complaining non-fiction book griping about political sins, and what’s wrong with our government.

A Table of Contents usually starts with a Prologue, which more often than not isn’t as interesting as the story itself, because it’s there to set things up as to what’s happening later. This book has a Prologue. You might want to skip the Prologue for awhile and dig right into The Story for a chapter or two, then go back to the Prologue so that what it’s says makes it a bit more relevant. Of course, that’s not necessary, it’s up to you, but The Author says he likes to do that with most of the books he reads. He claims doing that makes more sense of the Prologue. Sometimes he forgets, and skips it altogether.

The Story continues pretty much to the end of the book, like most stories do. It does digress, however, four times. The main cast of characters are about a dozen seniors (all male) who get together over breakfast at Mew’s Road House Cafe (The Road Kill), every Saturday morning.

They discuss, among other things, Canadian politics. These four chapters recount the often lively dialogue that took place in arriving at the serious thrust of the story: three dreadful pieces of federal legislation and how to solve them; plus a modest, but brilliant, suggestion to cure the awful slide in the ethics and effectiveness of Parliament itself.

And oh, yes, there were some Appendices—four, in fact, but they are not there anymore. They formally summarized the four problems mentioned above, and the solutions, all of which would actually save billions and give us a better government. These appendices were redundant, though, because that had been more or less done during the story; and besides, it was also written to the Minister of Finance, J. A. McGregor. If a person really did want to read them, however, they can be found on the author’s web site: http://www.graham-clews.com/.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Epilogue

About the Author

Connect with Graham Clews

Other books by Graham Clews

Excerpts from Eboracum, The Village (Book I)

Prologue

James Angus McGregor eased his ample behind into the puffy leather of his favourite armchair and set both legs to rest on a large oxblood ottoman. The throne-like lounger faced the flickering yellow flame of a fake log gas-stoked fire, but the low heat provided little comfort.

McGregor brooded before the dull glow of burning hydrocarbons as the room darkened with the onset of evening. Like the evening itself, his thoughts were growing darker by the hour.

Neither the sixteen-year-old Macallan whiskey nor the mellow fumes of a Maduro cigar tempered his mood. After a lifetime of ups and downs, this latest let-down had become a nadir that bordered on outright depression: an emotional crossroad in a brilliant career, dropping him down toward the deepest, rockiest netherworld of...of the pits! Or whatever else that rhymed...

The current issue wasn’t the real problem of course, and McGregor knew that. It was simply the last straw. How many times had he clashed with the man? How many times had he caved in and knuckled under to The Man? More relevant, why did he keep doing so? Why not just give up? He didn’t need this. He might just as well sit a horse while someone else was holding the reins—and you can toss in the whip, while you’re at it. The net result was a life that was all show and no substance; a political hit man who more often than not was the target himself. How had that happened?

The answer was simple, and McGregor knew it: he’d let it happen. As had all the others in the House, and for the same reason. He’d wanted the frigging job so badly he could taste it. And more than that, he’d wanted to stay in power. There was a certain satisfaction in that—and despite it all he still, in many ways, hated to give it up. And yet...

James McGregor sighed and pulled hard on the cigar, this time inhaling most of the smoke, which he hardly ever did. It caught hard at his lungs and he nearly choked, yet the hacking cough that followed perversely made him feel better.

Bullshit! It’s all so much bullshit! If the public only…

McGregor shook his head and wiped a smoke driven tear from his eye. There was so much to be said for what he was doing, and he honestly figured he sincerely meant that. There were things he could do, things that needed doing, if only he could get a clear shot at doing it his way, without The Man pulling on the reins. And no, he wasn’t being stupid, nor was he being maudlin, nor was he on a simple ego trip. He just felt that so much of what was happening was wrong and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it, including what he’d been elected for.

McGregor sighed. By any standard, his career was the envy of most anyone, and in particular the envy of his fellow professionals: a successful law practice that was still waiting; a family that at one time could have auditioned for a spinoff of Father Knows Best; two terms in provincial politics; and now two more in federal, and in all instances achieving ministerial status. What more could a man still in his early sixties ask?

A hell of a lot more, McGregor muttered aloud and sipped again on the Macallan’s. He stared gloomily at the flames over the rim of the glass. Almost prophetically, they died as the thermostat decided that enough was enough and shut down. The sudden ashen image of porcelain logs and the abrupt coolness of the room seemed symbolic, McGregor decided, snorting his disgust. One day a man’s soul was on fire and ready to blaze; the next it felt ashen and reflected no warmth at all. McGregor released his pent up breath in resignation as his mind drifted back to the day’s stormy session in the PM’s office. What, really, was the point?

Well, for a start there was no point trying to find answers glaring at a pile of ceramic logs, McGregor decided; nor was there any point in waiting for the frigging thermostat to fire them up again. Another pull on the cigar, a last sip of the scotch, and a final sigh. He was the federal minister of finance, dammit, not a pawn sent forward to be sacrificed for the king. It was about time someone had the balls to stand up and say what was on his mind, instead of playing the game as if that was all that really mattered. The game—and the party!

Of course the game matters; in fact, it’s vital. But it isn’t really a game, is it? It’s dead serious. The problem is the damned players who make up the team; and the moment you have a team it becomes a game. It was always about the damned team. And he was one of the team players, and the players forever had to knuckle under for the team—or, in the long run, was it all really done for the captain of the damned team?

McGregor shook his head as he climbed to his feet. Why did it always have to be about the team? Politics wasn’t a frigging hockey game, with a bunch of ticket holders rooting for their side—was it? Nor should politics be a team of arse-kissing, sly lying, feather-bedding players promising whatever it took to hang in there and make next season’s roster. There were other people out there who had some pretty damned good ideas to solve the country’s problems, but the way things were, they couldn’t even get to first base—to mix a bunch of lousy metaphors.

Willis and his crew of star struck geriatrics were correct on one point. To even get the proper political puck into the arena took someone with clout. Getting it into play and score required someone with bigger-time clout. And even when the players were sitting on the bench, it took someone who was at his wits’ end and willing to make that final sacrifice play in order to do some real good. It took someone who no longer figured he had anything to lose.

And maybe he should quit using analogies, because after three stiff scotches they were growing confusing...

McGregor lifted his hand to stare thoughtfully at the glowing tip of the Maduro. Change also required someone who still retained a dab of common decency, and the remnants of a sense of ethics. It required someone who hadn’t allowed himself to get mired down in the system. And that had certainly been true for him, McGregor mused, for he had truly got himself lost.

Yet if a person realizes that, if he understands he really is lost, then he just might change for the better. Maybe what it takes is someone who has plumbed the depths, sniffed the sludge coating the bottom, and is fighting his way back to the surface. It needs someone who cares for what’s important, not someone consumed with keeping power, and hanging on to the perks that come with it. The country first, the power and party second...or maybe even last... or maybe not at all…

Today, the pure stubbornness of the PM had been overwhelming, and over a policy that was so patently unfair. Half a million profit a year taxed at fourteen percent, while the working stiffs pay twice, three times that much! And all to keep a certain voting-block happy, while the PM pretends and clings blindly to his precious, ill-conceived economic theories! It was damned-near criminal. This one, more than anything else he’d processed in doing his job as finance minister, was so unfair.

McGregor sighed, his mind fondly recalling the last time he’d managed to slip away and join Willis and his group for a decent cup of coffee, a calorie-loaded breakfast, and a down-to-earth bitch and snivel session. There was a huge undercurrent of dissatisfaction out there, all over the country, and he missed the opportunity to connect with it on an equal footing.

Smiling, almost as if in regret, he reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a cell phone. It was a cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile purchased at Walmart, paid for in cash, and signed for in the name of an old buddy from high school who’d died in a car crash more than forty years ago. Hopefully nobody knew he had it.

His call was answered on the third ring, with a puzzled, Yeah?

Willis?

The voice was tentative. James?

Yeah. Look, I think I’m in, and this time I’m pretty sure I mean it.

* * *

Willis Walters smiled as he ended the phone call. He’d believe that when it happened! He’d known James McGregor far too long to rely on what he said, though this time, just maybe, he would go through with it. Though it was interesting that McGregor, as he liked to be called, just happened to call at this time. The current article Willis had been working on was a preface to a series of dialogues he had previously assembled, information that McGregor himself had been interested in. In fact, Willis was quite sure that several of those dialogues had influenced the call he’d just received. The smile turned to a grin as Willis scrolled up to the beginning of his newly typed preface, sat back in his chair, and began to proofread his final words:

* * *

An enormous pool of talent lies a-wasting, Willis wrote, a dormant ocean of knowledge that floats aimlessly on a sea of untapped, yet valuable, experience. Used correctly, this talent pool has endless potential. It could solve most of the world’s problems. Within in its ranks can be found every calling—engineers, businessmen, teachers, truckers, doctors, welders, bureaucrats, bus drivers, clergy, bankers, farmers, to just to name a few. They are the newly retired. They have time on their hands; they are often bored and willing; and yet there is but a limited window of opportunity to use their expertise. If one assumes the onset of their new status as being age sixty-five, that window is around ten years. After that their vast knowledge may grow outdated, their energy might wane, they may no longer give a damn, or their brains may simply begin to fry. But before that finally happens, nearly every last one of them will have more knowledge and experience than they’ve ever had in their life, and they’re not afraid to use it—if given the chance.

The sad part is, everyone else is afraid to use it! The government, in particular, prefers to hire expensive, independent consultants for its advice. There is an irony in this. You will find no one, anywhere, more independent than a newly retired senior, and they’re not expensive. Just follow the math:

The amount paid by the government for a consultant’s advice is usually a direct ratio of the cost of implementing it. This has proven true in all areas of spending including, but not limited to: computerization; the purchase of airplanes and helicopters and BC ferry boats; the acquisition of systems to correctly implement previously purchased systems; the use of Crown corporations; external auditing of senators; overcautious legal advice for spurious legal settlements; funding legal advice to known criminals and crooked immigrants/refugees; and of course, advertising budgets, to mention just a few. The results obtained from much of all this costly advice is usually not important because it’s not going to be measured anyway—and even if measurement was attempted, more outside consultants would be needed. (However, since most advice received is ignored, not hiring the latter can be figured in as an official austerity program).

The fact is, the quality of the advice received bears absolutely no relationship to what it costs. This is where the seniors’ talent pool has a distinct advantage, and a quick look at the above mentioned math clearly demonstrates as much:

If the average age of a government consultant is forty-five, such a consultant likely has around twenty years of experience. Thus, if one hundred consultants are hired for eight hours a day at $200 an hour for six months (125 working days), the cost is $20,000,000. Total experience purchased: two thousand years.

If the average age of a senior consultant is seventy, that’s forty-five years’ experience. If one hundred senior consultants are hired for eight hours a day, they’d likely work for a total of a hundred bucks per diem just for something to do. The total cost would be $1,875,000. Total experience purchased: forty-five hundred years.

The comparative, cumulative brainpower is astounding, as is the cost savings. Not only that, added expenses would also be far less because they’re seniors. A senior’s coffee at McDonald’s is less than a buck, and an entire lunch at Tim Hortons comes in at around just over five, including coffee. This is a far cry from liquid lunches at the QE Beaver Club in Montreal, for example, and a lot more work gets done.

This standby force is available all across Canada, and readily contacted. Canadians of all races and creeds can be found in countless coffee shops all over the country. The best contact time is ten a.m., or three in the afternoon. They are multi-gender, though when offering advice to the government that does not involve old age pensions and health care, women are generally in a minority. This talent pool bears various names, the most predominant being The Daily Coffee Crowd. Some members are dedicated to the point of being available seven days a week.

Their motto: Use it; you’re going to lose it anyway.

Chapter One

Day One

Java Three, that you?

Yeah, it’s me.

All set and ready?

Yeah, I’m ready. You?

Just pulling up to the hotel entrance. Java Two’s right behind me. We are on time.

I’ll be looking for you.

Okay, over and out.

Willis squinted at his cell phone, a cheap pay-as-you-go just like McGregor’s, bought with cash and a false name and address. He pressed his thumb against the only button that showed red, which he was pretty sure was the disconnect button. Without his reading glasses, it was hard to be certain. He switched to the Menu button that he knew sat just above the numbers, and squinted at the contact list. He hit the fourth one down. It had been a stroke of genius to place them in the same order as the Java call numbers, though it really didn’t matter because he could still read the names, glasses or not. That part of the phone was illuminated.

The call was answered on the first ring: Yeah?

That Java Four?

Oh, for chrissake. Yeah, it’s Java Four. Who else would it be?

You’re supposed to answer with your call sign, Willis grumbled, and because Java Four could get terribly testy when he wanted to, he quickly continued. You in place?

I’ve been here for fifteen damned minutes. I could have rented my own parking space.

Is Java Five settled in on 124th Street?

Yeah, about three cars down from the turn off, meter plugged, and waiting. Do you know how much the bandits charge for those things now? It’s a frigging crime. I—

Yeah, yeah. Look, I’ve just pulled up in front of the hotel. Target’s not here yet, which is good. He’s not supposed to be. There’s a bunch of media types waiting, and that’s about all.

The less the merrier.

Right on. I’ll call if there’s a problem.

Hope you don’t have to. And Willis, if you sign off with that stupid Java crap one more time I’m gonna kick butt.

Jesus Dave, I told you not to use names on the phone!

Yeah, yeah, so I noticed.

* * *

Jim McGregor gathered the five double-spaced sheets of crib notes (typed in capital letters) used during his speech and prepared to step down. The length and volume of the applause had been quite satisfying, but then, Alberta was Canada’s Conservative heartland—Federally, anyway. He raised one hand in a casual salute and beamed at the audience as he moved to one side, gestures which briefly raised the noise level a few decibels and drew one or two whistles of appreciation. That was only to be expected when you tell a crowd what it wants to hear, even when you toss in a note of caution: begin with a rosy outlook for the future, which out here wasn’t as easy as it once was, and close with a couple of promises and a vague hint.

Promises were easy to give, as long you left them open-ended: continue with low, low corporate taxes—a deep-cut policy that was drastically flawed;claim creadit for the new pipeline to New Brunswick—which was stretching it, because the PM was obsessed with building one to Texas, where oil was actually selling at bargain prices; a suggestion of concessions in the new rules for foreign workers for the so-called critical local labour shortage—which was blatant interference by the PM into his own ideas of the free market system; and finally, add a dollop of optimism about the recovery south of the border and in Ontario. Mentioning an extension of the continuing low interest rates hadn’t hurt either, though that was officially supposed to be the Bank of Canada’s job.

All in all, it had been a good speech. Thank God the agenda had called for keeping it short and no questions—though with an audience this size, questions were impossible. There had to be three to four hundred luncheon guests out there, and nearly all of them to the right of centre, at least by Canadian standards, if not the US. A question period would have kept him there until dinnertime.

McGregor glanced sideways, seeking guidance on where to go next, and saw it was already on the way. The president of the Edmonton Downtown Rotary Club, Bill Brooks, moved forward, briefly offered thanks for taking time from a busy agenda, and presented a gift for acting as guest speaker for the club’s weekly meeting. A few minutes later it was all over. Despite the brevity of the speech, McGregor had run slightly past the allotted time and the members of Edmonton’s senior Rotary Club—businessmen, professionals, bankers, CEOs, senior civil servants, and more than a few other movers and shakers with clout in the city—were no doubt itching to get back to their lairs.

In a hurry, sir?

McGregor, who had surreptitiously glanced at his watch, smiled automatically as he glanced up at the approaching woman. Brown, heavy-framed glasses—Marcia! The name popped instantly to mind, a feat prompted by memory association, a trick he’d learned many years ago. The seminar that taught the technique had proved to be one of the most valuable he’d attended over the years. As if to prove as much, he recalled that Marcia was also the club’s treasurer, which all went to show that a person should really pay attention when being introduced. The actual memory jog, alas, was Marcia’s unfortunately long nose with its small yet very dark mole at the tip. As soon he caught sight of her proboscis the woman’s name leapt to mind.

A bit tight, but no problem, Marcia, McGregor said, which technically was quite true. The next meeting was with the provincial premier in another three-quarters of an hour. The legislative building was only a dozen blocks away, though as the thought crossed his mind, McGregor remembered the premier was hosting it at the province’s Government House. That memory course might help with names, but it wasn’t foolproof. He had no idea how far away Government House was, though in fairness he’d only ever been there once. Not that it mattered. This time he didn’t really expect to get there at all—if he had the guts.

Great speech, sir!

The usual platitudes. Jim McGregor turned and saw that the speaker was Bill Brooks again. He’d spent lunch sitting next to the man so there was no need to fish for the name, and besides, the fellow still wore his Rotary name tag.

Others began to trail along as he walked slowly toward the exit, most of them only identifiable by a similar name tag. He tried to be as sociable as possible while caught in the midst of a gaggle of strangers and staff, yet the result was always the same. A blurred snippet of conversation here, a quick answer there if providing one was feasible, and forever being careful not to the make that slip of the tongue the media loved to hear, be it for better or for worse. More often for the worse. Not that such a thing was going to be a bother in the future…

With only a hazy awareness of where he was going or how he got there, McGregor soon found himself standing on 101st Street, just outside the main entrance to the Sutton Place Hotel. The street was busy, the air was cool and clear, and the sun brilliant, which was typical of a western day in the latter part of May. Later, when he had time to think, much more time to think, the brilliant sunshine would stand out in his memory more than anything else—that, and the low hum of passing traffic, punctuated by the single honk of a horn.

The Sutton Place Hotel sat near the very centre of downtown Edmonton on a street that in many North America cities would have been named Main Street North. The road broadened into an additional lane in front of the hotel, forming extra space sufficient to accommodate half a dozen vehicles. Two gleaming black Lincoln Town Cars were parked at the curb, the drivers standing by with the rear doors open. Jim McGregor edged his way over to the lead vehicle, where he shook at least a dozen hands before climbing in.

Lorna St. Louis, sitting Member of Parliament for Edmonton Centre and a member of the same Rotary Club, followed him into the car. McGregor turned in surprise as the St. Louis woman settled down beside him, his mind absorbing the implication. Was she part of this? Nobody had told him, but the expression on her face showed that she probably wasn’t, and that might be a problem. Maybe things might have to be delayed after all. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that...

Michelle Mercredi, McGregor’s young aide, casually walked around to the driver’s side and opened her own door. A tall, heavyset man in a dark suit stood stoically by the front passenger door, watching them all, his eyes narrowing as they swept back and forth, scanning the length of the street. His gaze halted impatiently at the second Lincoln which, unlike McGregor’s vehicle, was a stretch. The rest of the finance minister’s small entourage was still sorting itself out and trying to pile in.

The MP for Edmonton Centre saw McGregor’s expression of doubt and appeared taken aback, at first confused, and then miffed, as if deciding she’d blundered into a party where she wasn’t invited. McGregor hardly knew the woman, but he’d heard she wasn’t a shrinking violet and her response proved as much. Is there a problem, here? Lorna St. Louis quickly regained her composure, and showed no sign of moving. I’m expected at Government House, so I assumed I’d be riding with a fellow MP, and not with the rest of the herd. She nodded toward the second limo where the rest of the herd was still loading.

McGregor quietly sighed. There was only one way to respond to this and that was to welcome the woman, and he did so without showing his irritation. Just the same, she was clearly not pleased.

The heavyset suit from Security finally seemed satisfied and made to climb into the front seat, but before he could sit down McGregor leaned forward and handed him a brown envelope. Gesturing to the stretch limo, he said, Rob, would you take this and give it to Rick Spalding? I’d like him to read it on the way over. Then, as Rob backed out of the car, he added, I see the front seat’s empty back there. You may as well hop in and cover things from there. You’ll be right behind us.

For a moment the security guard hesitated, glancing back at the stretch limo parked just a metre behind. He reluctantly nodded. This was the touchiest moment of the entire operation—or it had been, until Lorna St. Louis parked herself on the rear seat. But in one way, McGregor rationalized, the man would have better control of a situation, should one crop up, by riding just a car length or two behind. There was far more of an overview from there, and he wouldn’t be peering every which way over his shoulders from the confines of McGregor’s sedan. Not that it would normally have mattered anyway. Who was going to do anything to a minister of finance? He wasn’t exactly a prime target, not outside of the House, anyway.

What’s your name, young feller? McGregor called out to the driver when the car finally slid away from the curb. Behind them the stretch limo quickly accelerated and fell in line, following by hardly more than a car length.

McGregor would have asked the man’s name as a matter of habit. A personal touch always left a favourable impression, not only with the person addressed, but with whoever witnessed the gesture, which in this instance was nobody. This time, though, he was curious to know who the hell was driving this machine. Was it one of the crew, or a legitimate hire?

The St. Louis woman snorted with laughter.

What? he demanded.

The young man bit.

McGregor glanced at the driver and again sighed. Was his fellow MP that obtuse, or did she simply have no sense of male bantering? The man had long, curly grey hair, quite possibly a wig. He’d already seen that much when he climbed in the Lincoln. The man was also obviously old. There was a roadmap of wrinkles all over the back of his neck, and when he turned his head to reply his cheeks were latticed with a network of—

McGregor softly groaned. It was Willis, only his eyebrows were now a wild, bushy mixture of grey and black that matched a huge though neatly trimmed moustache. That, together with a pair of heavy-framed glasses which were also fake, put McGregor in mind of Groucho Marx. So much so, he couldn’t help but ask the obvious. I don’t suppose anyone has ever told you that you look like… ?

The driver pointed to the sun visor. Groucho Marx posed for my licence.

Yeah, sure. Lorna St. Louis leaned forward and peered at the plastic folder, briefly scanning the document as if to satisfy herself of its authenticity, though the worn plastic made that difficult. Apparently she saw enough. I’m surprised you’re not retired, Ralph.

The driver grunted the answer, as if irked. Yeah, well, I don’t have a fat government pension.

The comment hung there in the silence as the Lincoln turned onto 104th Avenue and headed west. Jim McGregor couldn’t help smiling. Knowing Willis, it was a deliberate dig at his own MP’s pension, not at Lorna St. Louis’s. He and Willis were in total agreement that this so-called pension perk, even after the recent changes, was nothing less than larceny. Willis never could resist giving his friend the gears at the slightest opportunity, but this wasn’t exactly the time or the place.

Once the vehicle settled into the new lane of traffic, it was clear that Lorna St. Louis was not going to let the comment pass. Federal pensions are worked for, and damned hard. What’s your full name, driver?

The older man remained silent for a moment, then muttered, Marks. And I worked damned hard for my pension too, but all I get back is what me and my boss put in.

What’s your real name, smart-ass? Lorna demanded and glanced sideways. McGregor pretended he hadn’t heard, gazing idly at the nondescript buildings passing by off to his left, and the construction off to his right. There was a lot of it going on—the new hockey arena, of course. There’d been a lot of politics there, too...

Oh, it is Marks, the driver replied, yawning nonchalantly. After a brief pause, the hint of a smirk crossed his lined features. Ralph Marks. Spelled k-s, not with an x.

Thank you, Lorna replied icily and settled back in the seat, glaring out the window as the Grant McEwan University campus hove into view.

Willis/Ralph, however, wasn’t finished. Ralph is spelled with a p-h, not an f. Did you need a pen to write that down, ma’am?

Lorna ignored the offer. McGregor stifled a grin.

At 124th Street Willis slowed the vehicle to a crawl just short of the corner, idling along as if waiting for the light and the traffic to clear. When it turned green he ac-celerated, and quickly made a left-hand turn. A horn blared behind them, followed by the faint thump of a crash. All heads turned except Willis’s. He blithely continued driving south.

Oh my God, the other car’s been hit, Lorna St. Louis shouted, her voice nearly a scream.

McGregor turned his head to take in the tight intersection. At first everything seemed normal, then his eyes took in the accident—though it probably wasn’t any accident. A few pedestrians on the sidewalk had already stopped to stare. The stretch Lincoln had come to a halt, its right front fender nestled tight against the driver’s side of an older model red sedan. The intersection was pretty much blocked. The red vehicle, he realized, had deliberately cut in front of the limo. So that was how the old buggers were doing it.

Maybe we should wait, Lorna St. Louis suggested, and turned to McGregor as if seeking agreement. When he said nothing, she said. Pull over, driver.

Yes, ma’am. Willis turned on the signal light and looked to the right, as if searching for a parking spot. Ahead of them, a hundred metres past the next intersection, another black Lincoln Town Car pulled away from the curb and joined the line of traffic. Willis smiled and abruptly accelerated, but instead took the first avenue to the right. I’ll turn here and circle back. He forced the Lincoln into a sharp turn that threw everyone off balance.

Slow down, idiot, Lorna St. Louis screeched. There’s no fire!

Yes, ma’am, he muttered calmly, he’s eyes darting, assessing what lay ahead. We’ll take that alley at the end.

The street was not much more than the length of the two buildings that sat on either side. It was a dead end, but for an alley that ran behind them. The tires squealed as Willis turned sharply left, again heading south, following the alley that led even farther away from the accident. The broad back lane was clear for the full length of the block, but a white panel van backed out from behind one of the commercial buildings, about a third of the way down. McGregor held his briefcase tighter, and all three passengers leaned forward, nervously peering ahead. Just as it appeared the van was going to block their way, the driver finally seemed to see the Lincoln and slammed on his brakes.