Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 21
I passed Harriet’s desk, ducked through Richards’ door, and discovered his chihuahua snoring away on top of the desk. It wasn’t much of a guard dog—it didn’t so much as stir—so I began to search the room.
Lady Luck was with me tonight—I found everything I needed in his desk’s top drawer, right under the dog’s nose. More than everything, really. The first plasti-binder I opened—appropriately labeled ‘Activities’—was worth the price of admission alone. I opened it to find a big glossy photo of Dorothy staring back at me through an apple-green makeover. I blinked twice before reading through the accompanying files. The rest of the documentation in the stack was equally alarming for entirely different reasons. I made copies of the works, carefully replaced the binders, neatened things up, and gave the dozing chihuahua a couple of rubs behind the ear before I left.
The pieces were beginning to slot together. This was way bigger than Ben Hur and it was all Deaps’ doing. It was looking like a goddamn masterpiece of intrigue—and here I was with a date to see the man himself tomorrow night.
tobacco-stained mountain goat
“How terribly wonderful to meet you,” the old guy purrs. His rheumy eyes sweep over me.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“That said, I feel like I know you already.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
“Indeed!”
We’re standing in the entrance hall to his apartment, which would better be described as a mansion. Wolram E. Deaps has a magnanimous smile and his teeth appear to be his own. He’s dressed—I kid you not—in a caddish crimson silk smoking jacket, beige slacks, slippers, and a cream cravat. He’s at least a dozen centimetres shorter than me, with a much smaller build than I’d have guessed based on his media presence.
The initial greetings over, I handed Deaps the gift I’d brought for him and he motioned for me to follow him. We arrived at his enormous kitchen and he placed it on a table before carefully unwrapping it from within a wad of shoddily tied together plasti-sheets. After a bit of work he pulled the bottle free, held it up, jiggled it, and squinted to read the label.
“Siamese vodka.” He sounded rapt. “I’ve never had the opportunity to try this—Floyd, my boy, where on earth did you pick up this beauty? You really shouldn’t have!”
He opened the bottle then and there, conjuring up tumblers from thin air that he filled halfway each. He passed one over to me then leaned back his head and threw down the spirits. I tossed mine into the potted plant beside me. After a visible shudder, the old gent slowly refocused on me, his mouth a distorted smear. “Quite the unusual taste,” he croaked.
“Indeed.” To my amazement, he poured himself another.
I heard a muffled bang, as if something had been dropped or kicked behind me, but Deaps either didn’t hear it or casually ignored it. I glanced over my shoulder—there was a closed Dutch door, a pale green one, on the other side of the kitchen. Before I could give it much thought Deaps bent over and picked up a Hylax bag from the floor.
“Well, one good turn deserves another. This is for you.” He gave the bag to me. “Well, open it—it’s not a bomb. We don’t have to worry about that nasty old Deviant Liberation Underground here.”
I did what he requested, removed a wad of expensive tissue paper, and found the worn out left shoe I’d been missing for weeks. Damn. I was about to offer up a word of thanks when a loud commotion interrupted us. It was definitely coming from behind the green door. I looked over at Deaps for an explanation and he simply smiled.
“I’m afraid that’s my goat making the ruckus. He’s a jolly smart one, doesn’t like the door being closed.” Deaps walked over and opened the top half of the door, exposing a posh animal pen at least half the size of my apartment and better decorated, with art on the walls and a chandelier. True to his word, there was a handsome brown goat staring back at me. To call it an obscene display of wealth would be putting it mildly, but this was, after all, Wolram E. Deaps and the man was absolutely nonchalant about it. He reached into the pen and patted the goat on its head. “My pride and joy.” Deaps gazed at the goat, leaned closer, then repeated softly, “My pride and joy,” giving it a quick chin rub. It was almost sweet.
Deaps then ushered me out of the kitchen, down a hall, through an immense living room and finally into an equally large study resplendent in vivid-coloured velvet and more subtle autumn-hued leather. To his credit, the room displayed a significant grasp of design. The fireplace, stocked with what appeared to be real wood, was accentuated with a marble mantelpiece that had irreplaceable looking odds and ends arranged across its length. There was a figurine centred on the mantel that particularly moved me—a stunning black bird of prey. Next to the fireplace was a tall, thin bookcase, and various paintings and statuettes. Much of the bric-à-brac appeared to be museum worthy.
Dominating another wall was a monstrous window with pulled drapes, while diametrically opposite was the biggest walk-in bar I’d ever had the pleasure to meet. Bliss. In some ways the room reminded me of bachelor pads from 1950s movies with Rock Hudson and Tony Randall.
Deaps’ outfit, which was a bit odd in the kitchen, made perfect sense here. I hate to admit it, but within the context of this room he actually made it work. He took my arm in his and conducted me towards a huge leather-bound sofa and circular coffee table slapped down in the middle of the room, atop a genuine-looking Middle Eastern rug.
“So. My mother’s a long-time fan.”
“Is she now?”
“I’d be worried about that if I were in your shoes.”
“And you?”
“Thanks to you, I again have a pair of shoes to call my own.”
“I meant your opinion on me.”
“I tend to avoid business and politics. It’s a bloody waste of time.”
“Good for you. I like a man who speaks his mind.”
“Then you’ll love me.”
“I’m sure. Oh, and Floyd, feel free to smoke. I don’t see the point in calling a place home if you can’t do as you wish. Why don’t you try one of these?” He slides a box of Coronas del Ritz towards me. “I have it by good authority that this is the last remaining box in the world.”
“Fine by me.”
I snap up one of the cigars and unwrap it, after which Deaps clips the ends for me then lights the beast via a silver Zippo with a goat etched across its surface.
“And?”
“Tastes reasonably swell.”
“Ahh, we each have our personal vices,” the old guy mused as he perched himself on the massive leather sofa in the middle of the room. It looks like it had been made for at least eight people. I remained standing with that priceless gasper clutched in my hand—and then he continued on in his merry way. “Who are we to judge? Any of us? You should know that, my boy.”
“Maybe so—although you seem to have no qualms about acting out the roles of judge, jury, and executioner. Sir.”
“Oh ho! Straight to the point.” He leaned back and chortled, long and loud. It sounded like his frail body was deflating. Then he reached beneath the coffee table and pulled up a bottle of Johnnie Walker—it’d been at least a decade since I’d seen one—and poured us large glasses. If he had that stashed under the table, I could only imagine what was behind the bar proper. “I won’t ask you if you’d care to join me,” he said, eyes twinkling as they peered up at me. Of course I took one. Deaps leaned forward on the seat and his polished Rolex gleamed in the light. He reached toward a folder on the table, opened it, and spread out a bunch of papers. “I wanted you to come here for a special reason, son. I want to discuss your career.”
“My career?” I pondered that word then took another swig of whisky for back-up. Where was the bloody ashtray? Before I could actually ask, Deaps, with a flourish that belied his age, produced—again out of thin air—a souvenir ashtray that’s decorated with palm trees and semi-naked cartoon girls in bikinis with ‘Big Bear Lake’ scrawled across the side in pink fluoro-letters.
“As you know Floyd, we’ve been very happy with your performance, particularly as of late. I know I’m looking forward to seeing your next Activities on the television. Quite looking forward to it, indeed.” I hold my tongue at this point—the bastard is taking his time, and I’m letting him. I’m in no rush. Deaps continues, “I’ve perused your personnel record, Floyd, and it’s an interesting read.” The old guy indicates the papers in front of him. “Other than a bit of drunk and disorderly, you have an exemplary record of service.”
“Drunk and disorderly. That’s one way to put it.”
“I’m not here to judge you, son. We all understand the trials and tribulations that this kind of work has inflicted upon the employees of Seeker Branch. There is something here, though, that I’d like to discuss with you—an annotation that you recently lost someone close to you. A Nina Canyon, is it not? I realize this is rather personal, but would you care to talk about the experience?”
“Ah. So that’s what this is about.” So much for biding my time—he was forcing me to tip my mitt.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re enjoying yourself in all of this.”
“I can see that you think you know something. Care to fill me in, Mr. Maquina?”
“I know you had Laurel—Nina—Relocated because of me.”
“Is that so? Pour me another one, there’s a good boy. And feel free to top up your own.” I didn’t need much encouragement—I filled the glasses to the brim.
“You see, I have this recurring dream, Deaps. Let me tell you about it.”
“By all means. This is an entirely fascinating conversation.”
I sit down on the sofa, as far as possible from his spindly legs. “Actually, that’s not true. Turns out it’s not a dream at all, but a memory—one I think I was trying to repress, because I killed somebody. Funny how that happens, how easy it can be to bury the truth from yourself. This particular somebody didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. She had a life she should’ve been allowed to live, and I took it. But I think you know that. And I believe you knew her. She was your daughter, after all.”
Deaps looked mildly surprised, but handled it well. “My daughter. Yes. I see where you’re going with this.”
“So now you’re seeking your revenge for her murder, and that’s why you had Laurel taken from me.”
“I say, how dramatic you are, Floyd, my boy. But allow me to set the record straight. It’s important to understand that everything in this life has value. I certainly didn’t get this far without realizing that. And yes, I know my daughter’s death wasn’t intentional, but even so, her life was of particular value to me and thus there was a debt that required repayment. But that’s now settled and our books are in order. I think we can continue to do business together, don’t you agree?”
“You bastard.”
“I’ve been called far worse.”
“So my debt is all paid up, huh? You really believe I don’t know the rest?” Now Deaps took a new look at me, and smiled. “For my next Activities, you—you were all set to have me run fucking commentary as Controllers took down my sister.”
“Ah. That.”
“Ah. That,” I mimicked.
“Kudos for sorting that one out ahead of time, good show. I must say I was looking forward to seeing it on the television.”
“Yeah, you mentioned.”
“I suppose I rather got ahead of myself saying we were square, Floyd. As I mentioned, everything has a price. You were responsible for my daughter’s death. You murdered her. I’ve merely tried to keep our accounts in balance—without killing anyone, I might add. Quite nice of me, I believe, and if you give it some thought perhaps you’ll see the justice in it.”
“Justice? There’s no justice here.”
“You say that only because you’re on the wrong side of it.”
“You’ve taken away two of the people I love and are currently working on a third. How the hell is that just?”
“Two? Only the one. Miss Canyon.”
“Two. You’re forgetting my wife, Veronica.”
“But she was Relocated years before you murdered Corinne. I had nothing to do with that. Besides, hers was a genuine case of Deviancy. You can’t possibly include her.”
“I can count her and the rest of the thousands of people you’ve indirectly had killed.”
“You and your drama.” Deaps held his withered hands up. “I see no blood here. Do you?”
“That wasn’t my point. So is this it? According to your math we’re square?”
“That was it. Miss Canyon and Miss Maquina, your sister. Your habits were then to have taken care of the rest, though I must say, Floyd, that in this regard you have surprised us all. We expected you to crumble under the spotlight, but you’ve thrived. You really are quite good at it, my boy. The people adore you. And you carry a certain panache that makes for good television. This was all very unexpected.”
“Great.”
“But it is most certainly great, Floyd, and that’s why I’d like to continue working with you. Your success maddened me at first, yes, but I’ve come to realize you’re something special. Let bygones be bygones, I say. We’re even now.”
“Jesus. You’re trying to wheel and deal with me while you Relocate my sister?”
“No, Mr. Maquina. Obviously, your discovering my plan adds a new twist. As I said before, kudos for that. Very impressive. But I understand basic economics and I know how to roll with the punches. Your value to me is much higher as my friend than my foe—at my age and in my position, I have enough enemies, and I’ll likely soon have more. I’d rather not count you among their rank. You can have your Dorothy. We’ll cancel the Activities. Consider it a sign of good faith.”
“Because you value me. As a friend. Right.”
“Things change in accordance with necessity.”
“Necessity,” I repeat, a little lost.
“Come now, you’re an intelligent young man. With some temperate marketing cultivation on our part, you’ve emerged as a media darling, Floyd. You have become—whether or not you appreciate these ramifications—the public image of Deviant Management. People need this, it helps them to relate to public policy and encourages them to accept new directions.” Deaps brushes down his red jacket and smooths back the white hair, like he’s shaking off something I can’t see.
“Really? And what new directions would those be?”
“Oh please don’t play coy now. I don’t expect you worked out all of that without knowing the rest, correct? I’m not holding you in too high a regard, am I?”
“I don’t know about that. But, yeah, I think I’ve sorted the rest out. You’re planning a coup.”
“A coup. How quaint. I suppose that’s a fitting term, though I wouldn’t use it myself.”
“I’ve seen the files, Deaps. Pretty much everyone of any importance in the government is going to get labeled Deviant. Your Controllers are in the late stages of planning a massive strike to Relocate all of them in one fell swoop. It really doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know who’s going to fill that power vacuum.”
“Oh, I deny nothing, Floyd. I merely take issue with the term ‘coup’. It’s such a tedious word, and I find it thoroughly disagreeable.”
“What would you call it?”
“The word itself isn’t important. I’m only taking up what is being handed to me. Accepting precisely what I deserve. Nothing more, nothing less. Trust me, it’s ripe for the taking, given the current state of the government and the level of idiocy those fools display. I’ll be doing everyone a favour—don’t tell me you actually think those corrupt imbeciles are doing a good job?”
“You say this was handed to you—but it wasn’t. You backed the Bill of Deviations before it came into being. Hell, they say you helped write the thing. It’s all been your doing, every step of the way. My guess is that you’ve been planning this and jockeying for position for the past twenty years. The tragedy here is that your daughter Corinne paid the price. That’s some kind’a fucked up, right there.”
“My daughter—I tried to protect her, really I did.” Finally, it looked as if I might have found the smallest of chinks in Deaps’ armour—so far he’d been taking my assault in stride. I had blown the man’s plot wide open yet he seemed no less comfortable in our conversation than when I got here—until now, that is. So I nudged some more.
“Protect? Bang up job you did there, mate. You had her labeled a Dev and tried to get her Relocated—but instead she ended up dead.”
“No, you don’t understand. I was keeping Corinne safe. She wasn’t ever to be Relocated, she was living here with me until she ran away—I don’t know why she did that. She was meant to be brought back home. To me. That was the plan. Floyd—did you know you were handpicked to bring her in? You’d never killed a single Deviant before that night. You were unique in that respect. The average termination rate for a Seeker is well over thirty percent, yet you had managed to avoid it altogether, even in your Tests. On top of that, you had an impeccable success rate. You were supposed to save her. I had no reason to think you’d kill her. That you did was—unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate.” His explanation felt like a gut shot. He didn’t just have an answer for everything, he had a prize one. The pent-up guilt I felt for killing his daughter rushed through me, and I finished off my drink before turning that guilt back into anger. “Unfortunate,” I repeated. “You certainly have a way with words. I suppose my wife, Veronica, getting Relocated was also unfortunate—and Laurel too? The tens of thousands of other innocents?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ve already told you how very sorry I am for what happened to your wife—but I had nothing to do with her death. The Bill of Deviations was vital to our country, to the survival of humanity. It had to be implemented. I tried to protect my loved ones, just as you would have done.”
