By Sean Wilken
Rory was having
another bad day.
He was cold, wet and
bored.
He was cold and wet
because he was standing in the snow, in some of the worst rain in his life, had
been standing there for two hours and forty seven minutes (by his last count)
and the rain, which he noted sourly had developed into sleet and freezing
water, had worked its way through every zip, opening and gap in what he had
been assured only that morning was a super-comfy and warm uniform.
The boredom was more
complicated.
You’d think Chuck’s
death should have made life anything but boring. You’d think...
Rory was different.
For a start, all this
at his client’s insistence – as passed on by his supervisor – he had to be
there, she was going to arrive at any minute, her board needed carrying and he
just looked “so cute in the snow”.
Then there was the
small fact that Rory was a former Olympian. Olympians do not instruct and they
certainly are not forced to stand in the snow by a client, backed up by some
supervisor. A supervisor who had disappeared, gone skiing, informed Rory that
there was awesome powder up top, and was now drinking coffee with his buddies.
But all those causes
of boredom were, Rory had decided, superficial. Rory, these days, did not mind
waiting for clients. It was just that normally he would wait in a warm bar with
several large, comforting Jack D’s. No, the real cause was that, contrary to
current appearances, Rory was not interested in boarding and certainly not
interested in teaching.
After the “fall” (as
Rory described the incident involving the UK women’s curling team and his
subsequent exclusion from the Games), Rory had become a private investigator.
In Rory’s mind, this
meant slouched fedoras, London Fog coats, late night bars, smooth cocktails,
impossibly attractive brunettes with great gams whispering their intimate
details into his all-knowing, and let’s face it, over excited ears… All shot in
black and white with a very knowing voiceover. Probably with De Niro as Rory in
the movie.
In reality, it meant
an escape from the endless boredom of driving backhoes and ploughs for the muni
or tow trucks for a local operator. All of it to make the rent. And where the
only release was trashing some 4x4 in Marketplace, or towing the sole vehicle
from an otherwise totally empty garage on a minor, technical infraction.
In reality, it also
meant divorces. In return for cold, hard cash up front, Rory documented the
evidence that was already there, or, if the money was really good, ensured the
evidence was provided.
His current client,
Lawrence Rumswitz III, was a new direction in this career.
Rumswitz was, as he
reminded Rory every time they spoke, Connected (you could, Rory swore, hear the
capital “C”). After a successful career as a thrusting Senator – Florida
(Republican) – he had negotiated his way into a series of lucrative military
contracts before expanding into the four Season leisure real estate empire
splashed all over the Globe and Mail as a major new force in B.C. finance and
politics. Rumswitz was therefore powerful, influential, very “now”, very useful
and very, very rich.
Rumswitz was also, in
Rory’s considered opinion, a mad, paranoid, lecherous old coot.
Why?
The current (and
fifth) Mrs Rumswitz III. MuMu to her friends.
MuMu was a blonde,
26-year-old former dental hygienist who, whilst scraping the plaque from
Rumswitz’s expensive, 87-year-old smile, had seen something she liked. Rumswitz
had also seen several things he liked. The rest – as well as the fourth Mrs.
Rumswitz – was history.
MuMu liked
snowboarding and was in town to ride. And that was the problem. Rumswitz did
not. It was “too damn cold”, he was “too damn old”, and he was off “negotiating
a deal with some big shot local developer”. Rumswitz had heard, however, of
what might happen between attractive, very wealthy women with older husbands
and young boarding instructors over, as he understood it, martinis in the
Mallard Lounge or beers at Merlin’s.
That, Rumswitz said,
could happen at a moment’s notice, but was, quite definitely, not to happen.
Rumswitz therefore had
a plan.
Rory would return to
instructing. Rory would be, as Rumswitz put it, “a big draw for big money”.
Rumswitz had money and it was big. Rumswitz would treat MuMu to some glamour
lessons with the Olympian. In return, as well as being paid for the lessons,
Rory would be paid to “run interference” - interposing himself by whatever
means possible between MuMu’s many charms and any candidate instructor on the
basis (so MuMu would think) that Rory wanted MuMu for himself.
Hence, Rory thought,
mad, paranoid, lecherous etc etc.
This was day one of
the job. Rory had arrived, picked up a uniform and been given a locker.
“Well,
heeeeellllloooooo, gorgeous. You must be my instructor”
Before him was a
woman, dressed in white – white Prada, white fur, white fur boots, white fur
gloves, white fur hat. All of it very new and much of it at least one size too
small. The Prada was unzipped in a way more suited to a cocktail bar than the
slopes.
MuMu, Rory concluded.
Rory’s supervisor confirmed this by emerging from the daylodge with his buddies
pointing at Rory and grinning evilly.
Waving a cellphone in
Rory’s direction, MuMu continued:
“I was waiting for a
friend of mine – Janna, Janna St. James – we all could have had a little
party... But she has disappeared on me. As it is and this weather, welll —”
MuMu stopped and gave
Rory an appraising stare “I think we should have a little drink in the bar.
And, as my instructor, you have to teach me something, don’t you? So get
changed and meet me there in five. I’ll be waiting.”
At this MuMu headed
off. Rory shrugged and headed to his locker to dump his gear and change.
It was dark downstairs
and finding the locker was difficult. As was working the lock.
Eventually, the locker
opened. An over-ripe, sweet smell filled the room.
Minty St James’ body,
shot in the head and heart, her right hand clutching a bloodstained,
familiar-looking, piece of paper, her left hand clutching a potato, crashed
onto the floor of the locker room.
Rory screamed.
London
barrister Sean Wilken (Chambers Code Name: Studly Big Air) has been mugged or
robbed every time he's returned from his annual Whistler ski trip over the past
decade-plus, which he's starting to think is the universe telling him
something. He's currently completing a manuscript for a children's chapter book
and saving the world from terrorists.
This is the
fourth year for the Whistler Collective Novel Experiment, a literary
collaboration of local writers put on by the Whistler Writers’ Group, the
Vicious Circle. Each week the Pique will publish the next chapter of the
collective novel and all of the completed chapters will be posted online at
www.piquenewsmagazine.com/collectivenovel/