12 Rose Street (31 page)

Over the years, Jill and I had worked together frequently. It was proving surprisingly easy to slip into the old grooves professionally. Re-establishing a personal relationship was another matter, but at the moment Jill and I had a common goal, and I knew she deserved to see the ad.

Jill picked up on the first ring. “How’s it going?” she said.

“There’s a rough cut of the new ad on its way here, and I thought you might want to see it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s probably best if I keep my distance for a while, but I appreciate the offer, Jo. I really do.”

“We couldn’t have made the ad without you,” I said. “And according to Milo, it’s dynamite. I’m girding my loins for retribution.”

For a beat there was silence, then Jill said, “Jo, don’t put yourself in a position where you’re alone with Graham.”

I felt a chill. “Was he violent with you?”

Jill hesitated before answering. “Yes. Thanksgiving night. We just started the evening when he got a phone call. He said it was urgent, but he’d be right back. The call had come in on Graham’s landline, so I checked to see the identity of the last caller. It was Slater Doyle. When Graham didn’t come home, I did a little judicious snooping. I photographed a few things on his desk that seemed provocative, and I
discovered a safe behind the painting over the bed in the master bedroom. It’s probably just for jewellery, but there could be something of interest in there.

“Anyway, he called at ten to tell me to take a cab back to the hotel and he’d meet me there. He arrived at eleven. He told me he wanted to make love to me on our first Thanksgiving together. He started to push me towards the bedroom. He smelled of liquor and sex. He hadn’t even bothered showering before he came to the hotel. That tore it for me. I told him I was through with him, and I was going back to Toronto. He called me a cunt, and then he reached out and tried to throttle me.”

“He did what?”

“He put his hands around my throat and pressed his thumbs on my trachea. Graham works out every morning at a gym. He’s strong. If he had been sober, he would have killed me. Luckily, he was far from sober. I was able to pull back enough to knee him in the groin. That was it.”

“And you didn’t you go to the police?”

“Graham has powerful friends. It would have been a he said–she said situation. Graham’s the grieving widower. I’m the big-city slut who’s been putting out for him. He would have said he was trying to end the relationship and I was just a woman scorned.”

“Jill, you have to press charges. Graham Meighen is dangerous. He shouldn’t be walking around.”

“I know that, but I want to crucify Graham Meighen, and I can’t crucify him till I have the nails.”

Howard, Milo, Brock, Zack, and I watched the ad three times before any of us said anything.

“That oughta do it,” Zack said finally. “It may not be a knockout punch, but they’ll be on the ropes.”

The thirty-second ad had been shot in black and white. It was technically brilliant, morally reprehensible, and politically
devastating. Footage of Scott Ridgeway handing Graham Meighen an envelope and the two men shaking hands was followed by a close-up of a man’s hand opening the envelope and withdrawing a blank cheque made out to Lancaster Development and signed “The Taxpayers of Regina.” The final footage was of Graham Meighen whispering in Scott Ridgeway’s ear and Scott nodding understanding and approval. The camera froze on Graham Meighen whispering in the mayor’s ear. A woman’s voice, soft and insinuating, said,
“They have secrets they don’t want you to know.”
Then another voice, male and authoritative, delivered the Crime Stoppers tag. Our campaign’s contact information was on the screen.

“They really knocked it out of the park,” I said. “Milo, see if you can get your friends at Orange Smile to push it through post-production. We’ll pay what it takes. We’ve bought time on
Canada’s Future Stars
tomorrow night, and that ad is perfect for their audience.”

“Done,” Milo said. He leapt up and started for the door.

“And,” I said. “Before you leave, could you send a copy to Jill and one to me.”

Milo opened his laptop and tapped away. “Also done,” he said.

Zack frowned. “Probably best not to show this around. We can deal with Meighen’s lawyers after it gets on the air, but we don’t want them to scare off the broadcaster.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said. The grandmother clock struck the quarter hour. “Guess what?” I said. “You’re supposed to be spending recess with the teachers at Riffel High.”

“Shit,” Zack said. “When’s recess?”

“In fifteen minutes. If you hit the lights, you’ll make it.”

The first of the ads highlighting the close relationship between Scott Ridgeway and Graham Meighen aired on Friday, October 17, five days before E-Day. We were all
running on fumes, but we were resolute. We had two goals in mind: capturing swing voters and blowing the Ridgeway campaign out of the water. Getting all four ads to air by the weekend was imperative. Orange Smile had already completed post-production on the second ad and was working on the third. Getting the fourth to air on Sunday night would be a nail-biter, but we were optimistic.

Declan had come home for the weekend, so when we sat down to watch
Canada’s Future Stars,
the show on which the first ad would air, the atmosphere was reassuringly homelike. Margot and Lexi were there. So were Brock, Howard, and Milo. For reasons that were beyond me,
Canada’s Future Stars
was wildly popular, with special appeal for the twenty-eight to forty-nine demographic, where Zack’s numbers had been eroded by the perp ads. We had bought ten spots on the show – our “Secrets” ad would appear every six minutes. Saturation. Uncommitted voters would remember the drumbeat of the ads; more significantly, the Ridgeway campaign would know we were in this to win.

The “Secrets” ad appeared just after the host introduced the show. My cellphone was ringing before the ad was finished. My caller was Slater Doyle, and he was foaming at the mouth. “Where did you get that material?”

“From a supporter.”

“Where did he get it?”

“I didn’t ask. Slater, you should probably take a few deep breaths. We have a lot more information and we’ve made a substantial media buy to make sure voters understand the connection between Graham Meighen and your candidate before they mark their ballots.”

“We’ll get an injunction.”

“Better find a lawyer who’s licensed to practise in Saskatchewan first. You’ve been disbarred, remember?”

“You really are a bitch,” Slater said, then he slammed down the phone.

On the weekend before E-Day, all of our extended family were out door-knocking. I spent most of my time at the Noodle House. The last days of any campaign are filled with rumours, endless cycles of hope and despair and manic energy desperately in need of channelling. My job that weekend was to quell the rumours, bring hope and despair into some sort of realistic confluence, and put the manic energy that bounced around the Noodle House to good use.

Zack and I were both sleeping an average of four hours a night – not enough – but Zack’s store of energy was endless, and it was impossible to be in the Noodle House without getting a contact adrenaline high from the volunteers. I’d been in politics long enough to know that that crazy energy is what gets a campaign across the finish line, so I kept the pizza and soft drinks coming and cheered on the troops.

I was sitting at a desk near the front door checking volunteer reports and humming along with Stevie Nicks when a young man with the physique of a bodybuilder and a heartbreaking case of acne came in.

“I need to talk to Zack Shreve,” he said.

“You just missed him,” I said. “He’s pretty well tied up for the afternoon, but I’m his campaign manager, so I might be able to help.”

The young man eyed me and apparently decided to go for it. “I saw your ad on
Canada’s Future Stars
Friday night. I have information,” he said, “but it has to be kept confidential.”

The woman at the next desk swivelled her chair to face us. “If you need to talk privately,” she said, “the back room is free.”

I stood. I’m five-foot-eight, but the bodybuilder’s bulk dwarfed me. “I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“It’s Eli,” he said.

“I’m Joanne,” I said. “Let’s go to the back, so we don’t get interrupted.”

As always the Noodle House was packed with volunteers – most of them sitting on their exercise balls, texting, tweeting, or working on their laptops. Eli and I threaded our way among the bodies and went into the room where three weeks earlier Slater Doyle had dropped a grenade into my life.

When we were inside, I shut the door. Under the harsh overhead light, it was difficult to get past the inflamed pustules on Eli’s face and neck and upper trunk, but I managed. Except for his skin, he was a good-looking young man, probably in his early twenties. He was fine-featured and had beautiful eyes and enviable eyelashes. “Okay, Eli,” I said. “What kind of information do you have?”

“Information about Graham Meighen. I don’t know what he has on the mayor, but I know that Meighen’s behind a lot of the stuff that’s been going down lately. He hired the guys who trashed that lady’s house.”

“Peggy Kreviazuk,” I said. “She’s a friend. She told us that the men had been instructed to give her a beating she’d never forget, but the leader stopped them.”

Eli looked down at his feet for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, he raised his head and met my eyes. “I wish I’d never got involved.”

“You mean with Graham Meighen?”

“He has this system.”

“What kind of system?”

Eli shook his head vehemently. “No, I’ve already said too much. I just wanted to warn you.”

I glanced at my watch. “I can get Zack back here in twenty minutes. We can help you deal with Graham Meighen.”

“You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

“Then tell me,” I said.

Eli’s eyes were filled with misery. “Anything,” he said. He raised a hand to his ravaged face. “He’s capable of anything and everything.”

Angus had suffered from acne. He had always been a confident kid, but when the acne became serious, he began to withdraw. I’d made an appointment with a dermatologist. Angus responded well to the medication. His skin cleared up and his confidence returned. I found myself wishing that there was someone in Eli’s life who would steer him to a dermatologist.

I found a piece of paper on the desk, wrote my name and the numbers for my cell and my landline, and handed the paper to Eli. His body was powerful, but there was vulnerability in his face. I touched his arm. “You don’t have to handle this alone,” I said.

“I don’t want anybody else to get hurt,” he said.

“Eli, is there somewhere I can get in touch with you?”

He struck a mocking muscleman pose. “At the gym,” he said. Then he walked out the door, leaving behind more than a few troubling questions. I was optimistic that I could find the answer to at least one of them. I picked up the phone and dialed Jill’s number.

She answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

“Just a question,” I said. “You mentioned that Graham works out regularly. Does he always go to the same gym?”

“Yes,” she said. “Da Silva’s on 13th. What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you later. I have a theory. If I can prove it, we’ll have another nail for Graham’s coffin. When’s a good time to call you?”

“It’s probably best if I call you,” she said. “Does three o’clock work for you?”

“Yes, and call my cell,” I said. “I have some errands to run.”

Someone had donated two ancient
TVS
to the campaign. Both were on constantly, and it seemed every time I glanced toward
a screen, one of our ads was running. Saturation. I remembered the old movie
The Hucksters,
where Sydney Greenstreet says the secret of advertising is to repeat the slogan until people say it in their sleep. The secret to selling soap, Greenstreet’s character said, is “Irritate. Irritate. Irritate.”

That afternoon as I picked up Zack from a meeting at Warren Weber’s, our “Secrets” ad was playing on the radio. After Zack transferred his body from his chair to the car, snapped his chair apart, and stowed it in the back seat, he leaned over and turned off the radio.

“Hey, we’re paying a lot of money for that,” I said.

Zack rolled his eyes. “Don’t I know it, and the ads seem to be having an effect – at least among Warren’s crowd. That ad on
Canada’s Future Stars
was all they could talk about.”

“I wouldn’t have thought Warren’s crowd would be fans of
Canada’s Future Stars.
”

“I’m sure they’re not, but word about the ad is getting around.”

“Are they going to vote for you?”

“Warren’s trying to push them in that direction, but our agenda is to change the way this city is run and they don’t want change. Why would they? The system works for them. Just between us, Ms. Shreve, I think that no matter how many dark innuendos and examples of civic malfeasance we pull out of the hat, Warren’s friends will hold their noses and vote for Ridgeway.”

“That’s what Howard and Milo are afraid will happen in parts of the east end too.”

“So what are the odds?”

“Fifty–fifty?”

“I’ve faced worse,” Zack said. “Anyway, enough of this. Let’s go home. I need a couple of hours to get caught up on
messages.” He squeezed my thigh. “You and I could do a little catching up too.”

“I wish,” I said. “There’s something I have to take care of. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

There are some upscale gyms in our city. Da Silva’s on 13th is not among them. The building was freshly painted – black with yellow trim. Bright as a bumblebee, but there was a FOR SALE sign on the patch of lawn in front of the building; the front door sagged, and the path leading to it was seriously in need of repair. The morning was bright, but when I stepped into Da Silva’s I entered a place that seemed to exist outside of time, weather, and the events of the world.

A customer was checking in at the front counter. I stood behind him and waited as a grizzled man wearing a windbreaker with the name “Sarge” stitched over the breast pocket stamped the newcomer in and handed him a small, worn towel. When the client disappeared, Sarge turned a rheumy eye to me. “Well?” he said. His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly.