 |
| Yes, Gilles. This is revenge. |
Louis Shalako
“Ah, Gilles. We are ever so glad you could stop in—”
Gilles nodded. So, it was like that, was it? Roger had
his chair tipped back, feet up on the end of the desk, a long cigar in his
mouth, and a balloon glass of cognac not too far from the hand.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Roger laughed out loud.
“Come on, Gilles. Cut me some slack—show the old man a
little mercy, if not respect for an old friend.”
He sipped and puffed and it seemed he would have his
revenge.
“Fuck. No one loves me anymore…yes, just a broken-down
old man, and it’s finally come to this: drinking on the job…”
One could almost hear the weeping violins in the
background.
“Oh, all right.” Sighing, he settled in after pulling
the chair in a little closer, to the bottle, the mahogany box, and the ashtray
as well. “For fuck’s sakes…”
“I suppose this is about young Pelletier…” Roger
nodded thoughtfully, eyes far, far away.
He was not a very good actor—
“No. Sir.
Actually, it’s not.” Maintenon poured himself a snort and savoured the aroma
under his nose for a moment. “Besides. I already have Pelletier.”
“Ha.”
Reaching for the box, he pulled a cigar and snipped
the end off of it. Roger gave the heavy desk lighter, half a kilo and all
silver and jade, a hefty shove over his way.
“So. You want something, then.”
In spite of himself, Maintenon’s internal temperature
was rising.
“Yes, Roger, I do want something.” He really hadn’t
been expecting any kind of torment from Roger, normally, he really wasn’t like
that.
“Ha! Well, go ahead then. Spit it out.” There was a
sardonic grin and the lips curled around and he gave a puff on what was, after
some examination, a pretty good little cigar…
“Yes. Very well then. I want the room on the second
floor, the former home of Street Crimes. I want new desks, new typewriters. I want
new chairs, and new phones, new curtains, new lights, and a new tele-printer
and a new wire-photo machine. I want new people, and I want his and hers
washrooms, showers, lockers, a real, live, actual closet. I want a fridge and a
sink and a fucking kitchenette. I want at least three cars, five or six would
be better. I want three more detectives,
a couple of sergeants and about a half a dozen plainclothes constables. And
yes—I do want Pelletier. Mostly because he’s got some kind of a brain in his
head, and not because he’s some broken-down old hack, cast off by his old unit,
and counting down the days until retirement—or even just payday.”
Raising the glass, he savoured some of the Napoleon.
“Well. I see—yes, I do see. And so. It’s either that,
or early retirement, I suppose.” And what a wicked grin that was, too.
Resisting the urge to growl at the man, Gilles went
on.
“Our present room is cramped, grubby, there isn’t one
item in that room that hasn’t been there since day one. It hasn’t been painted
in fifteen years. That room was grubby enough when we moved in. With senior
people getting weeks of vacation, court days, sick days, leaves of absence,
retirements, and replacements that never come, and what with being understaffed
to begin with, it really is time, Roger.
It is time that something is done about it.”
“It’s okay, Gilles. I understand.” The feet dropped to
the floor. “I’ve been thinking along similar lines myself—I mean, the room is
empty, of no real use to anybody, and quite frankly, there was some question of
what to do with it…”
 |
| A rather bemused Gilles Maintenon. |
He paused for dramatic effect.
“There have been one or two other inquiries…” The
eyebrows arched expressively. “It’s okay, I’ve been stalling them off. We do
have a little money left in the budget, although we could always declare a
surplus and roll it over into reserves…Gilles. With the current political
atmosphere, we might as well spend it. Next year’s allocation shouldn’t be too
much of a problem.”
“Argh.”
Roger grinned, and rising, went over to a side desk.
“Here, bring your drink.”
It was quite the display, artfully arranged—and
probably not by the hand of Roger himself, but arranged, nevertheless. Probably by the very same interior
decorator who had provided it.
This was revenge, all right—
And
be careful what you wish for.
Roger had sales-samples. Carpet samples—tile samples,
colour charts for the paint, fabric samples for the chairs and curtains. Short
lengths of wood, stained or varnished in various treatments. There were rolls
of architectural drawings, artist impressions in watercolours, and all the elevations, as walls were called by the
real experts. Cost estimates and timelines for various phases of the work,
which might take a month or six weeks. Window treatments, desks and chairs,
telephones and typewriters, various brochures, catalogues, it was all there,
right down to wall clocks and desk calendars. A turn-key operation, and all
new. His eyebrows rose as he scanned down the cost estimates…holy, shit.
But this was unbelievable. And, if he had known the
true cost, he never would have asked in the first place. This was a kind of
revelation.
“Naturally, you and your people would like to have a
look at all of this. The basic floor plan can be amended, they’re mostly just
partitions and not load-bearing. The contractors will put them wherever we want
them. Ah…just let us know what you think, okay?” He’d have his assistant bring
all that down later. “Oh, here’s a couple of keys, so you guys can have a look
at the actual space.”
Figuratively speaking, Gilles pulled his jaw back from
the area of his knees.
“Potted palms, sir?”
“Ha. How can we have contemporary policing, without
contemporary furnishings…let the artists have their follies, Gilles. You have
to admit, it all looks very nice.”
It would appear that he was serious.
Serious enough, anyways—
“Thank you, Roger.”
“Now, are you going to stay and have a drink with me?
It does get lonely at the top, you know…”
What in the hell could you ever say to that, except yes.
By the time he got out of there, he’d had two or three,
and so had Roger. They had hashed out many of the details, and they would be
talking again, and very soon.
“And let’s have no more talk of early retirement.
Mine, or yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wild horses couldn’t drag him away, which went for
either one of them, and they both knew it, but what the hell.
END
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