“Ah, Mr. Nolin?” Peter says. “It’s not quite that simple. Please have a seat and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Ms. Gilson, because you’re already on probation, I’ll let your PO know you’re here and she’ll deal with your undertaking. Levi, you old hellion, come on in.” Peter holds open the security door as the dignified fellow enters in his worn cowboy boots, restraining his amusement.
“Hey, what’s going on? I was here before him. I just told you I’m late for work!” Nolin thrusts his chest over the counter. “Old Tonto can wait. He’s not going anywhere.”
“This isn’t a restaurant, Mr. Nolin. The business with this gentleman will take only a few minutes. When we’re finished, then it’s your turn. You’re facing a number of serious charges, which will take time to process. You might want to call your workplace and let them know you’ll be late this morning.” Peter feels hair rising on his neck, an instinctive male heat in his chest and upper arms. He compensates by lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “Of course, you’re free to go. No one’s stopping you. I’ll call the police and let them know you’re in breach of bail. They’ll arrest you again, and I’ll recommend you be held in custody until your first hearing in court next month. Or you can sit down and shut up.”
This last phrase casts a sudden silence over the office, the admin’s fingers momentarily suspended in air, since she has never heard this tactic used so bluntly before, or certainly not by Peter Ellis. Another PO, Greg Milchem, looks up from the photocopier with an amused gleam for conflict in his eye. The security door has closed. Peter holds papers in both hands but is squared off across the counter from Nolin. Old Levi Charlie stands at the side of Tammy’s desk, his mouth a gentle wrinkle. He winks at her when she glances up.
Levi’s face is lined like old dark leather, darker than most of his people, the Secwepmc First Nation, also known as Shuswap. He stands more than six feet, a bit stooped as a result of fracturing and later breaking his spine, both times thrown from the same Brahma bull. The bull, with the registered name of Vaquero Vex, but known as Double V, retired from the national rodeo circuit twenty some years ago. The same year Levi did. They had a running contest for a few seasons, but their last ride was in Medicine Hat in 1979. Levi was transferred from there to Vancouver by ambulance, and two months later, home to Canoe Creek on the train with a nurse attending him. None of the doctors expected he would ever walk again, but the next spring he pulled himself up in the saddle and never lacked for work in the region. The ranchers liked to joke that the Indian was always the best cowboy around.
Peter and Levi make their way through the outer office toward the bail supervisor’s desk, the latter knowing the way as well as the former does, having much more personal experience with the justice system over the past forty years. They reach Peter’s desk, and he puts his cup down, feeling almost ill-mannered. “Coffee, Levi?”
The rodeo rider nods twice for emphasis. Peter goes to the kitchen, fixes a cup, black with the three sugars he knows Levi prefers, and grabs a couple of doughnuts out of a box somebody brought in. Then they sit and sip coffee and eat their doughnuts while Levi scans the morning newspaper. Peter waits and enjoys the silence. A bit of filtered morning sunshine. In fact, Levi could have signed papers at the counter and been on his way. But Peter has come to enjoy the man’s company every two or three months, usually on Monday morning, charged as a result of getting drunk the former Saturday night, more or less. Try as he might, Peter can’t see the crime in that.
“Any salmon in the river yet?” he asks after a while.
Levi turns his chin up, considering the question. “A few. Run’s just startin’.”
“Are you training horses?”
Levi inclines his head with a faint smile. “Yeah, a few colts. They keep me in trainin’.”
“I guess.” Peter smiles, mainly in wonderment. Levi’s date of birth is listed as 1948–03–01. The month and day being estimates, because he was born with the deer, all according to his dear bygone mother. “So, ah, you were drinking again? Saturday night?”
“Yeah.”
“Says here maybe you assaulted a server at the bar?”
“Assaulted, or insulted? Yeah, maybe I insulted him.”
“Levi?”
“What? He grabbed my arm, so I grabbed his arm, he goes down. He insulted me first.” Levi gently fingers his purple bandana and squints.
“I see.” Peter sips his coffee and can’t quite restrain another smile.
Fifteen minutes later Peter escorts Levi Charlie back through the office and bids him farewell. Levi loudly replies that he’ll bring in a smoked salmon next time, with a wink, knowing full well the suggestion is a conflict of interest with justice.
Peter holds the waiting room door open and turns his attention to the unknown. “Mr. Nolin, thanks for your patience. Please come in.”
“About time.”
Peter leads the way toward his office once more. As they pass the admin desk, he catches an almost silent exchange with his peripheral vision. Nolin has made a face or gesture that elicits a faint snort from Tammy, a blushing smirk and bowed head when Peter glances back. Those two mocking him? It’s a small town, and they’re acquainted somehow, he guesses. Nolin is wearing loose synthetic warm-up pants currently in style as casual wear, and the material swishes with his swagger.
“Please have a seat.” Probation Officer Ellis nods toward an empty chair as he sinks into his own and swivels to pull open a drawer stocked with blank forms. Focus on the task, no call to combat. Yet that primal sense is on full alert. “Where is it you work? Did you get a chance to call your employer?”
Todd Nolin slouches back, covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, combs his fingers back over his close-cropped scalp, then lets out an angry snort. “Hey, let me ask you something. Have you ever spent a night in jail?”
“No,” Peter lies without compunction. As a matter of fact, he did spend one night in a scary cell in Mexico long ago, but he’s not about to play truth or dare with this guy. Nolin’s eyes are expressive, yet hard to read: measures of hostility and arrogance, but also of entitlement and an almost forlorn appeal. He’s been so hard done by getting arrested and all.
“I didn’t think so. Well, it’s not something I want to advertise, Mister Peters, okay. So let me sign whatever little papers you have there, so I can get down to the store.”
“Ellis.”
“What?”
“My name’s Ellis. Peter Ellis. Not Peters.”
“Whatever. Fucking pardon me. Can we get on with it?”
“All right, sure. Where is it that you work? Sorry to repeat myself.” Peter carefully selects one pen, his favourite for the moment, from a holder full on the desk. “But that information’s required for this little form.”
Nolin’s eyes smoulder, furious that he has to submit to civil process. “I’m the assistant manager at BBG.”
“BBG? Is that the full name?”
“Blades, Boards, and Gear, the sports shop,” he recites, as if he’s giving directions to a deaf old man,
