potential interferometer electromagnetic weather machines the Russians built back in the fifties.”
“Uh, no, I haven’t,” she said. “And here I thought global warming was to blame for the weird weather.”
I shook my head. “That’s what they want us to believe, but global warming doesn’t explain the popularity of reality TV or Jim Carrey movies. At this very moment we are very likely being scanned by the U.S. government’s scalar beams and our unique personal frequencies recorded in their supercomputers for later programming. Can’t you feel it?”
“Now that you mention it,” she said, dissolving into a fit of giggles. With some difficulty, she composed herself. “You had me worried for a second.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I have a neighbour, a sweet old guy, but barking mad. Lectures me on the dangers of scalar-beam weapons every chance he gets.”
The waitress came to take our order, two pints of Granville Island Lager.
“About Bobbi,” Jeanie said after the waitress left. “If we have to put off the calendar shoot, I’ll understand. I want you to know that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Wayne and I should be able to handle it. If that’s all right with you, I mean.”
“Of course,” Jeanie said, but I sensed a little hesitancy in her voice.
“Mary-Alice can come along as chaperone,” I added.
“What? Oh.” She smiled. “Well, all right, if you think you and Wayne need protection …”
Our beers arrived in tall frosted glasses. “Cheers,” I said. We touched glasses and drank.
Beer always tastes better when shared with an attractive woman. Everything does. And Jeanie was extremely attractive, dark and compact and muscular, with a brilliant smile and an infectious laugh. I’d been a little concerned about mixing business with pleasure when I’d accepted her invitation, worried that she might have designs on my virtue, such as it was. I wasn’t afraid that she’d make a pass at me, just what I might do if she did. Besides being more than ten years younger than me, I didn’t need that kind of complication in my life right then.
I needn’t have worried.
“Relax, Tom, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Maybe when the calendar’s done I’ll let you take me to some place nice, ply me with fine wine, and take your best shot. Assuming you’re not spoken for. Are you?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“In the meantime,” she said, “you seemed like you could use someone to talk to and I’m a good listener. I’ll even talk shop, if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said.
“Would it be all right if I visited Bobbi?”
“Of course,” I said.
Her eyes were an odd shade of blue, like the flower of the chicory plant, and looked almost as though they were lit from behind by LED Christmas lights. They were in startling contrast to her dark complexion and coal-black hair. Although she undoubtedly spent a lot of time outdoors, the skin of her face and neck was smooth and fine-grained. She didn’t appear to be wearing much makeup. Her hands were small, blunt, and strong — shaking hands with her had been a humbling experience. Her fingernails, though short, were painted a bright Chinese red.
“How did you hear about Bobbi?” I asked.
“Your sister told me,” she said.
“You and Mary-Alice are still on speaking terms, then.”
“Sure.” She smiled suddenly, releasing almost as much wattage as Bobbi did. “Say, it turns out we have a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who’s that?”
“Walter Moffat.”
“Not sure I’d call him an acquaintance exactly. He is — or was — a potential client. I’ve never met him. Mary-Alice knows him, through his wife, I think. How do you know him?”
“I guess I can’t really claim to know him, either,” she said. “I only met him once. He wangled himself an invitation to speak at our annual general meeting last month. He’s running in my riding in the next federal election. I’m not sure what he was hoping to accomplish. We’re not a big organization. Or likely to endorse a candidate who seems to know as much about the forest industry as I know about, um, scalar-beam weapons. When I talked to him afterwards he seemed to have a hard time believing I was a logger.”
He’s not alone, I thought.
“He was quite charming,” she went on, “and very good-looking, but he was, well, artificial, like he was just mouthing words written by someone else. No great surprise, I suppose. Many politicians are just sock puppets, aren’t they? Now, Mr. Moffat’s campaign manager, Woody Getz, he’s another thing altogether. A real piece of work.”
“How so?”
“Imagine a used-car salesman with a two-thousand-dollar suit and a bad comb-over.”
“I know the type,” I said, thinking of Blake Darling.
“It’s weird,” she said, with a mischievous chuckle.
“What is?”
“A lot of women would call Walter Moffat drop-dead gorgeous,” she said. “He’s not my type, but he had quite a few of our members all girlish and gooey-eyed. ‘Creaming in her jeans’ is how one of them put it.”
If all female forestry workers were even remotely like Jeanie Stone, I found it hard to imagine them getting all “girlish and gooey-eyed” over anyone, never mind the cruder allusion. What was Jeanie’s type? I wondered, as she went on.
“He probably could have had any one of half a dozen women for the night, just for the asking,” she said. “One of our out-of-town members even claims she slipped him a note with her hotel room number on it. But he was a complete gentleman, polite and just attentive enough to make you feel like he cared, but not that he wanted to get into your pants. Woody Getz, on the other hand, practically drooled on the floor the whole evening. Despite being downright homely, he hit on just about every women who came within range. He even hit on me, for Pete’s sake.”
Don’t say it, McCall, I told myself, but I wasn’t listening. “And why not?” I said. “He might be a piece of work, as you say, but at least he exhibited a remarkable amount of good taste.”
“Um, thanks,” she said, squirming uncomfortably.
I was an idiot. I didn’t want her to think I was hitting on her. Not only because I was more or less “spoken for,” but I didn’t want to be placed in the same category as a used-car salesman with a bad comb-over. We chatted for a while longer — I tried not to say anything else too stupid — until we’d finished our beers. Jeanie asked if I wanted another. Although I was tempted, if only to prolong the pleasure of her company, I said, “It’s getting late, and we’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the movers on Saturday. I think I’d better call it a night. Sorry.”
“Don’t
