Travis’ Benefit

Crime Fiction by Abe Margel

He looked down at his bare wrist and was annoyed. Travis had forgotten his gold Breguet at home. It was important, the only jewelry a man could legitimately wear at a swank function like this.

He’d bought the watch at a pawnshop on Sainte-Catherine Street in Montreal. It was a small untidy store, lawnmowers against one wall, musical instruments hanging from another. From a drawer under the counter the pawnbroker had removed a carton with watches nestled in little velvet-lined boxes. The Breguet had caught Travis’ eye.

“It looks new,” he said to the store owner, a gaunt woman.

“It is new and it’s cheap compared to what you’d pay down the street.”

Travis held up the gleaming gold timepiece to the light. It screamed affluence. “Okay. You want cash I understand.”

“Yes, cash would be best.”

And now for this party he’d foolishly left the watch on his dresser at home.

*****

Years earlier, before his divorce, before he’d moved from Toronto to Windsor to recover from his domestic woes, he’d worked as a high-ranking bureaucrat with the Ministry of Long Term Care. That job was under a previous government and he’d lost contact with his fellow coworkers from that period.

When he returned to Toronto he reconnected, made some phone calls, took men and women in wrinkled suits out to lunch. They were happy to hear from him again, glad he was back. One of his former work friends referred him to someone who then got Travis an invitation to this posh birthday party.

It was at the Lazaport mansion in Woodbridge where he first met Melissa Dodge.

On Travis’ arm was his pretty secretary and sometime girlfriend, Vicky, wearing a shimmering silver dress, chandelier earrings and faux pearls. He wore a black tux that looked similar to that of every other man in the room. Travis however appeared more assured, more at easy than most of the others. His image was important to him, important to his earning a living. He was a solidly built fellow with a square jaw and a full head of hair graying at the temples. At fifty-six he still jogged regularly and played tennis.

The hostess, Amanda, was celebrating her fiftieth birthday and some four hundred of her closest friends were in attendance. Melissa Dodge, an influential politician, was one of those friends. Like her uncle, the premier, she knew how to work a room. She mingled with and glad-handed anyone she thought might be of use to her. Her generously proportioned figure was wrapped in a navy blue silk dress. By her side stood her husband in a tuxedo, looking lost.

“Hello, Ms Dodge,” Travis said extending his hand in greeting. “Gerald said I might meet you here. I’m Travis Palmer.”

Gerald worked in Melissa’s constituency office.

Travis was about to also shake hands with her husband but she interrupted him.

“Ah, yes, Gerry did say something about it.” She looked Travis up and down as if he were some type of exotic snake. “It’s very noisy in here. Why don’t we step outside?” She abruptly turned and left her bewildered husband to fend for himself.

Travis turned toward Vicky who was standing across the room where a young man was trying to engage her in conversation. The lobbyist gave her a little wave before he headed toward the backyard.

A fierce summer sun looked down on the expansive garden. The two new acquaintances walked well away from the house to a corner of the yard where a black Labrador slept. They briefly chatted about their mutual associate, Gerald, before getting down to business.

“Of course we can come to some understanding regarding the real estate you’re interested in,” Melissa said. “I’ll need to see concrete support from your clients first. Running for re-election is expensive.”

“There’s no question they’ll back you in a substantial way.” He hesitated. “I want to be clear about this, my clients need that parcel of land rezoned then sold to them and only them. The price would also have to be reasonable.”

“We need to open up this province to business,” she said sweetly. “There won’t be any problems making the changes you’re asking for.” Her rose perfume tickled his nose as she leaned toward him. “And when I’m out of politics I hope to contribute in other areas such as sitting on boards of directors.”

“Someone with your experience would be an asset to any corporate board. I am sure my clients would be happy to arrange that and more, much more, provided your government does its part.”

“Leave it to me. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll have my assistant call you in a week or two.”

The phone call came a few days later and an appointment arranged.

Travis made his way to the seat of provincial government. The Ontario Legislature was an imposing building, a pink stone Romanesque mound. In his left hand he gripped a briefcase containing a hundred thousand dollars in old bills. There were twenties, fifties and hundreds, all in bundles held together by red elastic bands.

At her legislature office he found Melissa Dodge, the Minister of Parks, Forestry and Rural Affairs, in a foul mood. As of that morning political scandal was in the air. She, along with the rest of the government, was under fire. The press had discovered her friend, the minister of finance, could not account for his hidden wealth. Before entering politics he’d been a dairy farmer, not poor but not rich. Now he inexplicably owned a yellow Lamborghini and a mansion in Tuscany.

“Things have gotten hot around here. The government is in trouble and I’ve had a change of heart,” Melissa said, her double chin shaking. “I’ve decided this is wrong, this deal you’re asking me to do is wrong.”

“But we’d agreed,” he said glancing at a large portrait of the Queen hanging over Melissa’s right shoulder.

The game, however, wasn’t over. He took a deep breath and opened his briefcase with a flourish exposing the bills.

The minister reddened. “You brought the money here! Are you out of your mind? No, that’s final. I’m not willing to be involved. Get out.”

He offered her an additional twenty thousand dollars.

“Don’t you understand English? I told you to leave.” She stretched out one of her perfectly manicured fingers and pointed to the heavy wooden door that opened into a wide corridor.

Travis wasn’t sure what had just happened. Did Melissa Dodge really get cold feet or had someone gotten to her with a better offer?

In the hallway he was met by walls lined with the portraits of dead politicians. The late Premier Ernest Drury looked down on Travis disapprovingly.

“This is just a temporary setback,” the lobbyist mumbled looking up at Drury’s image. He would find a way. Greed or fear moved most of the elected officials he dealt with. Honest politicians, and there were a few of them, he avoided.

While heading for the exit Travis decided his next move would be to talk with the premier’s brain, Oliver Brown.

Oliver the premier’s chief of staff had a booming voice and a studied smile. Before politics became his career he’d been a nightly news anchor on TV. He had a wife, four kids, drank too much and was a skirt chaser. One had to be careful around Oliver since he could be easily offended. Travis hoped to avoid trying to pay him off. He wasn’t sure Oliver would stay bought. It would be best if the chief of staff got him a private meeting with the premier. Yes, that would be ideal. Melissa Dodge going back on her word was a setback that’s all.

Outside in the heat he began to sweat. His suit felt like a clammy blanket. Eyes turned to him as he passed a line of men, women and kids holding banners and placards protesting the lack of adequate funding for autistic children. For a second he thought of his twins now living with his ex-wife in Guelph. But his daughters weren’t autistic.

On St. Joseph Street Travis glared at a panhandler stretched out on the pavement. The lobbyist fumbled for his key fob, clicked it then got into his BMW SUV and locked the doors. He started the engine, turned on the air conditioning and cracked a window open. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he removed a pack of cigarettes, lit up and inhaled deeply. As the smoke spiraled around his head he swore then reached for his cell phone and dialed plan B.

“Vicky?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Travis.” He blushed. “I may have a special job for you.”         

“Okay, same as last time?”

“Yeah, the same.”

He made another phone call. “Hi, Travis here. Melissa Dodge changed her mind.”

“Oh hell. She can’t do that to me,” a man’s voice snarled.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll find another way.”

“You’d better hurry up before someone else gets on this prize first. That would be bad for both of us.”

The prize was a large tract of land in a Nature Reserve. The lobbyist’s task was to persuade the province to rezone and then sell the land cheap for a golf course and a premium retirement community.  Some of the terrain was already in the hands of Travis’ client but the beachfront section where the marina and the four-star hotel would be built belonged to the province. This crown land was under-used, a waste of valuable resources. It didn’t even have a campground. The chipmunks and moose had more than enough room elsewhere to live in what was after all a vast province. 

The following week Travis had a late lunch with Oliver. They sat in a quiet corner of a Bedford Road Italian restaurant. Soft instrumental music played in the background. The aromas of garlic, oregano and roasted lamb wafted through the air. Oliver was a lean, bald man. He appeared anxious when he first sat down. His dark eyes scanned the room.

“Let’s eat,” Oliver said finally. He ordered a bottle of Chianti to go along with their meal.

Travis made his pitch. “As well as the advantages you and your party will receive, the local community would also benefit from the construction work. In addition permanent jobs would be created at the new complex, local shopping would increase and the municipal tax base would grow.”

“And you, Travis, you would benefit too.”

Travis did not reply. This was business and any slurs were to be endured then forgotten when he cashed his cheque. His misstep with Melissa Dodge was never brought up. Perhaps Oliver wasn’t aware of that matter.

“I’ll bring this to the premier’s attention,” Oliver said. “I’m sure you’ll get a welcome hearing from him but you’ll need to show your sincerity. I hope you understand that means more than just words.”

“I won’t show up empty-handed.”

A thirty-year-old woman in a green summer dress walked over to their table. “Hi, Mr. Palmer,” she said to Travis with a shy smile. Chestnut brown hair framed her lovely oval face. “Here are the documents you were looking for.”

Travis stood up. “This is Vicky Anderson my secretary. Vicky, meet Oliver Brown.”

“Call me Oli.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Travis said.

“Yes, that would be nice,” Oliver agreed.

Oliver ordered more wine and asked if she was hungry.

“Oh, I might have some dessert.”

“Yes, do.”

Travis’ cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “I have to get this,” he said as he stood up. “I’ll be right back,” and headed for the exit. He hurried past the kitchen door where a food courier with a large thermal backpack was standing. The man in tight electric blue pants and helmet appeared comical except for the haggard expression on his face. It was the face of someone who was no longer young, a man resigned to being one of the working poor.

Outside Travis stood in the shade of a store awning and placed the cell to his ear.

“You want me to take the girls this weekend instead of next?” he said to his ex-wife.

“My sister’s sick and I have to drive out to Brighton. I’ll drop them off at your place Friday night and pick them up on Sunday night. Please, Travis, do me this one favour.”

“Yeah, okay. What time Friday?”

“Around six-thirty, seven.”

He loved his daughters but was unwilling to let his former wife know how attached he was to them.

“Yeah, that’ll be fine.”

Travis took a deep breath, checked the time on his watch, waited a little then slowly made his way back to the restaurant table where he had left Vicky and Oliver. As he approached the couple he noticed their body language had changed. They were leaning across the table toward each other, broad smiles on their faces. He saw Oliver place a piece of paper in his suit pocket. For a second, a knowing grin danced over Travis’ lips.

“Sorry about that, I had to take that call.”

He stayed just long enough to pay the bill then left the couple where they were.

Friday morning Travis’ cell rang.

“Premier Dodge will meet you at his cottage tomorrow at about two,” Oliver said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, let me give you the address and driving instructions. The place is a bit out of the way. Your GPS probably won’t have the exact location.”

“Thank you.”

Saturday morning Travis and his little daughters got into his SUV for the three-hour drive to Muskoka. It was there Dean Dodge relaxed at his cottage with his three dogs and his long-legged secretary. Exiting the two-lane highway east of Bala, Travis snaked his way up a gravel road.

The compound entrance was hard to find and he drove past it before he realized his mistake. A green steel gate barred the way in. Next to the entrance, obscured by bushes sat an unmarked cop car. A policewoman got out and approached Travis’ BMW, one hand hovering above her holstered gun.

“Okay, Mr. Palmer your name is on the list. Drive straight ahead.” She pulled open the gate.

At the end of the long driveway he found a sprawling modern cottage on the shore of a lovely lake. Sitting on a kitchen chair by the front door, a hulking OPP officer in a business suit stared at his cell phone. An earpiece was attached to the side of his head. His tie was undone and his face covered in perspiration. He looked miserable.

“Go on in Mr. Palmer. The premier is expecting you.” He smiled.”The children too.”

“Nice of you to come up this far,” Dean said as his shook hands with Travis. “Tina, why don’t you get these young ladies some ice cream and take them out to the dock?”

Tina, a woman in her late twenties, was wearing a one-piece bathing suit. Her large bosom bobbed with every step she took.

Ten minutes later the girls giggled happily as they and Tina made their way to the water’s edge, ice cream cones in hand. Lake Baughan was a mile across surrounded by a lush forest of spruce, beech and maple. The scent of pine was everywhere. A bald eagle soared above the lavender blue water.

Dean handed Travis a beer and said, “So what exactly can I do for you?”

He was a man in his early sixties, tall, slightly bent, with a receding hairline. When not smiling he looked like a bird of prey but in public he always smiled. In a crowd he was jovial, a back-slapper.

He may have had only a mediocre high school education but Dean was shrewd enough to understand his limitations. To compensate for those limitations he surrounded himself as best he could with smart people. He’d made a number of mistakes when he first became premier. To right the ship he got rid of the man who’d given him bad advice and, on the recommendation of a Toronto billionaire, hired Oliver Brown. Oliver was put in control of the government and that was fine with the premier.

Whatever Oliver said, Dean did. So far it had worked out well. Dean understood he needed to make a better impression, too look and sound more like a government leader. He now dressed better and spent hours memorizing talking points. In time he learned to woodenly read a speech from a teleprompter. He memorized the answers to hard questions and did well enough to satisfy the press.

He didn’t pretend to be an expert, he pretended to be down to earth, everyman, relatable. His easy-going demeanor was a facade that had carried him through life; from elementary school, through surviving the near bankruptcy of the trucking business he inherited from his father to the day he was elected premier. With Oliver now in control of the government an improved Dean emerged. Stories of his explosive temper disappeared from scandal-mongering online media reports. 

Gerald had confided to Travis that it was the honors Dean loved the most. The constant fawning of sycophants was more satisfying to Dean than real power or even money. He wasn’t sure Dean really understood the difference.

At the cottage Travis and Dean quickly came to an agreement.

“Just leave this behind,” The premier said stroking the money-loaded briefcase as if it were a dog.

Travis was ecstatic. He could relax now. Mission accomplished and it only cost two hundred thousand dollars. There would be no need to blackmail Oliver with the video of him and Vicky having sex on her king-size bed.

He walked out of Dean’s cottage that afternoon feeling buoyed. He checked his gold Breitling. He’d be home by supper time. With his daughters in the backseat of his BMW he drove south at a leisurely pace.

An hour later he was on Highway 400.

“Look daddy,” said one of the girls as she pointed up to the sky.

“I can’t look, I’m driving. What is it?”

“A helicopter. It’s really low.”

He glanced in the direction of the whirling noise coming from the sky.

“It’s an air ambulance,” he said. “You can tell by the orange colour. Maybe there’s a car accident up north.”

He turned the SUV’s radio to a twenty-four-hour news station.

“…reports from Queen’s Park. The premier is being flown from his cottage by helicopter to St. Vincent’s Hospital. Our sources tell us he may have suffered a stroke.”

Travis’ heart began to race and his face turned crimson. He would have screamed but for his daughters sitting behind him.  

I’m screwed. Security saw me bringing the briefcase into the cottage. Dean’s secretary saw it. My kids saw it. They’ll find the case with the money. There will be questions, lots of questions. The police might start an investigation. Or maybe whoever finds the cash will just keep it.

And then there’s the client I work for. He’s as hard as nails. It was his money, his project. He’ll destroy me. They’ll be fishing my body out of a lake.

---

Bio: Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Yellow Mama, BarBar, Freedom Fiction, Spadina Literary Review, Mystery Tribune, Ariel Chart, Uppagus, etc.

Photo by: pexels/ALI

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