Here is an excerpt from a recently-published novel of mine, Beyond the Pale, in which Emily Quinn, a divorced, middle-aged, would-be painter living in Vancouver, British Columbia, needs a job. Her long-time friend, Caitlin, suggests working for Caitlin's boss, Adam Kincaid, a wealthy cannabis dealer, who uses a wheelchair. After thinking about it overnight, Emily agrees to meet with Kincaid.
"Sure, I'll talk to your friend, as long as it's understood I can still say no."
"Of course. However, just in case you decide to go for it, he wants it set up properly from the start. So he's going to put an ad in both of the Vancouver dailies--I'll give you the wording in a moment--and you send in your resume."
"Just as if it were a real job."
"It is a real job, and this way, if anyone ever asks you how you met him, you can tell the truth, you answered an ad in the paper."
The ad duly appeared, and my application was duly sent in. I'd assumed Caitlin's friend would respond within a few days, but it was over two weeks before he called, long enough that I'd stopped anticipating him whenever the phone rang. This time, thinking it would be Caitlin, I clowned, "For whom doth the bell toll?"
There was a split second of silence before a deep and cultured voice replied, "It tolls for thee--if thou'rt Emily Quinn, that is."
"That's me. Who're you?" Although I could guess.
"My name is Adam Kincaid. I'm calling about the job you applied for to manage an art gallery. Are you still interested in it?"
"For sure." Now that the action had begun, I felt a little strange in my stomach. Should I have been quite so positive?
"Good. Perhaps we could meet for lunch to discuss it?"
"Today?" I was grimy and sweaty from scraping down a canvas, my hair could use a wash, and I had no idea what time it was beyond being mid-morning.
"If you like." Which wasn't really what I'd meant.
I twisted around to look at the clock on the stove: 10:17. "Could we make it a late lunch, around one?"
"Of course."
We arranged to meet at the Hotel Burrard, where I was to wait near the elevators. "My assistant will find you."
When I walked into the hotel two and a half hours later, showered, shampooed, and dressed in my classiest outfit, the lobby was under siege by the International Police Association which was holding its annual convention here. Cops milled in every open area, covertly reading name tags as they greeted each other. It was both funny and chilling to imagine what their reaction would be if they'd known why I was here.
"Emily Quinn?" a sharp male voice inquired behind me.
I jumped and turned. A young man in a gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue paisley tie, was holding out his hand to me.
"Hi, I'm David. Mr. Kincaid asked me to escort you to his room." His teeth showed in a faux smile, a social grimace in keeping with his stiffly formal manner. I doubted he'd ever enjoyed a real belly laugh in his life. Which was too bad, for in the vernacular, he was a 'hunk', over six feet tall, with a trim body, and good teeth. His hair, short by today's standards, was blond and thick, and his eyes were a deep hard blue.
Neither of us spoke as we rode up to the tenth floor. David was lost in his own thoughts, and I was preoccupied with the meeting ahead, suddenly apprehensive about Adam Kincaid's wheelchair and his crippled legs. Looking, or not looking, at them seemed equally gauche.
It was a needless worry. When we entered the room Kincaid was sitting in an armchair, half turned away from a scroll-legged desk, and his eyes, dark, hooded, and intense, grabbed my attention.
David introduced us: "Emily Quinn. Adam Kincaid."
"Hi," I said, meeting Kincaid's assessing stare with my own frank appraisal. One thing Caitlin hadn't mentioned was that he was partly black. His skin was a light shade of coffee, his nose slightly hooked, and his black hair crisply curled.
"How do you do." He offered a well-tended, well-muscled hand.
As his warm brown fingers closed around mine in a brief, firm handshake, and as his warm brown voice bade me sit in the facing armchair, I took refuge in details--the bulk of his arms and shoulders clothed in an expensively-tailored black suit; the legs that didn't quite fill out his pant legs; the polished shoes placed firmly on the floor; the wheelchair parked near--but over-lying everything, my first and most enduring impression of Adam Kincaid was of some great cat--a jaguar, say. He had a jaguar's implicit menace, and a jaguar's gaze, from far behind his eyes, detached, and unpredictable, except in the constancy of appetite. Always, I felt this intriguing dissonance, a simultaneous and confusing trust in, and suspicion of, him. However much he appeared the sleek civilian, there was always the whiff of the wild about him, alternately drawing and repelling me.
* * *
For those who are interested in my views on ‘the war on drugs’, please visit this page on my website, Why criminal sanctions against recreational drug use are unconstitutional and for a detailed argument against the Supreme Court of Canada’s 2003 decision upholding the government's right to criminalize drug use see, "A Citizen's Response".
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