slightly reworked climax, then offering me a business card on which he had scribbled a phone
number, he said, “A friend needs help converting her book into a screenplay format. She’s a
looker,” he said seriously.
“Maybe later,” I said, to not seem unappreciative; I had a lot to do.
“That’s perfect,” he replied, sliding the card between my fingers. “Bonnie is expecting to hear
from you tonight… shit!” he exclaimed, looking at his watch as if it had bit him. Dropping cash on
the table, he left to meet his girlfriend.
Later at home, fuelled by unnecessary nightcaps and thoughts of lacy undergarments, I made
the call that would lead to the doom of everything I believed about free spirits, the winds of
change, and how much baggage I really had brought with me.
Early the next morning, I inserted a floppy disk into my Atari 64 computer and called up files
from my book in progress: Bonnie had hinted that we should exchange samples of our work to see
if we were creatively compatible, and as a courtesy act of trust, by revealing ideas that were not
copyrighted. Confidently pleased over the clever ease and causal humour we had shared in our first
conversation, I read the best of my potential offerings without feeling I had to commit to it.
Axelson— You Taught Me Well
Chapter 03 –The Good Guys: Part 1
“Axe!” LeBlanc barked as he wobbled into my eye line through the after work crowd at Julie’s
Mansion; Illona casually reached sideways from her overstuffed chair and grabbed his belt to steady him.
“Couple loose cartons and lots of pins,” he said, expelling a lung and a half of steely grey smoke into
an unsuspecting room. “No ball caps,” he added, waving a fickle path with his index finger. “The fuckers’ll
steal’em on the way in.” Abruptly, he turned to leave and Illona released him into a lurch, which Robbie
twisted into the pivot of an afterthought by swinging his arm to tap the side of his substantial nose. Rolling
her eyes, Illona leaned forward to again steady him, as he sagely said, “Rio,” meaning bring lots of toilet
paper, as if I would forget projectile shitting in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
“No sweat. I’ve still got some Canadian flag collar pins, as well,” I said, re-establishing eye contact
with the leggy woman who had been checking me out. Early thirties, subtly painted, no ring on the killjoy
finger. Even if...
“You’re gonna know sweat,” Robbie muttered toward the carpet, apparently willing his feet to move
through the tangle of boots, coats, and purses that had ensnared him. Pausing for an intellectually tedious
drag on his cigarette, a solution made its way through the internal haze, Rob wiggled his toes to locate his
own shoes, then he leaned toward the exit.
Illona released him into God’s hands a day sooner than was scheduled on The Nationals’ assignment
board.
“The flight to Rochester leaves at ten,” I said to his back. “Meet you at customs at eight.”
“Anything else he should know?” Percy, an often pretentious technician, who occasionally worked
with him said.
LeBlanc stopped short, momentarily swaying under the influence of combined poisons while the four
women on the love seats next to ours snatched quick sips in preparation for another rutted pilgrimage into
the remnants of his mind.
“When we hit the ground,” Robbie replied, turning to locate Percy’s face, “Axe will say nothing he
doesn’t want every fuckin’ one to know, and if the state plumber says shit runs uphill, he’ll stand on his head
to fart. S’not simple,” he opined with a questioning glance at our table. An independent thought inserted
