In the Quiet After Slaughter

excerpt

spaghetti western. The ballplayer tried willing the inebriated soldiers—
wrestling in the dirt now, smashing bottles, urinating in the
ditches — to vanish, all a mirage. For the film crew to put away its
equipment and the brutal caliph to strip off the fake moustache and
disappear inside a trailer.
But it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a movie. The comandante was
swaggering through the clearing.
– El hombre comunista! he roared, a prosecutorial digit aimed at
Paco. And then, leaning over Witherspoon, Your Mexican friend is
not a student, yanqui! He is a dangerous radical!
But Witherspoon’s formal education had ended prematurely. He
wouldn’t have been able to identify a communist if one was standing
before him, although he seemed to recall being told that to be one
was a bad thing. Since puberty his had been a world of curves and
splitters, of wind sprints through a freshly cut outfield grass.
There had been an American teammate in the Florida State
League, a prospect from California. Every time he struck out, which
was often, the kid muttered, Effing commie bastards! For the longest
time Witherspoon believed a communist to be a southpaw who
threw breaking balls.
The comandante ordered his centurions to strap Paco to a tree. A
mango was placed atop his head. The soldier reached into
Witherspoon’s duffel bag and removed a baseball. It was Wild
Man’s talisman, the ball used in his first professional victory. He’d
intended to place it alongside his father’s war medals.
– It’s very warm today, the comandante addressed the crowd. We
need some entertainment, no?
Witherspoon was familiar with the expectations of spectators —
knew well that where they collect in sufficient numbers, so must
there be a performance.
First in Spanish, then in English, the comandante explained his
intentions:
– If the gringo knocks the mango from his friend’s head, the rebel
can continue his journey. We’ll pick him up another time. But if he
misses . . . The comandante’s gold tooth gleamed under the blazing
afternoon sun.
Witherspoon rose to his feet. He placed his fingers along the
seams of the baseball. A murmur rippled through the crowd.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897971

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

Life around Ken is never uncomplicated. The advent of a family forced
him to attempt to fit into a more conventional lifestyle. Businesses were
started and failed; the northern project took a back seat to the necessary
pursuit of a career in art, but ultimately the unfulfilled promise to the
Inuit grandmother would not be denied. Helen chose to remove Michael
to Toronto where she felt the boy would have a more normal family life
near to her parents, and the failure of his marriage was one of the toughest
things Ken had to deal with. He loved his son, and he spent as much time as
possible visiting Michael. Once they were no longer living together, but still
connected through the bond of their son, his relationship with Helen became
less acrimonious. Michael’s proximity was one of the major reasons Ken
chose to leave Vancouver and pursue his lifework, Isumataq, in Toronto.
Throughout his years in thrall to the creation of this record-breaking
painting and public relations masterpiece, there were various women
who moved into Ken’s life for a time. In every case they were physically
attractive, strong-minded, professional women who were drawn to his
hectic lifestyle and high-profile image by the very things that ultimately
destroyed the relationships. So often, what started in a collegial manner
ended in competition.
Ken and Karen met on a junket to the Arctic—part of a promotional
event he orchestrated to create greater awareness of the northland amongst
the professional echelon in Toronto. She was married but travelling alone;
a high level lawyer with a golden future. She was nearly as fascinated with
the north as she was with Ken and by the end of the tour had made up
her mind to leave her husband and move forward with Ken. She seemed
to understand his drive without being threatened by the project, and Ken
believed he’d found his long yearned for soulmate.
They’d been together a handful of years as the Isumataq project came
to a close. Karen then expressed her wish to practice Environmental Law
in British Columbia, and even before they moved to Vancouver, Ken called
in favours and introduced her to the people in the positions to ease her
way into the tightly knit legal circles on the West Coast. The first hint of
anything amiss arose when Karen appeared blindly and arrogantly certain
that the BC Bar would present no obstacles to her entry, seeming to dismiss
the provincial standards as much lower than those of Toronto the Good.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

excerpt

“But what is the underlying reason for this?” he asked. “Why do you
want the Portuguese government to do this?”
“I love Portugal and I love the people,” Ken said. “Unfortunate circumstances
caused us to leave, but the good times were still the good
times. The people are still wonderful, and the country is still beautiful:
but underneath all that, if a government officially does the inviting, every
embassy, and every consulate, has to react. Consequently, the Canadians
have to react, and what I wish to do is split the atom in such a way as to
cause a chain reaction – one that forces my government to pay attention
because of the force of will of others.”
“So – you are a politician,” the ambassador said.
“No, not really,” he said. “I am a strategist.”
Ken was preparing for the exhibit when Ehor Boyanowsky, a professor
of criminology at Simon Fraser University, called. Ken had met him at
Peter Hope Lake and through his urging had joined the Steelhead Society
of Canada.
Ehor had bad news. The Caroline Mines, in the Coquihalla area, had
for many years been storing arsenic and cyanide, used for processing metals,
in tailing ponds behind large dams. Flying over those ponds, members
of the Steelhead Society had noticed cracks in the structures. Letters,
to both the mining company and the government, had been studiously
ignored. A recent heavy snow pack and a sudden melt, combined with
torrential spring rains, had destroyed the dams; spilling toxic chemicals
into the Coquihalla River, renowned for its steelhead trout. All life in the
river had been destroyed.
“Please help,” Ehor pleaded.
“What can I do?”
“Could you do a major drawing of a steelhead, and a fisherman, and a
river? We need a very special painting.”
Ken covered a wood panel with many coats of gesso, alternating horizontal
with vertical layers. Then, he drew a pencil through the gesso, creating
an almost three-dimensional and lifelike effect. He completed “The
Return of the Wild One” in twenty-four hours, then bought a plane ticket
and flew it to Vancouver, where Ehor met him at the airport.
A printing house volunteered to reproduce the painting and run off
hundreds of copies at no charge. The society had hired a team of lawyers
while its members manned the telephones, repeating the story of the
tragedy to the media.
Ten days later, Ken flew back to Toronto and, two days after that, moved
his things into Marsha’s apartment. She supported him without question,
yet she questioned everything he did. The subject of his finances was
constantly on her mind. What did he intend to do with his life?

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Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

excerpt

“But, why do you want to do it this way?’
“Because. I want it to be something compelling and different. What
you do here is mechanistic, rote, and boring. If you want children to get
something out of something, you have to at least put something forward
and given that they are the most important people on earth, we should
try harder. You’re bringing me here for a reason. I’m prepared to take
responsibility.”
Reluctantly, the principal agreed to Ken’s terms. Before the performance,
Ken asked himself what he wanted to achieve. That question led
to others. What are stories really? How many are there? Are they all a rehashing
of a single story – or a mere handful of stories? What was the first
novel? What was the first story ever told, and why was it told?
He’d read the stories of the Bible. He was captivated by the Arthurian
legends. Why were they so compelling? Generation after generation had
fallen under their spell. They called to something deep inside the human
soul. Why these stories? Why did music touch that same place? He concluded
that they were basic, archetypal tales that touched sensitive places
– places of magic. People needed a magical hero. They wanted to know
there was someone or something special in the world. Ken connected the
genius with the idiot, the clown, and the magician. This event would be
about magic.
On the appointed day, the children filed into the auditorium and sat
down. When they were settled, the lights went out, and only the red exit
signs over the doors cast a faint glow in the blackness. Ken waited in the
wings. The silence became a buzz that grew louder and louder. When
it had reached a near chaotic level, he walked onto the stage, guided by
the faint shine of the metallic microphone. At a pre-arranged signal, the
solitary spotlight flashed on. The children fixed their gaze on a man with
black hair and beard, dressed completely in black, including his cowboy
boots. The auditorium hushed.
He lowered himself to the floor, in the circle of light, and removed one
boot, placing it carefully to the side. He pulled off his sock and draped it
gently over the boot. Then, he pulled a very large knife out of his pocket.
The light danced off the blade. Slowly, and deliberately, he began to saw
at his toes.
“This story is about gangrene,” he said. “A friend of mine cut off his
toes to save his life.” He told five stories that afternoon, each grimmer
than the previous. The children didn’t move.
When he finished, the silence was as absolute as the darkness. “When
somebody gives a gift, it works very well when somebody then gives a gift
in return,” Ken said “I’ve come here today. I’ve asked for nothing. I don’t
get paid for doing this. I didn’t ask to be paid for doing this. You’re here
to be educated, and one of the key things I want to pass on to you today

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Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

excerpt

“I have them in my pickup truck.”
“Well I can’t see them in his damn pickup truck!”
“Mr. Fraser would like you to bring them in, because he can’t see them
in your pickup truck” Doreen said.
Ken hurried out to the truck and brought in about a dozen canvases.
“Doreen! Doreen, tell the young man to place them on the floor all
around the gallery.”
Ken spread them out – paintings of the mountains, the seashore, the
grasslands around Peter Hope Lake, and several of the Arctic. When he
was done, Fraser stared at them intently and silently, for many long minutes,
moving back and forth across the room and lighting one cigarette
from the stub of another.
“Doreen! Doreen,” he finally said. “Tell the young man to pull out that
painting there, and that one there, and those two over there. Tell him
they’re rubbish.”
Ken gathered up the Arctic paintings, leaving the rest on the floor.
“Now as for the rest of them, they have some possibilities. Ask the
young man what he wants for them.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here,” Ken said. “To ask what I should
charge for them.”
Fraser’s head spun around, and he looked directly at Ken for the first
time. “If you bloody well don’t know what you want in this life, then you
damn well won’t get it.”
He turned to Doreen. “Ask the young man what he wants for them.”
“A hundred and fifty dollars apiece,” Ken said.
“The young man doesn’t think much of himself does he? Doreen! Doreen,
do the mathematics on it, and make out a cheque and give it to the
young man.”
Doreen punched numbers into the adding machine, wrote out a cheque
and handed it to Alex Fraser. “There you go, young fellow,” he said passing
it to Ken. “What is your name?”
“Ken Kirkby.”
“That’s a nice sounding name.”
“Is it okay if we write my name on the cheque?”
“You can write anything you want on the bloody cheque. I couldn’t
care less. Now, I want you to listen to me. You might make a fine artist one
day. You’re a hell of a technician. Where did you study?”
“I studied all by myself.”
“Really? So you’re one of these primitives that hatched right out of the
stone.”
“I am.”
“Is that so? We must talk about that. Now, I want you to come back soon.”
“Yes sir.”

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Savages and Beasts

Excerpt

Early in his tenure he sensed a certain attraction that Sister
Gladys felt for him and his position and slowly, Jerome was a very
patient man, time came one night, 9.15 sharp, when he went to her
room. She graciously invited him in and the rest is history. He had
his own choices when it came to lovemaking and he made clear to
her; Gladys on the other hand knew that in order to get, one has
to give first, so she did, whatever he preferred, what his momentary
desire commanded, even his quirk of having a game played at
the start and Jerome’s imagination, creative as it was, guided him
in various schemes and stands before the natural joining of their
bodies would take. Then it was her turn to get what she liked and
Gladys had an undeniable quirk of getting on top of him and ride
to her sexual apex at her leisure, and in this Jerome was the master
who waited patiently, he was a very patient man after all, until she
was exhausted and content. This was their deal and Gladys kept
her part of it as much as Jerome kept his.
Tonight though, the image of Jerome with Mary, the firmness
of her body constituted a threat for Gladys who knew it was
very rare to find a woman in her forties whose body could compete
with the elasticity and firmness of a twenty five year old’s,
so tonight, early on she wasn’t in any mood for specials, until
she heard his promise never to visit Mary’s room again and her
desire was rekindled to its apex and consequently he deserved to
do as he pleased with her body, tonight and every other time he
would come to her bed. Gladys loved authority and Jerome with
his ways, decisions, and lovemaking inspired authority in her, but
most of all Gladys loved his fiery eyes, especially when she rode
on top of him and kept a good look at his expressions and those
eyes which turned her wild, so much energy, conflagrating power
she saw in them, she truly fell in love with Lucifer as she jokingly
called him once.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

Excerpt

“It doesn’t seem like a big dream to me,” Ken said. “I just want to go
there and see it all.”
“It’s more than that,” she said. “It’s much more than that. This dream
is bigger than you.”
“What do you mean this dream is bigger than me?”
“It is. It’s bigger than you and it’s bigger than me and you have no say
in it.”
“You’re beginning to sound like my grandfather in Spain just before he
died. You’re giving me goose bumps.”
Later, when Ken was alone with Patrick he asked him what Jessica
meant when she said, things like, “I am your home,” or “The dream is
bigger than you.”
He smiled, “Yup, that sounds like Jessica all right. She’s been like that
since she was a child, making pronouncements that seem to come from
nowhere and are never explained. It’s almost as if she’s having some sort
of separate conversation on some different level at the same time that
she’s talking with us. Maybe she’s living half her life in another dimension
– I don’t know.”
“I find it a bit unnerving at times,” Ken said.
“I wouldn’t let it trouble you too much,” Patrick said. “Even though she
can be a bit spooky at times. In another time she probably would have
been considered a Shaman or some such special person.”
Ken asked Patrick what he thought of his sister marrying a white European.
Their family had never intermarried. Would it be an issue?
“No.” Patrick said. “Why?”
“I just wondered,” Ken said. “It’s been on my mind for some time. Is
there any reason why your ancestors did not marry Europeans?”
“Not that I know of. It just simply worked out that way. What about
your family? Will marrying a non-European be a problem for them?”
“I don’t think so,” Ken said. “But, I don’t really know. I’ve never talked to
them about it and come to think of it, I haven’t talked to them for a long
time. But I really don’t mind one way or the other. This is my business.”
Ken and Jessica began to plan their trip to the Arctic. Jessica immersed
herself in research. She talked to everyone, especially the bush pilots that
she invited to the house, and she began to piece the stories together and
gather names of possible contacts. She marked places on the maps that
Ken had purchased. The biggest challenge was finding a way to get there.
The only road was the Alaska Highway, which led in the opposite direction
to where they wanted to go. The only other highway was the Mackenzie
River and it was navigable only twice a year: in the depths of winter
by truck, or in late summer by boat.
The river was not a simple route. It was a mass of arms and branches interspersed
with innumerable islands.

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Swamped

Excerpt

Two days after his lunch with Mario, Eteo got a call from Cameron Gillespie, the corporate specialist at Pacific Trends, to inform him he had received the Nostra Ventures prospectus for a million and a half shares with broker’s warrants and with Eteo’s name listed as the broker in charge of the offering. After Eteo confirmed that he was indeed the lead broker, they arranged to meet in Bradley’s office.

Bradley browsed through the essential pages and then turned to Eteo.

“You’ve known these people for a while, haven’t you?” he asked.

“I’ve done a few things with them over the years. They’ve been good, and the stats on this one are very much in our favor, as you can see. I’ll send one third to a broker at Wolverton, and the rest I’ve already placed. No worries, Brad,” Eteo said.

“If you know them so well and you’ve been pleased with previous deals, why send a portion to Wolverton? Why not our own brokers?”

Eteo hadn’t expected the question, but he answered with as much poise as he could muster.

“I already agreed on this with the directors,” he explained. “But if it makes you uneasy, I could always go and negotiate with them on that issue.”

“Do that, if you don’t mind. We have a few juniors who would love to take part in a good deal, and don’t forget there are a few brokers here who follow what you do and would love a piece of this new baby of yours,” Bradley said, then added with a smile, “Great name, by the way, Nostra Ventures. Makes me think of the Mafia. Italians, I guess?”

Eteo had always admired Bradley’s down-to earth-attitude and practical point of view. He remembered a few years back getting involved in financing a cultured marble company run by a Greek fellow, and how smoothly Bradley had handled the situation when Eteo placed the stock in his clients’ accounts, all half a million shares, most of it on credit, and they had faced an unexpected situation when the police walked into the offices of the marble company two days before the listing and seized all their records for some taxation issue.

Bradley had stepped in and managed to arrange things so that Pacific Trends passed that month end with most of the IPO shares of the company held on credit over the month and into the new one until the taxation affair had been cleared up and the company got their approval for listing on the exchange. Eteo had then scrambled to collect all the outstanding moneys through sales of shares on the open market. To this day Eteo had never learned what accounting trick Bradley had pulled out of his hat to save the day, but the end result had been positive, which was all that mattered.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX