Clarence
Clarence crushes the butt of his John Player’s under the heel of his shoe outside the Wood Islands ferry terminal. It’d be an hour and a half before he’d get another drag. He’s got Dickie Christman, his charge, in restraints beside him. This dirtbag has to go to the courthouse in Dartmouth. Some stupid white-collar crime where he ripped off a bunch of people, a bunch of seniors. Pissed off some unsavoury folks as well. Real piece of work. His antics require the Nova Scotia Sheriff’s Office to provide an escort. Clarence, on the last day before retirement, drew the short straw. There’s worse things than a round trip to P.E.I.
The sheriff is proud of his career. The last thing he wants to do is this babysitting detail, to take this clown to the reckoning and comeuppance. Clarence isn’t known to possess a whole lot of patience.
He scans the vehicle bay because he is a man of observation. After almost twenty-five years with the Sheriff’s, there are some habits you just can’t shake.
A bunch of debating students from Port Hawkesbury are on a bus, and they’re pouring out of it to go upstairs. Noisy, futzing around, just doing what teenagers do.
He makes his way upstairs to the observation deck, finds a spot, gets his escort seated, sits back, legs splayed, and re-engages with his people-watching. There’s this old couple in the corner. They’ve got a couple Colemans, leaking a little bit, and giving off a bit of a stink. He hears them talking about this wedding they’re trying to get to in Pictou. Daughter’s getting married, and she asked for fresh lobster and fresh mussels, so that must be what’s in the coolers.
The engineer stomps past in a bit of a huff, wrench in his hand, cursing under his breath.
Clarence is well aware that he’s not alone with his travelling companion. On the way from Charlottetown, he saw that his duty car was being followed. Presumably that’s people from Christman’s office. Probably a bottom-feeding Joel Pink wannabe lawyer. No doubt one of his cleaners too. It’s key to keep an eye on these kinds of things, the players and the posers. Fine, they can follow him. They can get on board the ferry. He looks across the main deck seating area and back again. There they are. Behind him a couple rows back. Clarence turns, nods, and gives a two-finger salute.
Across the port rail, he sees a new player on the board. Looks like one of Melvin’s or Marriott’s, or some Hells Angels outfit from Spryfield. Doesn’t matter. He looks rough enough. Clarence has no real doubt that this joker is here for a little serious business with his pet scumbag.
A few things happen in quick succession. The teenagers from the debate team are making fools of themselves, pushing each other around. They’re arguing, and one of them is going on about this girl that he wants to screw, and the other one is saying how he didn’t need to do any such thing. Fine debaters indeed. Neither one of them would’ve known what to do if they ever had the chance. They get into a bit of a pushing match over the whole affair, and the next thing you know the chunky one takes a big swing at the skinny one. Skinny goes flying and knocks into the older couple with the coolers. Lobsters go flying everywhere. Ice goes flying everywhere. Mussels go flying everywhere.
Clarence clocks the Spryfield man making his move. And wouldn’t you know, the dimwit slips on a mussel and quickly becomes a flailing mess of arms and legs. The lawyer’s idiot beefy shadow sees the commotion, pulls a gun and fires, of all things. It clips Spryfield in the shoulder, and he promptly finishes his collapse in a wailing heap. There’s going to be some paperwork with Transport Canada, you can be sure of that.
He shakes his head and almost laughs. Christman ducks and starts crying, and Clarence can smell the piss as the coward soils himself. People are running everywhere. The debate team scatters to the four corners and there are fifteen vertical videos on the go. Everybody’s falling on the shellfish. Some girl is howling because a lobster caught her by the finger, and it’s bleeding. A lot.
Clarence has seen about enough.
In a moment of clarity, the sheriff gets to his feet and straightens his jacket, an old tweed sports coat from 1980-something. He drags the whimpering sad-sack to his feet and growls at him. “Christman… Dickie, we’re going to get you out of here.” They slowly pick their way through the chaos and find the single-occupancy bathroom. “Stay here,” says Clarence, stuffing Christman inside and closing the door before wedging an abandoned cane through the handle.
The lawyer is wrestling a lobster. His heavy with the gun still drawn is slack-armed, not knowing what to do with the consequences of his stupidity. The Spryfield clown on the ground is still wailing like a scared puppy. The old couple. Well, she’s yelling at him about the lobsters, cursing like a sailor. “Pick ‘em up, pick ‘em up, grab the mussels. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! We got a wedding to go to.”
The meathead from Spryfield finally hauls himself up and limps toward Clarence, holding his shoulder. The good sheriff stands between him and poor ole Dickie “pissy-pants” Christman.
A wicked whistle cuts through the din, and Clarence takes two fingers out from the corners of his mouth.
Everybody stops. It gets deadly quiet. Mostly. There’s still some whimpering. You can hear the hum of the engine, and it ain’t sounding too good. Maybe that’s what the engineer was on about.
“Listen up, fellow travellers and circus clowns,” says Clarence, in his loudest voice possible. “I’m trying to be nice, but I’m done with this. I retire tomorrow. These shenanigans… they stop now.”
“Put the damn gun down. Then put your hands behind your back,” Clarence says to the useless would-be gunfighter and tosses the cuffs to the lawyer. “Cuff the idiot, and bring me the gun. Not pointy-end out.” The lawyer sheepishly does just that. They exchange nods and thank-yous as he checks the weapon’s safety.
Spryfield’s finest takes a cautious step closer and Clarence raises an open hand. “Listen, friend. You’re not getting this guy. He’s going to court. I deliver him, I’m gonna get my goddamn gold watch and my retirement cake, and then I’m gonna go home. And if you want to get this guy, you’ll have to go do it the old-fashioned way. But you’re not doing it on my watch, not on this boat. Are we done here?”
The man nods slowly. Clarence nods back.
The woman who was yelling at her husband has not resumed her yelling, and they’ve managed to get most of the lobsters and mussels gathered up. Clarence surveys their salvaged wedding favours. “We good here?” She says yes. Her husband says nothing. Typical.
The girl from the debate team is still crying. Clarence pulls the lobster off her finger. “You’ll be fine, miss. Get with your crew over there. I can’t see ‘em, but I know they’re there with their phones, getting their Tic-tack or tock or whatever on. Go on.”
The carnage suitably subdued, Clarence’s attention returns to the lawyer and the goofus in handcuffs. “You’re gonna sit right there. Your man there probably needs your services more than the useless tool you represent, so you might want to take some time and have a chat with him.”
Northumberland Ferries’ service folk, security and the rest of the cavalry finally arrive on the scene, impossibly late to the party. Clarence flashes his badge. “Just phone it in. Have the Pictou Mounties meet me at the dock for cleanup of this godforsaken mess.” He surrenders the firearm to be secured, then points to the Prince of Spryfield. “That clown might need some medical attention. I’m afraid there’ll be paperwork for all of us.”
He walks over to the bathroom, takes the wedged cane out of the handle, and opens the door. “Clean yourself up. You stink.”
They make for the bow of the ferry as it approaches the dock, and sit in the observation chairs.
Clarence turns to Dickie Christman and says, “Man, I could use a smoke.”
