Free Act of Evil by Ron Chudley Page A

friend.”
    â€œI can believe it.”
    â€œSo . . . what are you doing?”
    â€œWell, I’ve been in Victoria making a—”
    â€œNo, I mean, right now !’
    â€œOh! Nothing much. Just stopped in for a bite before heading back to town.”
    â€œSo head for my place instead! It’s only five minutes away.”
    and then he was going to a party. It happened so fast, with such irresistible momentum, that Hal was carried along in spite of himself. He remembered Vince from school as being an extraordinary salesman, a kid who could make anyone do almost anything. Hal, at six feet three, and Vince, more than a foot shorter, had been like a sort of Mutt and Jeff team. Not that Vince needed Hal as a protector. He was far too valuable to intimidate, being an expert procurer: cigarettes, booze, condoms, even drugs—in those days that meant marijuana—for the right price, Vince could get hold of anything. Strangely, his school friendship with Hal had stemmed largely from the fact that he was one of the rare ones who wanted nothing; while Hal admired the guts and imagination of his diminutive buddy.
    Three decades later, Vince’s powers of persuasion were undiminished. “I’ve got a little place up on the mountain,” he had said, waving vaguely toward the west. “Near the Aerie Resort, but with ten times the view as those losers. Saturday nights I often throw a bit of a bash. Damn! Tonight you can be the guest of honor.”
    Ancient habits die hard, and Hal didn’t argue. He didn’t have any plans, and a party might take his mind off other matters.
    Vince had a sleek Jaguar, into which he packed his dinner guests from the restaurant. With Hal following in his rental car, they headed back toward the Malahat summit, leaving the highway at the Spectacle Lake turnoff. Climbing again, they soon reached Vince’s “little place.” This was a futuristic construction of concrete, floating beams, and glass, sprouting like a living thing from the mountainside, with a view encompassing the entire south end of the Island. Getting out of his car, Hal could see Victoria, spread like a carpet of lights in the distance, and beyond, outlined by the last glow of sunset, the crags of the Olympic Mountains in the State of Washington.
    But he was given little time to ogle scenery. The Jag’s occupants emerged, and Vince grabbed his arm, hustling him inside. Already there were a lot of people present, chatting and drinking, with a couple of waiters hovering about. Evidently, the party had started without the host.
    The interior of the house was spectacular; glass walls on the sides that faced the view, marble slabs covered with tapestries and bright wool hangings where the building nosed into the mountain. For the second time that day, Hal had happened into a dwelling that was the expression of great wealth. But this made the house by the lake seem almost modest, and—unlike his unhappy brother—Vince Smithson was undoubtedly the owner.
    As evidence of this fact, after fetching them drinks, his host took Hal by the arm and dragged him from room to room, making introductions at machine gun speed, but with flawless recall, to his guests. Befitting the surroundings, there was much wealth here: expensively dressed young men with glittering girl friends; older fellows with trophy wives; bankers, CEO s, smart women executives; politicians, local personalities, and a few individuals who looked a little dangerous. Everyone was on a first name basis with their host—little Vince who’d once been the fixer in high school—and Hal could see why: his old friend was dynamic, the magical mover of the old days now in full flower. God , Hal thought, if this guy was my agent, by now I’d be a superstar .
    The only thing that was unclear was what Vince actually did . Everyone else seemed to know. Oblique references were made to this project, that