Free Leper Tango by David MacKinnon Page B

that one thing.
    â€œFranck, there are desires I have myself. They are so dark. So perverse ... it is hard to describe. It is as if they are controlling me, and I am only following. There are days, Franck, when I wish I had never been born.”
    â€œYou were born for me. That’s enough.”
    â€œLet’s go to the port, Franck. I want you to show me where you took your walks. Before we were together.”
    The day’s theme colour was peach. Peach-tinted bra, panty hose and garter belt, topped off by nothing more than an olive-hued, knee-length trenchcoat, which left her legs and lingerie visible for anyone who was interested.
    â€œLet me take your arm.”
    Her eyes were glassy, translucent.
    â€œJe mouille.”
    We exited the car and crossed the road, which put us on a boardwalk running alongside the river through the Old Port along the remparts. It was still early afternoon. The boardwalk was busy. Further on, I noticed an older man approaching us, staring fiercely at Sheba. As we approached, I recognized Bourque, a criminal defence lawyer I had worked for defending drug traffickers and whores until he quit the practice of law to run for public office. As fellow moral relativists, we hooked up periodically for drinks and what-not. Bourque was a silverhaired fox with bushy eyebrows, and a fierce, lascivious look which left no doubt that he was a throwback to an era when politics attracted another sort of man. He managed to get elected, but was forced to resign within the year. His name, a common one in the Montreal area, had been discovered in a hooker`s black book. When confronted with it, he denied everything. No one believed him, particularly since the john in question was also a barrister, and a Montrealer. By the time his name was cleared, he had been booked on a drinking and driving charge and he was ruined.
    â€œOh, hello Franck,” he said in that deep resonant voice, and despite all the talk in the papers, you couldn’t write off someone who had the mox y to pretend his prostate was still operational. Hervé was a bird-dog from the beginning, and was capable of just about any posture to keep his lecherous eyes feasting on a woman for a few minutes longer.
    â€œHaven’t seen you in the courts lately, Franck. Taken a leave of absence, have we? Don’t tell me you are doing solicitor’s work, Franck. Not a line of work for any counsel worthy of the name, Franck. Piece work, Franck. Assembly line. Might as well work in a coal mine, Franck. And, who might this be, Franck? Sheba? What an intriguing name. And what a thoroughly marvellous ... specimen, Franck.”
    He eyed her from head to toe. “You should have told me about this charming young lady. Yes, yes, I can see now. Novus Actus Interveniens . Quite understandable, Franck.”
    It took a good five minutes to move old Bourque along, and his furry eyebrows turned back our way twice, even after taking his leave.
    â€œLet’s sit down,” she said weakly.
    She held tightly to my arm as we walked towards a place on a bench overlooking the port area.
    â€œI am so hot, Franck.”
    â€œIt’s a hot day.”
    â€œNo, Franck. It was that man. There was something about him. Franck. Hold me, Franck. I want to watch the water for awhile.”
    We looked out past the terminal at the river, and an island containing remnants of an old world fair.
    â€œIt is the reason we are together, Franck.”
    â€œThe water.”
    â€œYou see it too, Franck, don’t you. It is the water. It is the reason we are together.”
    The loft lived up to the advance billing. A luxury 3000 square foot loft, balconies on ever y side, and a solarium overlooking the port on the St. Lawrence. The owner was an Egyptian. We learned later he was skipping town on a tax evasion charge. His wife was Brazilian. She had big, siliconed tits and perfectly tanned legs, which emerged from her tight thousand dollar dresses