The Vendetta
The Story of Dangerfield's Dad
An homage to raw unadulterated power
Chapter one: The World's Greatest Fishing Knife
Is that an illusion? Was he seeing things? It looks exactly like Keith, the guy he spent a month tearing up weeds with in June (and part of July) in the backyard of Mister Sissons property in West Meadowlark. But how could this be? It was 700 miles away and more than a month ago. The motorcycle was a Honda 75 and the guy was wearing a helmet but it was clearly Keith when he turned toward Dale and drove over to stop on the road beside him.
"Dale! What are you doing here? Where are you staying?"
"Nowhere. I was down at Peachland. I left this morning and I am going to camp beside the lake."
"That's not possible. The cops will roust you for sure. You can stay with me. I am at my brother's house for the summer. He will let you crash for a couple nights."
This was a spot of unexpected good luck, which took a moment to process. He didn't hesitate to accept, almost without any thought whatsoever.
Overall, 1969 had been unkind so far. Suddenly this wasn't the case. He was experiencing a change of fortune, which began mere days ago, while he was riding his ten speed from Kelowna to Peachland. He found a wallet on the side of the highway. A $20 bill was sticking out of the bill fold. He felt overdue for a run of good luck, so allowed it to begin. There was another $6 tucked neatly in the wallet.
The traffic was raising dust beside the shopping centre in South Kelowna where this peculiar rendezvous was taking place, and moments later he rolled his ten speed up the sidewalk and unloaded his gear into the house where Keith's older brother was starting a young family.
For the first time this summer, he could stop and smell the roses. And the breeze, and the rich Okanagan air with orchards under irrigation and radiant sunshine with never a cloud in the sky.
They climbed to the attic, "I thought your big plan for the rest of summer was to ride your bike to Jasper with your friends."
"Yah, that plan fell apart." Nothing had gone as planned. Yet somehow life worked itself out, didn't it? He found $26 in the wallet laying on the shoulder, a princely sum t0 go into his pocket. Returning the ID and other contents was still a matter of debate. He had t0 discuss it.
"So I shipped my bike to Vernon and rode to Peachland to meet Tim Collins. His mom and dad said I could stay at their rented cabin for a few days," which Dale reduced to three days because they made him feel as welcome as bubonic plague. There was a load of bad blood going on. The trip was a wash.
Yes, he was a mere 14, but he had the bike and the gear so he felt liberated, with 26 extra dollars, he felt rich when he rode away from the Peachland beach front cabin this morning.
"And Mister and Missus Collins just let ya go?"
Dale laughed. "What?" He was taken aback. "Of course. What are they going to do?"
"Well, Dale," said Keith, "my fuckin brother and sister in law do not want to let you go. They're for calling the cops to get you home."
"What? I am set. I know exactly what I am doing. Here. Look at this," and Dale handed the baby blue colored wallet to Keith upstairs in the attic room with a couple of cots.
"This is what you found? Geez. Seems kind of heavy."
"You think so? I kept the $26. I want to turn the wallet in to the RCMP."
"Yah you should. And put the money back. This poor Indian lady from Washington probably needs it more than you."
He looked at the straw-haired yokel, same age as him, 14, probably riding the motorcycle illegally, who was a hard worker a few weeks ago in Sissons' demon weed patch, "I know. I feel guilty. But I'm keeping it. Don't tell your brother. You got a driver's license?"
"Fuck you. It's too heavy," Keith kept assessing the wallet, putting it down on his cot, then returning to it, weighing it, something neither of the Collins boys had done a few days ago. When Dale arrived at the Collins' little cabin beside Okanagan Lake bearing this fresh reward for his travails, the boys said keep the money, toss the wallet, and kept it hush hush with their parents.
Dale kept the money, and hid the wallet deep inside his saddlebag. He was living on instinct at 14 years of age when he decided upon an early departure from the Collins tribe. It was the end of his friendship with Tim, and it was a jagged end to a few disturbing events.
"Hey!" Keith yelled, and held the wallet open, suddenly bulging with cash. The secret pocket held a large number of $20 bills. They were Canadian bills, even though the wallet belonged to an American Nez Pierce Tribal Member, and Keith started pulling the money out but handed the wallet to Dale.
"Let's count it." It was $420. Dale put another $40 in his pocket, gave the wallet and $380 to his friend Keith, and they went downstairs to report this to the big brother. The police were called, and now Dale was $66 dollars richer than he was when he arrived in the Okanagan.
In every way you can imagine, Dale felt robbed by Tim Collins, and by extension, the entire Collins family, until now. In a desperately real way, Dale felt betrayed by Tim Collins. Last spring, Dale let Tim in on a secret, he had a key to his Dad's pearl white '65 VW Beetle, a four year old car in pristine condition. One weekend he invited Tim to go joyriding while the folks were away. Tim smashed the VW engine-first into the back bumper on a welders truck parked on 149 street.
Dale was savvy to Tim's cavalier commitment to the debt from popping the clutch. Tim owed $200 of the $400 repair bill. Dale shouldered his half, then some, for being the instigating car thief. All this had been worked out judiciously by the lawyer, Codliverchuk, on the day of the incident. Or so Dale had been led to believe. This trip from Edmonton to Peachland was about the cash. They didn't speak a word of it in the confines of the lake-side cabin. Dale left, twenty-six whole dollars richer, thanks to the Collins, in some backhanded fashion no one could fathom.
Dale sat on his cot pondering the difference between Keith and Tim. Tim advised keeping the $26. So had Tim's older brother, the one who used to drive a Valiant 3 speed on the floor, a long gear lever looked comical but proved functional, as Dale recollected from the one or two occasions he rode in the car, back before hell proper had descended. (It seemed so long ago. It was 5 months.) What would those two goofs say about the $440?
As a way to placate his hosts, Dale was prepared to talk to Keith's brother, but Dale had to mosey along, and this he did once the dust cleared with the wallet and the cops. What could they say? Now is the time for all good fly fishermen to buy the fish-gutting knife of their dreams.
Chapter Two: The Vendetta Begins
Harney Codliverchuk, L.L.B., Q.C., had been satisfied with the direction things were taking, after all, it was his planning to perfection, it was the consummation of multiple agenda points in a large play for total control, plus, it was the severe destruction of a dirty little fucker who deserved to be snuffed before he starts on a path to further deviation.
Personal empire building would not be interrupted, colored or flavored in any way by this tangential interlocutor, a thorn in his side from the instant he encountered him, someone who represents foul play, contributory negligence personified. If he could go back in history and prevent the birth of Hitler, go back in history and prevent the birth of Genghis Khan who inflicted so much terror upon Harney's Ukrainian ancestors, or go back in history and prevent the birth of Dale MacAdam, he would choose the latter. According to Dale MacAdam's mother, and his sister, the kid was the devil, and both of those cunts were evil enough to know. Even so, Harney was stunned when the mother said, "Yes," to the proposal to put a life insurance policy on her kid.
It began because Harney does not resist the temptation of young, fresh, delinquent school girls, the promiscuous ones are extraordinary in two ways. Irresistible to his rock hard libido stick, and incredibly fecund sources of huge bonus income, legitimately derived from the most illegitimate of resources. Baby making, out of wedlock, with unnamed fathers.
He doesn't brag about it. He lives on the trading of human skin. One of his trading floors is the arena of justice. Harney Codliverchuk is working his way to a position of supreme power, the kind of power any, any man envies. Harney is politically aligned enough with the trough-addicted Liberals to appoint judges to the bench.
People kill for advantage like this. You would not believe the level of scumbag Harney has squeezed into a chair on 'the bench' in the courts of the Province of Alberta. He likes to joke about the truth about where he finds his best candidates for judge: Alcoholics Anonymous or the other 12 step recovery program, even Weight Watchers. He recommends the 'slipper.' This makes for extremely malleable judges in Harney's arena. He is passing this knowledge on to his acolyte. There won't be an honest judge in Edmonton for the next 50 fucking years.
Harney encounters legal opportunities in a steady stream. He is in the perfect position to dip into lawlessness at his convenience, and engage on demand sexual intercourse with a non stop flow of young, willing or compliant pussy. He is a warden, court appointed guardian, of the court of family justice, and he specializes in rounding up runaways. Here in the middle of the sexual revolution on a waves of a baby boom, he was in the business of containing errant pussy, by law, and leading it to the Pineview Home for Unwed Mothers, and business was fucking booming, because there's no such thing as containing errant pussy.
One of those fetching ones he encountered in a previous spring had been an extended probation leading to recurring sexual frenzy for the past year of her incarceration. Until she shoved her stupid, self-centered and self-indulgent little brother into the picture. And this little prick figured he was some kind of gift to humanity. He also believed himself entitled to free legal advice from Harney. This was Dale's most objectionable trait. Attempting to out criminal the chief criminal, wickedly obnoxious fucking kid.
The kid was what this frantic long distance phone call was about from brother Boss Bob who was supposed to keep it simple but always made it complicated, and a bit of a mess, which is to say, unpleasant and unexpected surprises. Boss Bob gave a hearsay account because Boss Bob didn't do the job himself, he hired another guy on the job, and this guy came back pretty shook up over his encounter with the 14 year old kid. Imagine. Turns out the kid is dangerous-as-fuck, and guess what? Boss Bob is somebody who knows danger, after a full stint in World War Two, in the Canadian Navy, and in the thick of it.
Harney listens to Boss Bob give his report. Boss Bob goes into details of a frightful event, but it wasn't the trauma Harney was expecting. Boss Bob gives the details received from his operative. Boss Bob often repeats things twice. If you don't have it by then, you aren't getting it from Boss Bob.
"My guy got the fright of his fucking life, Harney. My guy got the fright of his fucking life, And he is totally pissed at me about the lack of warning. Totally pissed about the lack of warning."
Harney's target had competed for a couple of city championships in hockey, his dad bragged about the kid's scoring prowess. "I told you he is competitive." Harney knew hockey players who did the scoring didn't do the fighting, so this was unexpected news about a surprise attack.
From the report of the guy's surveillance, he started off saying it had been a boring fucking morning, last he heard the kid was riding his bike from Kelowna to Vernon. "He rode his bike like you said he would."
Harney expected him to be camping in the town of Vernon beside Lake Kalamalka. The intel said the kid was a camper. Instead he went to the bus depot and put his bike on a Greyhound. An hour later he stood out to the highway hitchhiking. Boss Bob's operative said the kid was hard to miss because you don't see a lot of skinny 14 year old kids hitchhiking alone on a highway at night.
The operative picked the kid up on the outskirts of the town of Vernon. The kid told the operative he was going to Salmon Arm. "It was evening, and a warm August night. The kid said he wouldn't get in the truck unless my guy was going non stop to Salmon Arm. My guy reassured him this was the plan. And away they went."
And this is when it gets interesting. Apparently the operative intends to have a little fun with the kid before he finishes the job. "So he drives him north toward the town of Salmon Arm, and this is Wednesday evening, so the highway is deserted. About twenty miles up this lonely stretch of highway, the operative pulls over to the left and parks the camper beside the highway. He decides it's the place to do it. But the kid doesn't go along initially. He gets out of the pickup and crosses the highway to stick out his thumb. He was disgusted but didn't express any disappointment. "My guy thinks the kid got away. An hour passes. No cars go by along the highway, and it's approaching midnight." The operative hears a knock on his camper door.
Boss Bob says the kid comes in, they have coffee, kid asks about his tattoos, "Navy," he told him.
The kid said they look familiar because his dad has the same tattoos on his forearm.
"My guy puts him on the bunk above the cab, lays down beside him, has his dick up stiff as a board, and, Snap."
"What?" Harney asked, "Snap?"
"it's the noise an eight-inch razor-sharp stiletto made flashing toward my guy's hard-on, so my guy jumped down and threw the kid's gear out the door and backed away while the smirky shit went to the exit. He said he managed to give the little fucker a shove out the door. But it wasn't a toy knife. He said the kid laughed after landing on his feet in the dark like a fucking black cat and asked him if he wanted more. It scared him. "Same tattoos, buddy, excapt my old man ain't a queer, aasshole. And neither am I!"
The knife was gone. The kid had gathered his gear and sprinted across the highway in a matter of seconds, cussing as he went, and whooping with joy because it was just in time to flag a pickup truck with a crowd of rowdy travelers in the open truck box. My guy said Indians stopped and the kid disappeared into the darkest night my guy has seen in his life.
"He ended pursuit or interest in your target, Harv. He said he isn't about to lose his dick for ten grand. He wants to be paid in full. Or he said you're the one who's gonna lose your dick. He did say, the kid shipped his bike to Jasper and is riding to Hinton to meet up with his dad, and go fishing."
Uh shit. This is unexpected. It was also a real costly. Life insurance policies don't pay for living expenses, and don't come cheap either, and the trollop mother won't be picking up the tab for $10,000. She said, it's not her fault if it doesn't work out.
The sister, that's another story. She has Harney's kid on the way, which covers expenses in this fuck up. She told people it was parthenogenesis from her brother raping her a few months ago. Harney gave her the crazy story from a crazy Nun he knew in Mundare.
Maybe she said it was her father and possibly the neighborhood dogs and cats. Harney didn't care. Harney sold the kid to the Sisters of Multiple Broken Covenants and Hymens, including the child trafficking when something arrives. This side game amounted to fuck around money. And thisnfuck around moneynwentndown the drain. How fucking hard can it be to kill one wimpy looking 14 year old delinquent?
Meanwhile the psychopath little broad is turning 16 soon, and says she never sleeps, because she craves Harney's dick, she says, but he knows it's because sleeping interrupts her from making up malicious excusesnfor her shitty attitude, about anybody who crossed her path, except Harney, because he is the law.
People are pieces of shit, it's so easy to spin them for a payday. It takes training. The idiot in the camper will get his lesson. A shot in the back of the head from Boss Bob. And the dangerous person disguised as a kid appears to have made a career for himself of surviving Harney Codliverchuk.
Chapter Three: Harney grows a beard
Dale was intuitive enough to realize quickly he made a mistake consulting this guy. Dale had found it awkward to explain things to the lawyer who showed up out of thin air, Harney Codliverchuk.
Why had Dale cut a key and stolen the VW? That was the lawyer's main concern. In fact, Mr. Codliverchuk, 'Harney' was quite torn up about the boys leaving the scene and taking the car from the accident, because Dale and Brian Collins pushed the smashed '65 Pearl White VW Beetle through a corridor of neighborhood back alleys to park it in the MacAdam garage, where they met the lawyer.
Well it was simple. The cast iron metal back bumper of the gigantic welder's truck which Brian here smashed didn't happen to have a scratch. Dale had brushed off a few flecks of paint. They pushed the car into the immediate convenience of a downhill alley and up the lane for a block, across one street, into another alley, a basic police report of activities. For some fucking reason, Codliverchuk wasn't having any of it. He seemed unwilling to accept that Brian Collins was being made responsible for smashing the car while Dale was in Tooke's Grocery.
"I'm not worried about the police. There was no damage to the other vehicle. I want Brian here to pay for half the damage. He wasn't a passenger. He smashed the car.
"Yes. It was lawless, but I am not a delinquent."
Dale opted to inform Mr. Codliverchuk that when his Dad catches him red-handed, it will be a week of the silent treatment, then a resumption of normal life, because Dale isn't guilty. Dale would soon be handed the keys, grudgingly, "Straight to the store," Sure, "No fuck around stopping to cut keys, for this car, or that house, or the other car."
Dale explained to this lawyer who showed up at his sister's insistence because their parents were out of town, that he had his learner's permit, "Had it the day after my birthday last November." He got the key cut one afternoon where he works part-time at a hardware store. It seemed convenient to have one.
"It was criminal."
Dale agreed to listen to the dressing down he was receiving from Mr. Codliverchuk because he wanted a legal position on the damages, and he continued to defend it by stating he logged at least 5,000 miles behind the wheel of various types of cars and trucks since the age of 10.
Dale told Mr. Codliverchuk the only thing preventing him from driving without supervision was his jealous older sister, and his cranky mother. He said his old man trusted him with the wheel of a car and the handle of a loaded gun. "I've been gutting fish since I was a toddler."
Mr. Codliverchuk seemed entirely unable and unwilling to listen. Dale was equally sure other 14 year old kids were unable to relate. He felt squeezed between childhood and adulthood.
* * *
One night the previous winter Harney Codliverchuk was hovering in the rink shack waiting for his kid to finish a hockey practice. Young MacAdam was loitering in the other room with young Bill Maher and Jack Dawson , perhaps the homeliest kid Harney Codlivershuk ever saw. "How do you break a Ukrainian's forefinger," said MacAdam,
The dressing room of wooden benches was otherwise empty. "Punch him in the nose! How do you keep the flies off the bride at a Ukrainian wedding? Leave a pile of shit in the corner."
Harney stepped around the corner and the laughter stopped.
"I'll stop telling those jokes," said MacAdam.
The three youth sitting in the Tacks hockey skates on their feet, waving their sticks, sat still, and quiet.
Harney left the building into the 20 below Fahrenheit of the Edmonton winter. He stuck his head back into the boy's dressing room. "Why don't you fucking cunts go scrape the ice before they close the building and kick you back to delinquent hall?"
Two of these pricks were not his cup of tea. The third was a target. The reports from his mother were unbelievable, Harney painted a bullseye on the kid's forehead. He was gonna die. Keep telling those racist jokes, kid.
As time went on, Harney Codliverchuk kept an obsessive eye out for Dale MacAdam. He was convinced he had to do something about him. Harney was sure there was an opportunity, and Harney continued under the spurious reasons a contentious woman can provide, lies gross enough to excuse the making of easy money.
Harney now had a confederate, a student, and was impressed by his student for one reason more than any other. The student had Churchillian determination, which is to say, he was determined to divert money and death at the expense of others, in this particular regard impressive indeed. He would have a body count by age 25, and be worth millions, and never lifted a finger.
Harney found a man with a license to kill. What makes this man perfect is he is small enough to go where no one else can fit, where no one else belongs.
This young man was Charlie Manson with a haircut and a silk suit with a top of law class pedigree, which he would soon be finishing in Codliverchuk's law office, an articling law student. He was local, a fraternity man from the same frat house and law school as Harney .
The man had been scouted due to his astonishing high marks. Harney could see in his acolyte's eyes flashing behind custom fit gold-rim spectacles, there is structure in this man's brain, and it says, "Kill." He doesn't belong in polite society. He must elevate to oversee society, and rule it with an iron fist, and a deadly aim on specific targets. He must be an assassin.
The young chap shared a few physical characteristics with Harney Codliverchuk. He had small feet like Harney. He was self-conscious about this. He was of modest stature, yet managed to stand out in a crowd. But he could disappear; equally useful attributes. His best trait was snooping. He expended a lot of energy on this.
This relationship could be lifelong, because, to be perfectly honest, Harney Codliverchuk was in love. Best of all, he's smart enough to impress the Jews. Harney needs to put a hook in him for the Jews. The King of the Jews, not the fake one, the actual. He even mixes and matches well, and nothing could not be more important to Harney, to the world. Mostly to Harney.
The best hooks are vaginas. Conveniently he knew one vagina that seemed to be coming in handy.
Having run out of patience on the file, and being pestered to act by the kid's extraordinarily greedy mother, Harney began plotting another shot at an early demise for Dale MacAdam, surrounding his 18th birthday. The window on policy secrecy was closing due to MacAdam reaching adulthood, so Codliverchuk was now willing to admit he wanted to kill the young man simply for the satisfaction.
He had taken a few shots with the help of Boss Bob, who was grooming Harney's new beard (and co-conspirator) to up the ante. The hatred Harney has for young MacAdam is out of most peoples depth. His new man soon articling for the law is fully engaged, and working dynamically on the issue. While Harney is convinced the way to resolve his problem with MacAdam is to eliminate him, he is not entirely in control of the situation at the moment.
To this end, he had Boss Bob working on it, and Harney learned the new beard was an even bigger help to Boss Bob than Harney could ever be. He's presently sinking his slippery little pecker into the MacAdam's 19 year old sister. This gives Harney minute by minute accounts of Dale MacAdam's whereabouts. Everybody knows, most accidents happen close to home.
The acolyte's timing made the process unfold sooner than expected on this summer evening of 1973.
Harney was momentarily ecstatic with the news about Dale MacAdam, who drove a tampered Mustang into a light pole on 149 street at about 6 p.m., nearly killing two young female hitchhikers who gave a full report to the Edmonton Police Service. There were the usual Boss Bob fuck ups to deal with. Much to Codliverchuk's immediate dismay, the police made a rudimentary inspection of the totaled Mustang to draw attention to the fact the owner of the car would be the liable party instead of the temporary operator, so Harney intercepted the police report on the damaged Mustang.
Yes, this report showed a broken tie-rod end on the right front wheel, which the police interpreted as the car being broken when the car was handed to Dale MacAdam. Boss Bob reported, "Look, the Mustang belonged to his roommate, the kid he rented your old suite with, the two bedroom apartment on 149." Harney listened to Boss Bob repeat himself before proceeding to finish the story. "So I inspected the buddy's vehicle last night and conveniently found the front right tie-rod to be defective. Since I figured MacAdam would be the passenger, I helped it along, you know, early in the a.m.. Unfortunately MacAdam was driving the car and he was alone. But it was a miracle he didn't die. Those light poles crumble so easy nowadays."
Harney Codliverchuk made a couple of phone calls but it was the acolyte who volunteered enthusiastically to bury the evidence as deep as the coal mines in the North Saskatchewan River Valley of Edmonton, painting the injured party out to be the Norbigging family with their loss of a vehicle to this reckless hooligan, instead of the target who nearly took the collateral damage of two young females with him.
Harney spoke to his police connections but maintained a small leverage over the Norbiggings due to their criminal negligence (abetted by Boss Bob, a man handy with a wrench, a screwdriver, and other tools). Harney raged at himself at how he was barely able to stay one step ahead of this punk who he wanted to demolish for the big pay day. Somehow the kid keeps slipping the noose. And it's fucking aggravating. This is turning into a bitter vendetta. And you would think he had bigger fish to fry. He does. That's what this is all about.
It is fascinating to watch the construction of a chimera with lethal teeth to be used to inflict damage on specified targets. The dangerous beast is never unleashed until the situation has been fully assessed, reported, estimated, assigned, and executed. Among his many missions in life, Harney was going to erase a form of bias from the world, which this boy repeatedly displays. His sister told Harney about one of the earliest manifestations of this kid's perversity and anti-social traits. Apparently the child yelled, "There goes a -- n--!" and the little fucker barked out the N-word when the Cadillac convertible carrying Edmonton superstar footballer Rollie Miles' wife rolled past the corner. Four year old Dale was playing with cars and blocking the sewer, no doubt attracted to the marvel of a convertible Cadillac containing a couple of football star wives. His sister had been standing closer to the back door, and ran in to report this transgression.
Harney erased inside information from the sister about MacAdam's grandmother reading Huckleberry Finn, to the 4 years old boy on her lap (and the sister two years older) on preceding Sundays. Of course by then Dale must have heard the N-word all 219 times it was used by Mark Twain in this American literary opus, which may or may not have been intended to suppress racism in the United States late in the 19th century. The beautiful wife of the football star couldn't imagine her role adding context to the Mark Twain narrative for the 4 year old towhead mucking about in the only week of summer in the frozen northern territory of Canada, where black folk are few and far between, historically, and presently. She reported he got a belt lashing. Don't forget Harney watched his self-conscious Ukrainian older brother overcome a debilitating and humiliating stutter. The aforementioned chimera under construction would be the false narrative about Dale MacAdam being a white supremacist from birth. This one has teeth. (Deflection. A legal tactic.)
Harney was supplied further intricate details, such as the bicycle theft when he was age 4. The day she started school in the fall the kid absconded with her new 2 wheeler and started hanging around with older boys. She didn't keep close track, she said, but she knew it was the awful Baker boy and his gang of dirt lump throwing bullies down 147 street.
Boss Bob used to stutter, which he resolved superficially by repeating whole sentences, with Harney's encouragement, usually at the beginning of a conversation or at a high point. The acolyte had mentioned annoyance at the repetition, until Harney supplied the explanation, which did nothing to reduce the acolyte's frustration with doing business with Boss Bob. Harney was okay with this. The young lawyer was turning out to be good criminal material. They will be traveling in different circles once the practice of law commences for the acolyte.
Harney didn't know better than the next guy how come so many lawyers were unable to tell right from wrong except as it fits the narrative, which essentially comes down to billing.
But the acolyte was different. He was exceptional at finding his way without a single hint of moral compass, requiring no direction whatsoever to find the weakness to be exploited in whoever sits in front of him. Harney noted one thing the man detested. Notorious Chicago killer Richard Speck. The acolyte had an obsession with Richard Speck, it seemed, and this made Harney shudder. The acolyte found it arousing to talk about a psychopathic man who massacred 8 nurses a few short years before, in 1966. "It was his tattoo that tipped off the police. 'Born to Raise Hell'"
Harney told him one time, "You should write a book about it."
"Maybe I will," he replied, nonchalantly, from a large conference table stacked with file boxes pertaining to the laws in the Province of Alberta and extremely lucrative world-leading oil industry now a prized possession of his marquee client. "Or get the same fucking tattoo." Harney was one of the only people on the Earth aware the King had recently purchased the Crown of Alberta, including the oil.
Harney told the acolyte to get to work on putting the fix on those Alberta oil royalties for, "the fucking King of the Jews and quit jerking off to stories about dead nurses in this fucking office. I have an extracurricular assignment for you coming up. It has to do with your new flame's - -"
"Don't tell me. I don't need distractions at the moment." Sparkling answer, perfect efficiency. Indeed these legislative affairs of stratospheric wealth are the priority. The intelligence report from the girlfriend can wait.
Harney knew he got little more than the juicy details on a pubescent kid to begin with, when he was supplied intricate details, such as the bicycle theft he did when he was age 4. The day she started school in the fall the kid ascended with her new 2 wheeler and started hanging around with older boys. She didn't keep close track, she said but she knew it was the awful Baker boy and his gang of dirt lump throwing bullies down 147 street. After the garage consult arranged by his horny sister and the failed murder attempt arranged by Boss Bob to occur outside Vernon, B.C, 20 miles up Hwy 97A, Harney received different information about the kid. He continued to see a tremendous flow of information on the target but it became part of a surveillance of whereabouts and diary of associations and occasionally influence on behavior, instead of a catalogue of masturbatory schedules.
Harney had her deliver the strongest hash oil from Montreal to her brother, for instance, which wired the kid up tight as drum at age 15. This level of Boss Bob intervention and intelligence changed entirely with the arrival of the acolyte. Under this tutelage she became an active member of the team out to take down Dale MacAdam.
Harney tells himself it is love but in truth his affection for the acolyte is the unfettered access to a scurrilous and murderous knave. It also helps he's one who really, truly believes in fraternity, not friendship, binding contracts, and inside information, and rounding out a team for a Vendetta. They don't need a fucking clue about what they're doing. He knows that too.
There was some invisible basis for this man to have a destiny as a high flying assassin with unassailable wealth and influence far beyond his diminutive stature. Watching him walk on a downtown street with a confederate, you would never mistake him for an assassin. You might mistake him for a small child statue pissing in a fountain. Harney kept the human trafficking enterprise under wraps around the Acolyte.
Harney figured conservatively he had arranged 50 of these adoptions with minimum buy-in of $20,000 (this was on a sliding scale), for a net to Harney of $1.5 million in the past five years. Sharing information like that would cost him a share.
The number of his own seeds trafficked was small, not insignificant, but not Genghis Khan numbers. The legal work was nil in this area, since he had other articling students do it. He did veer into more complicated affairs such as life insurance on delinquent youth. One of these paid off recently, at the same time as Boss Bob undid the tie rod on the Mustang, he managed to get a load of seriously untainted heroin into the hands of one of Harney's insured. The kid's overdose netted Harney a cool $100,000.
And this targeting obviously included people like Dale MacAdam who was going to be a payday soon. (It was a constant source of amusement to Harney how willing some women were to sacrifice a kid for a large insurance payout. Most of them do it on the basis of wanting to know as little as possible. There was a other impetus to Harney's intrigues against MacAdam, however. Those were deep antipathies from pivotal people. MacAdam's psychopathic father had made a few diehard enemies and Harney was legal counsel to one them.
