EXCERPT

AS ANGRY AS Frankie had been with Cornelius this past week, he empathized. He didn’t want to face the barrage of questions and speculation either. He could only imagine what it was like as community leader, even one who’d been serving as long as Cornelius had.

“Well, you can’t hide out here all day,” Frankie said. “I got shit to do. The show must go on.”

Cornelius cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I need you to put something on Facebook. People gotta know that it’s business as usual tonight.”

Frankie felt a flash of rage run up the back of his neck. “It’s not my fuckin’ job to do the damage control!” His voice rose.

Cornelius slowly nudged the office door closed with his right foot and leaned forward. “Just calm down, Frankie. We didn’t expect to be dealing with all this today of all days.”

“Well, how did Crusty know, then?”

“We don’t know yet. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. His car was spotted at the radio station earlier, but as far as anyone knows he fucked off somewhere after that.”

“You made me sign that paper the other day not to tell no one. Did you make anyone else do that too?”

“Just the senior administrative staff. The only ones who’d know.”

“No one on council?”

“No, they don’t think NDAs apply to them because they’re elected and not staff.”

“Well you better talk to your council, then.”

Frankie leaned back in the hydraulic chair and crossed his arms in defiance. Cornelius sighed and looked down at his feet.

“Council knows what’s at stake here, Frankie. The province has been firm that if we let the cat out of the bag, that could affect our settlement. That’s why we gotta get ahead of Crusty’s fuckup.”

“Well I’m not gonna lie to no one.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, I just need you to hold everyone off until we can make the announcement. The minister’s coming here next week. There’s gonna be media and everything.”

Frankie pulled his lips tight to his teeth to keep him from letting out any verbal anger. He couldn’t look Cornelius in the eyes just yet, so his eyes darted about the room to give the rage a few more seconds to dissipate. Cardboard boxes of paper bingo cards and colourful dabbers were stacked on the wall to his right and Cornelius’ left, overflow from the storage room. Grainy colour photos from various historic bingo occasions blown up to fit big frames were hung on all the walls. Frankie posed in many of them with past big winners and dignitaries from bygone eras. His anger quickly ebbed into a gentle sadness, which was sometimes harder to deal with, especially without booze.

“Alright, Corn Dog,” Frankie let out with a deep breath. He was one of only a handful of people who could still get away with calling Cornelius his childhood nickname, having grown up with the chief just a few years his junior.

“I don’t wanna fuck this up tonight either,” Frankie went on. “We only got a few hours to go. What do you want me to say?”

“Just do one of those posts you always do the day of bingo,” Cornelius said. He seemed looser too, for the moment. “You’re always good at getting people psyched up. Remind them of the big jackpot.”

“Yeah, no problem, but in case you forgot, there’s a big fuckin’ elephant in this here bingo hall.”

“Don’t acknowledge any of that jibber jabber going around. That fancy media training firm the Grand Council sent up from Toronto always said never to comment on rumours. Just gotta pretend none of that’s happening.”

“They don’t got aunties down in Toronto? Aunties who play bingo?”

Frankie saw the corner of Cornelius’s mouth turn up, then straighten back out. “Just write the post, Frankie. I gotta get going. There’s an emergency council meeting at three.”

“You gonna be here tonight?”

“Probably not. Kerry’s gonna text me if Kaiden’s in the finals tonight. Then I’m gonna drive up to Sudbury.”

“Must be fuckin’ nice.”

“It is. Baamaapii.”

Cornelius stood up, straightened his jacket, nodded at Frankie, and opened the office door to leave. The clattering of floor hockey sticks seeped into the room again.

Frankie pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened Facebook, which he hadn’t done since turning the device back on. The bottom menu bar glowed red with messages and notifications. He clicked on the “What’s on your mind?” bar to write a post. He tapped out each letter one by one with his thumb, savouring each cathartic thumb stroke.

“Fuck U Corn Dog,” he wrote into the post bar. He let the insult sit there, and gazed at the words he’d delete shortly. It was his silent last laugh.