THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE by Mark Russell Read Free Book Online

Haslowski hit the streets with a vengeance. It seemed his dark nature and orphaned upbringing had fated him for a life on the wrong side of the law. After several years of un-convicted burglary, car theft and armed robbery in Philadelphia and New York, the tough young Pole made a meteoric rise through the ranks of a Montreal-based drug syndicate that he'd joined as a courier. By the end of 1965, having gained the respect and trust of his French and Italian colleagues (due in no small part to his street-wise acumen, keen business sense, and the way he'd handled a couple of hits for the syndicate during his probationary years), Peter Haslowski was distributing a considerable slice of the eighty-odd kilos of Golden Crescent heroin that the syndicate smuggled annually into Canada for distribution in the United States.
    The two brothers rarely spoke, other than the few times Peter rang suggesting they meet; but Haslow refused to break the standoff. The Silverwood chemist had erected a solid wall between himself and the dark days of his institutionalized childhood; and didn't intend to disrupt his law-abiding life (however mundane it sometimes seemed) for his criminal brother's sake.
    Outside Haslow's house, the girls ran off noisily into the gathering darkness, drawn by the enticing lights and mealtime aromas of their respective homes. Haslow turned from the window and dropped his empty beer can into a swing-top tidy bin. He pulled the ring-tab off a fresh can and returned to the living room.
    He paced the dimness like a caged animal, spurred by an undertow of unresolved torments. At work his professional mind performed like a well-oiled machine, but alone at night he was sometimes prey to inner demons, resulting in late-night depressions which offered him little chance of satisfying sleep should he not take prescribed sleeping tablets.
    Clasping his beer, he dropped on to the sofa.  
    Madeleine. Lovely, auburn-haired Madeleine who wasn't coming back. The recent divorce settlement had proved that. But as yet he had no inclination to look for another woman. He knew he wasn't the first divorced man to console himself with drink, nor would he be the last. Still he believed he would get on his feet soon enough. Until then it would be more nights like the one on hand: the cold comfort of a well-furnished house, a train of inner dialogue which did little to lift his spirits, an empty (and usually unmade) bed to end the day.
    Again his mind drifted back to that damp afternoon he'd come home from work to find a letter on the kitchen table. Three pages of sorry and goodbye. Courtesy of Madeleine Haslow. The same woman who'd promised to stand by him through sickness and health, and all else grandly enshrined in their wedding vows. The letter contained forceful scrawl about her and Julian being inseparable. Julian was Madeleine's director in Seven Suns. A risque play produced by Triados, an amateur theatre company Madeleine had been involved in for several years, mostly as an actress, plus some unsuccessful stints at set design and stage production.
    Haslow found out about his wife's affair a week before she left. He'd thought at the time the affair was finished, and that Madeleine would resume her role in the marriage – indeed Madeleine herself had signalled the same. Though hurt and angered by her betrayal, Haslow promised to be a more devoted husband, to be more sensitive to her womanly needs, as much as he could detect and fathom them. Anytime she wanted children was fine by him. Furthermore, he pledged to take a keener interest in her theatrical pursuits.
    Not a scientist of love, he miscalculated the forces at play. He wrongly pegged thirty-three year old Julian as just another artsy stud into booze, blow and whatever woman he could bed. He thought Madeleine would eventuate as just another notch on Julian's wandering gun.
    He couldn't have been more wrong.
    After Madeleine left, Haslow did a lion's share of phoning, promising and