Revolution

Part One: Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

Montreal - January, 1968

One of the few things Prescott liked about winter in Montreal was that everyone was wrapped up in scarves and tuques, as the locals called the wool hats they all seemed to wear, and he didn't feel exposed when he went to her apartment. 

And he loved going to her apartment. 

It was only a few blocks from his office on Sherbrooke Street to Rue St. Marc and he was there in five minutes, slipping into the lobby of the hundred year old, four story red brick building. He stopped to take off his glasses and wipe away the condensation that had instantly formed. The inner door opened and an elderly woman held it while Prescott went into the building. 

He walked up the stairs thinking it was good that he hadn't had to buzz, this way he could surprise Greta, see her jump maybe, and then smile. It'd be playful, take away from the fact that their meeting was really just business.  

The second floor was quiet and as he approached the door to apartment 2C he saw it was slightly open, he heard the radio playing, that pop music station she liked so much, that insipid song from the movie with Anne Bancroft seducing the college kid. Prescott said, "Greta," and slowly stepped into the apartment.  

It wasn't playful now, Prescott tensed up, he could feel something was wrong.  

He took a few cautious steps into the living room and stopped. Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. 

Greta was on the floor, naked, her bra tied tight around her neck, her face swollen and ugly.  

Prescott turned and ran. 

He ran down the stairs and through the lobby, went south, running away from the apartment and even further from his office and didn't slow down till he was on Rue Ste. Catherine thinking he could disappear into the crowd but then he felt that everyone was staring at him and he ducked into the tavern across the street from the Forum. In the little vestibule he saw the pay phone and grabbed the receiver, shoved a dime into the slot and dialled, turning the rotor as fast as he could, praying that the other end picked up, please pick-up, please be in the office, and then he said, "Yes," when a man's voice said, "Hello." 

"It's me, there's a problem, you have to help me." 

The man's voice said, "All right, we can meet tonight," but Prescott cut him off, "Now," not even trying to keep the panic out of his voice. 

The man said, "All right, fifteen minutes." 

Prescott hung up, his hands still shaking and he walked out, felt the eyes of every person on the street on him and quickly hailed a cab.