“It’s the shrooms factory,” said Mahoney, reaching for his boots. “After a few hours, you won’t even notice.”
“Or I’ll cut my nose off, one or the other.” Scheer plopped himself into the well-worn Barca Lounger in front of the console TV, then instantly realized he should have gone to the kitchen first. “Got any beer?”
“Stocked,” said Mahoney. “Even sprung for your favourite.”
“Old Vagrant?”
“I thought you called it Old Vagina.”
Scheer had already popped open the fridge. “Vagrant, Vadge, Vienna, or just plain OV. As long as it’s Carlings, and as long as it’s cold.” He flipped the cap off with a mag-mount opener he had discovered on the fridge door. “You want one?”
“Naw, gotta keep my head. Tag and bag all the important stuff.”
“So, we’re actually doing it?”
“We’re actually doing it.”
“You found a car?”
“Looks like.”
Scheer peeled back the curtain to look outside. “Where is it? With the SS?”
Mahoney had just gone to the fridge himself for a swig from the milk carton. He wiped the dribbles off his face. “I haven’t got it yet.”
Scheer looked at him. “Well, you always were a bit of an optimist. Hope it’s not a fucking rust-bucket.”
“It’s not. Straight-six with a glide. Granny wagon for sure. Autopac write-off.”
“Oh, shit,” said Scheer. “You better have a lot of money in the coffee can for that one. Every idiot with a hard-on is going to be fender-humping that thing.”
Mahoney shook his head. “No one wants this thing. Came out of the river.”
Scheer winced. “A gumbo-wagon? Count me the fuck out.”
Mahoney explained. “I mean it came out yesterday, right after it went in.”
Scheer scratched his forehead. “It’s still going to be a disgusting mess. We gotta pull everything out of it. I’ll bet it’s still got at least three catfish in it. Hey! Maybe I can sell ’em to the Filipinos in the wash bay at work!”
Mahoney winced. “Why do they eat that shit anyway? Go to a lake, get some pickerel!”
“I dunno. Must remind ’em of some slimy weirdo fish from back home or something.” Scheer reached down for one of the loose crusts. As he chewed, he punctuated his concerns with the rest of the crust. “We gotta pull the wiring, the heater box, and anything soft goes straight in the dumpster.”
“Right,” said Mahoney. “And, remember, I got everything here that we need. We’re only taking the good stuff. The rest gets trashed.”
Scheer’s eyes lit up. “Or clean up the old stuff and put it in the Buy & Sell!” The Buy & Sell tabloid was a hotbed for used cars and parts.
Mahoney wasn’t convinced. “Rickles, you’re nuts. Everything will smell like ass!”
“Not if they come here! The whole street smells like ass! 1967 Camaro buckets seats, seventy-five dollars for the pair!” Scheer firmly believed that everything had a value and someone was sure to pay it eventually.
“If you want ’em, be my guest,” said Mahoney. “But I’m not taking the calls.”
“You won’t have to,” said Scheer. “The machine will.”
“The what will?”
“The answering machine will.”
“What answering machine?”
“The one I won at the wedding social for my cousin’s kid sister. I’ll go get it.”
Scheer returned with the box. It was a Panasonic dual-tape set-up. Mahoney figured it had to be high-end, judging by the woodgrain finish. He read the instructions as Scheer was setting it up. “Why does it have two tapes?”
Scheer rolled his eyes. “Cassettes, Steve-Oh. They’re called cassettes.”
“Okay, Rickles, why does it have two cassettes?”
“Easy. One is for the outgoing message, the other one records the incoming message.”
“But what if I don’t want to be outgoing?”
Scheer stopped uncoiling the cords. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, what if I don’t feel like being all cheerful while I record the message?”
Scheer blinked hard. “Who gives a shit what you sound like? You just record the message, like this.” Scheer put the cassettes into the machine. He hit the record button and spoke as close as he could to the little hole that said MIC. “Hi, you’ve reached Steve at 668-4922. I can’t get to the phone right now, cause I’m probably jacking off in the corner to a very sticky Hustler magazine.”
“Hey, fuck you, Rickles.”
“Shush! It’s still recording!”
“Then do it over,” Mahoney grumbled.
“Gimme the book, I don’t know how.” Scheer started to flip through the instructions, only to be interrupted by a loud beep. He threw the booklet on the coffee table and returned to his Old Vienna. “I’ll do it later. Need more lubrication.”
Mahoney grabbed the instruction book. He’d flipped to the message page when the siren started to wail from outside. “Oh, shit,” he said.
“What?” said Scheer. “What is it?”
“It’s the answering-machine police. You can’t fuck around with this shit. Federal rap, straight to Stony Mountain.”
“Bullshit!”
“You’d be married inside of a week.”
Scheer was warming up his retort when they heard the siren start up again. There was something weird about it. It didn’t sound like most current Winnipeg emergency vehicles. Mahoney opened the curtains a crack to check. He smiled, then looked at Scheer. “False alarm, Rickles. They sent an ambulance instead to take you to the nuthouse. Must be your Chevette.”
Scheer grabbed his beer and yanked open the door. He started to laugh when he saw the source of the song, a red-and-white 1962 Cadillac Miller-Meteor ambulance with WINNIPEG SPEEDWAY painted on the sides. “Awesome!” said Scheer, as he headed outside to greet the driver and passenger. “Fiddy brought the Jaws!”
Fiddy was Evan Fiddler, another former member of the Terry Balkan crew. He was a beefy six-footer, the kind of mechanic that every shop needed, especially when something heavy had to be held in place or removed. He grew up on the Peguis First Nation, beginning his mechanic career like most youngsters born on a reserve, handing wrenches to his father as he fixed the very tired family car. A snowmobile accident in ’71 had taken his dad when Fiddler was 17. His mother and grandmother kept him from getting into the usual troubles that most of his friends were getting into on the reserve, keeping his nose in the textbooks and his hands dirty fixing neighbours’ cars. He secured a spot in the auto mechanic program at Red River Community College, then cut his teeth and his knuckles on Ford products for his apprentice levels. He had just started up with some Korean car company that had come to Canada the previous year by the name of Hyundai, at a dealership called Bridgeway on Nairn Avenue. Like most of the dealership staff, he still wasn’t sure how to pronounce Hyundai correctly.
The ambulance was the ride for his part-time gig, as a volunteer at the Winnipeg Speedway. The dirt oval coupled with varying degrees of driver skills meant that Fiddler didn’t have to wait too long to swing the ambulance out onto the track. He hated the sight of blood, but he loved the sound of the siren. “Give us a hand, Dickles,” said Fiddler, adjusting Scheer’s nickname for comedic effect. “This thing is almost as fat as your mom!”
“Now that’s what I call fat,” said a disembodied voice. Howard Petkau was already at the back of the ambulance, bringing out as many pieces of the Jaws of Life as he could handle on his own. Petkau had worked on an impressive selection of the motoring weird in his 12 years holding a wrench: the oil-and-gas-sucking Mazdas of the early ’70s, then a stint with Motor Sales on Main Street, with the constant tuning and re-tuning of Jaguars, MGs, and other pieces of British Leyland crap. When the Russian-built Lad
a showed up at Motor Sales, Petkau left to try his hand at Subarus. Fiddler had told Petkau about the Hyundai gig. He was looking for someone he could get along with, since there would only be two technicians in the shop. Petkau was a thin-but-toned six-footer and an avid jogger, usually swapping out his safety boots for his colourful Nikes after hours. They went well with his shock of curly red hair. “Hey, Fiddy,” said Petkau. “Grab the other end of this pump. It’s stupid heavy.”
“Takes one to know one, I guess,” said Fiddler. The hydraulic pump unit was the heaviest piece of the Jaws of Life, since it was also attached to a welded cage that carried its power source, a six-horsepower, pull-start engine that allowed the Jaws to be used anywhere on the track. “This should slice through the Camaro like that sharp-cut knife on TV.”
“I want the one that makes those spring potatoes,” said Petkau.
Scheer stood with his arms crossed, still managing to hang onto his Old Vienna bottle. He didn’t look pleased, though even that look seemed contrived. “Hey, Pet-a-cow, don’t talk that way about my mom. I mean, c’mon, that’s my mom!”
Petkau continued the heavy lifting with Fiddler and the digs at Scheer. “Pet-a-cow. Is that what your dad calls it when he finger-bangs her?”
“HEYYYYYYY!” Scheer raised his hand in protest, half-chuckling. Mahoney slapped a freshly opened beer into it.
Scheer took a swig of Old Vienna, then put his attention back to the Camaro carving. “Hey, I could sell the fenders, the doors, maybe . . .”
“And maybe I could use some spare parts, Rickles. I can’t exactly buy that shit from Lars at Pro Car.” Mahoney looked at the garage. Fiddler and Petkau had already opened the overhead door. They were laying out the key Jaw pieces on the hood of the Plymouth. Mahoney didn’t mind, but he still felt the need to say something as the faded blue paint was scratched away. “Hey, Fiddy!”
“What?”
“Make sure you cut through the right car!”
Fiddler waved away the concern. “No problem.” He pointed at the Plymouth. “We’re gonna practise on this piece of shit first!”
June 10, 1985
1:52 a.m.
It was getting late. Mahoney didn’t need his watch to tell him that. He hadn’t got around to asking the crew if they had to work on Monday or if they had to leave by a certain time. For whatever reason, they wanted to get the job done just as badly.
The Jaws of Life had made quick work of cutting through the battered roof. The crew had placed as many old blankets as possible inside the Camaro to catch the bits of glass and metal, though Mahoney knew it would take a few swipes of the Shop-Vac before the carpet went into the new car. The Hot Rod came apart easily, thanks to the penetrating fluids that Mahoney had been squirting on the undercarriage for the last two years, whenever a potential donor car presented itself. The car, thought Mahoney. What if I don’t get the stupid car? He put the idea to the back of his mind, a smart place to put it, as the hoist raised the powertrain out of the engine bay.
Mahoney finally checked his watch as the crew was backing out of the driveway: 2:30 a.m. He closed the garage door from the inside, then turned towards the Camaro to survey the teardown. The roof had been completely removed and was now just another piece of scrap metal leaning up against the rear of the garage. The interior had been completely stripped, right down to the drain plugs that would need to be reinserted into the Red River Camaro’s floorboards. The engine and transmission were resting on a purpose-built pallet in the corner, next to the complete front subframe and the rear axle. Aside from some coolant and brake-fluid spills, now sprinkled with kitty litter, the dismantle had gone much cleaner than expected. Mahoney’s Hot Rod didn’t look like much of a car anymore. The crew had rested the remaining hulk on a homemade dolly, built from Hook Me Up tow-truck parts that Larry Ballendine didn’t know were missing. The shell would eventually go to General Scrap on Springfield Road. Even in its current state, the Camaro would still be sure to draw a few groans of disappointment from car guys, on the way to its shredded metal grave. He looked at the Hot Rod’s parts a long time before he killed the lights.
Chapter Seven
June 10, 1985
8:37 a.m.
Dick Loeb sat at his oak desk, in the oak-panelled president’s office of Commonwealth Motors on Portage Avenue. He looked up at the clock on the wall, a vintage “It’s Nash Time” piece that pre-dated the American Motors signage on the front of the dealership. The electric clock made a faint buzzing sound, as the second hand clicked its clockwise course. He stared at the Nash logo, the car brand that his father had sold at various Winnipeg locations before settling on the current Portage and Simcoe Street digs in ’53. Next to the clock was a picture of Loeb and his father, Dick Sr. The junior Loeb’s black hair was in full Brylcreem pompadour. He was smiling with his trophy for winning a mechanics’ troubleshooting competition. Dick Sr. didn’t seem so happy about the contest’s sponsor, as evidenced by the indifferent way he was looking at the Plymouth pennant that Loeb was holding with his trophy.
Loeb wondered how happy dear old dad would be with him right now. He twisted to his right to allow access to his desk drawer, not an easy feat for someone who clocked in at six feet and 340 in such a tight space. He reached inside the drawer, removing a half-used tube of Brylcreem. He applied the pomade to the remaining hair he had, about half since when the picture of father and son was taken in 1957. He twisted his chair to the left to exit the cramped confines of his father’s former office. Dad had died in the same chair and the same office, in 1967. Loeb had gone from a preferred existence as a mechanic into a starched shirt and a half-Windsor noose. He had doubled in size from his days in the shop. The longer hours had become even longer. He was still married, though the only evidence of a wife was the new shopping bags littering the foyer of his father’s former house on Wellington Crescent, on the nights that he chose to go home at all. He would usually fall asleep in his chair at work, and clean up in the mechanic’s locker room in the morning. It had become such a routine that his dry cleaner would drop his clothes off at the dealership.
Loeb walked to the open door of the president’s office. He surveyed the empty showroom: the salesmen were still finishing up their Monday morning sales meeting. There would always be a couple of lookers wandering through, service department customers who had grown tired of watching the morning news on the console TV in the customer lounge. One was checking out a deeply discounted 1984 AMC Eagle sedan, a four-wheel-drive model that had been sliding in sales since the introduction of the new Jeep Cherokee that same year. The new Jeep had been a major sales boost for Commonwealth, so much so that Loeb had pushed the problem-prone Renault inventory out of the showroom, much to the chagrin of the prairie zone office. He had just received his plane ticket to a dealer event in Las Vegas in August. Loeb figured that it was probably the unveil for the new Comanche pickup truck.
Loeb wasn’t up for a chat with a customer. He headed through the showroom, past the cashier, the service lounge, and the reception desk. The receptionist smiled. Loeb knew what would happen next. As he headed towards the shop, he heard the announcement come through the overhead speakers. “Service, call holding on line six. Service, line six.” There was no line six, as any of the phones in the dealership would show. The announcement was a head’s up to the rest of the dealership that the boss was on the move.
Loeb pushed through the door to the shop. All the bays were full, with varying degrees of work under way. The used car department had purchased most of the retired gas-meter-reader cars from the Greater Winnipeg Gas Company. The robin’s-egg blue paintwork on the well-used AMC Concords had been covered with various hues of fresh paint in the body shop. Equally fresh was the mileage on the cars. Loeb watched as two technicians spun back the odometers to figures that would be more pleasing to his buyers. Another used Concord was being fitted with a vinyl roof for an upscale look. Blemished whitewalls were being instal
led on a fresh trade-in, a Pinto Squire wagon. The tires were Uniroyal, but the only letters left on the sidewall were NIRO.
Loeb walked to the rear of the shop, through the open overhead door that was inviting in the morning warmth. He walked towards the back row, where the weekend trade-ins that weren’t getting the deluxe makeover treatment were stored. Most of the cars were destined for the wholesalers, the kind of cars that would be priced right for the North End dirt lots. Some would be heading straight for the scrapyard, early- ’70s trade-ins that started rusting while sitting in their respective showrooms. Loeb kicked at the crumbling rear quarter panel of a dark green Laurentian wagon. His foot went right through. He was leaning against the car, shaking the rust flakes out of his loafer, when he saw the orange ’74 Bricklin pull in. He watched as the driver struggled with the gull-wing door, which didn’t seem to be benefitting from any additional assist mechanism. It had been that way since the car had been traded in by a transplanted American. He walked over to help.
The additional leverage that Loeb provided to the gull-wing revealed a mop of freshly permed blond hair, attached to the head of Peter Scrapneck. “Attached” was the best way to describe the hairdo, since Scrapneck was a regular customer of the El Coredo hairpiece studio. This week, he was a blond. Next week, it could be wavy brown. It was a little confusing for the customers who would come into the dealership, look at Scrapneck’s picture on the wall with the rest of the staff eight-by-tens, and then be greeted by someone with a completely different hair colour. But Loeb didn’t care if Scrapneck wore an oversized rainbow wig. Scrapneck sold cars, and a lot of them. He carried two Motorola Optrx alphanumeric pagers, fed messages by a local answering service. One was for the morning. He’d put it back on the charger when it died around 11, and it would be ready when the second one died around 3. His official title was general sales manager. It wasn’t the only business he managed for Loeb. He smiled as he exited the Bricklin. “Thanks, boss-man. I’d get some parts to fix it, if they actually still made parts for this piece of shit.”
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