“At least the mill is American Motors,” said Loeb, as he lowered the door as gingerly as he could. “I’d get you into a new Wagoneer, if I could keep them on the lot for more than an hour and a half.”
“Yap, they’re pretty hot right now. Just like that beater Camaro I’m about to report as stolen.”
Loeb looked around with concern. “Jesus, Scrap. Keep your fucking voice down!”
“No worries, boss-man. Cops already found it. Looks exactly like I said it would look.”
“Did they figure out who it is yet?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” said Scrapneck. “And if they even bother to look, what are they gonna find? A divorced thirty-something bookkeeper, lived alone, needle marks from a habit. She’s yesterday’s trash.”
“And the note?”
“Yeah, got this week’s old lady to write it out. Goodbye cruel world, that sort of shit. They’ll find it when they search her place, thanks to her SIN card I put in her pocket. She won’t be missed.”
Loeb breathed a sigh of relief. “So, where’s the car now?”
“At the salvage yard,” said Scrapneck. “I spiffed my guy at Autopac a couple of hun to get it added to the auction this week. Our guy will buy it, then straight to the shredder.”
Loeb reached into his front pocket. He pulled out a roll of $50 bills. “How much does he need?”
“For that thing? I dunno. Three, four hundred?”
Loeb started counting, then thought better of it. He handed the wad of bills to Scrapneck. “Give him a grand. We gotta be absolutely sure we get this thing and get it gone. I want nothing coming back on us.”
Scrapneck looked somewhat perplexed at the wad of bills. He transferred them to his front pocket. “Okay, boss-man. Doesn’t get much more sure than a G-note for a submarine with wheels.”
“We have to be sure of everything right now,” said Loeb. “You of all people know what we’ve got riding on this.”
Scrapneck chuckled. “You still think this phone thing is gonna fly?”
“Cellular phone thing,” said Loeb. “It’s called cellular.”
“What does that mean anyway? Cellar-lar?”
Loeb rolled his eyes. He pointed at the two pagers on Scrapneck’s belt. “In a couple of years, you won’t be able to sell those things for doorstop money. They’re launching cellular service in T.O. and Montreal on Canada Day. It’s coming here soon enough.”
Scrapneck rolled his eyes. “Okay, maybe this portable phone shit will fly in Hogtown and Frogtown, but here? We’ve got maybe six or seven assholes in this shithole who could even afford it!”
“It won’t be just fat cats,” said Loeb. “Think about all the road warriors, the guys on the construction sites. Commodities, bankers, doctors, lawyers. Everybody who’s somebody is going to want one, and everybody who dreams of being somebody will want one.”
“Whatever you say, boss-man. It just seems like an awful lot of grown-up trouble we’re going through to get people to stop using a pay phone.”
Loeb decided to use simple sales logic on the Scrapneck objections. “Okay, Scrap. Let’s walk through a typical beep-beep on those pagers of yours. Customer calls the service. They don’t get you, just some hag with a three-packs-a-day habit coming through loud and clear. She says you’re not in, which is bullshit. They ask if they can hold, they say they can’t, it’s an answering service. Some leave a message, some don’t. How many do you think don’t?”
“How the fuck should I know?” said Scrapneck. “I sold forty-six cars last month. That’s one of the best numbers in town for sure.”
“I checked for you,” said Loeb. “Told the head hag at the answering service that we were thinking about getting all the salesmen on pagers. You sold forty-six cars? You missed out on sixty-five other calls! That’s uh, let’s see. That’s a hunnert-and-eleven cars. That’s what a cellular phone could do for you! That makes all the money we’re going to need to do the side deals legit, instead of that snap-crackle-pop garbage you’ve got us into.”
“You mean crack,” said Scrapneck. “You say cell-it-lar is the next big thing for phones? Well, crack is the next big thing for coke.”
“That may be,” said Loeb. “But that attracts all the wrong kinds of people. Junkies, bikers, and cops.”
“We can do both,” said Scrapneck. “Fuck ’em with cars, and fuck ’em with crack. Then we fuck ’em with these phones that you think are going to be the cat’s ass. Just a good old-fashioned fuck-fest.”
“Just keep that shit out of the dealership. I don’t need Sandra Lewis from 24-Fucking-Hours doing the news out front with a dozen narcs leading us out in cuffs.”
“Don’t worry,” said Scrapneck. “I got a guy. He’s already dealing. The crack gets cooked up local. I’ve got a kilo coming up from Minneapolis this week. That should pay for all that cellphone shit you want.”
“Cell-you-lurr,” said Loeb. “It’s cell-you-lurr.”
Chapter Eight
June 12, 1985
9:22 a.m.
Steve Mahoney was rolling into his driveway a little sooner than he had on Sunday morning, thanks to an absence of river retrieval calls for the Tuesday night shift. There was no reason to hose down the tow cable. The Hot Rod’s teardown had taken a toll on his muscles and his sleep. He parked the Plymouth in the usual spot and was making a beeline for the couch when he saw the flashing red light on the answering machine. Mahoney had already received three messages since Rick Scheer had installed the machine. The first was for an overdue gas bill. The second was a call from the City Inspections Branch about cleaning up the metal behind his garage. That old bat Wilson two doors down must have complained again. The third was from the drunk girl he had convinced to take a cab home from the Marble Club on Sunday morning. He vaguely remembered writing his home number on the invoice for the lockout. He wasn’t exactly sure when he was going to have time for her, even if it was just casual.
Today’s first message was from the video store on Provencher. “Hello, this is Video Stop calling, just a reminder that your ten videos for ten days for ten dollars will expire today at five o’clock. Please return your videos during normal business hours. A late charge of one dollar per day per video will occur if videos are not returned. Thank you for choosing Video Stop on Provencher.”
Mahoney rubbed his eyes as the next message played. “Hi, Steve, this is Diana calling. Don’t know if you got my call the other day, but I was thinking that maybe we could get together one of these days, you know? Maybe watch a video or something at your place? Anyway, gimme a call when you got time. Oh, that’s right, you work nights. Well, I’m off on Thursday, so maybe we could do breakfast or something? I wanted to thank you for the other night. Oh god, I was so drunk. I really don’t get drunk like that all the time. I . . .”
The message clicked. She’d talked too long for the tape. Another message: she called back to apologize and then hung up. Yet another message: an apology for being so spastic, and finally, her phone number.
Mahoney lay back on the couch to listen to the rest of the messages, half-expecting another Diana explanation message or another late utility bill. But this call was coming from someplace noisy. It was Rick Scheer. He must have been calling from a phone in the shop at work.
“Hey, Steve, Rickles. Just got a call from Tim at Dr. Hook, said there’s a sixty-something purple Camaro going up at Plessis today. I didn’t see one on the list. Is that the Camaro? Last-minute add with some other shit. I guess you’re not home yet. Anyway, auction starts at ten, like always. Better put on a fresh bra and check it out. I gotta pull a tranny out of a Skylark. Fuck me. Later!”
Mahoney was on the move the moment he heard “purple Camaro.” Scheer hadn’t mentioned the auction number for the Camaro or where it was in the list. Last-minute additions to the Wednesday auctions were fairly common. It could have been added to the
bottom of the list. It could also have been added near the top. Mahoney checked his watch: 9:33 a.m. The auction would start in 27 minutes. He grabbed an entire stack of bills from a Tupperware container in the fridge icebox. He hoped it was enough.
The Plymouth was still warm. Mahoney spat plenty of gravel as he reversed out of the driveway. There were no stops and no cops on Mission Street East. As bumpy as it was, he was still able to manage about 60 miles per hour on the stretch. He knew there’d be no parking at the salvage yard by now, so he pulled into Team Auto Parts on Plessis, an import wrecking yard that was just north of the salvage yard. He banged the office door open. The counter staff were busy handling various parts inquiries. He got the attention of Vic, the owner. If Vic knew you, and knew that you were parking in the lot for the sale, he would point you through to the other entrance to the salvage yard: a ladder against the fence. Mahoney nodded his thanks as he headed through the yard. Three of the guard dogs followed along, as Mahoney zig-zagged around the half-dismantled inventory. The last user had propped the ladder against an orange Volkswagen van. Mahoney took four steps to the top, then over the barbed wire. He twisted his left ankle a bit on landing, though he still managed a good trot towards the auction hall. He heard the announcement over the loudspeakers: five minutes to the sale. Just enough time to get his bid number.
The auction hall was a windowless, prefabricated metal building. There was a counter to get your bid number, a counter for payment, and the lunch counter, where the coffee and the French fry gravy duked it out for the thickness win on a weekly basis. He wrote his name next to bid number 867, printed in large red letters on a piece of heavy paper stock. He grabbed the best position he could, in line with the auctioneer’s one good eye. The auction microphone looked like it came out of a 1940s’ boxing match. The auctioneer was heavy-set, with a thick shock of white hair, sideburns to match, and tinted bargain glasses. Mahoney had never bothered to find out his name. The only sure thing was that if he hadn’t seen you, you hadn’t placed a bid. The arguments from losing bidders added at least a half hour to every auction. He was readying himself with the auction list. An Autopac employee was nudging him to start, pointing at his watch. The auctioneer looked annoyed but took the hint. He leaned in close to the microphone.
“All right, gentlemen, welcome to Manitoba Public Insurance salvage auction number one-three-four-seven, over three hundred items up for bid today, let’s start at item number one, four Firestone 721 radial tires, size two thirty-five, seventy-five fifteens. Who’ll give me two hundred dollars WHERE?”
Mahoney breathed. He figured that the Camaro would occur further in, since it wasn’t on his list. If there was an updated list, he hadn’t seen it, the counter bare of the extra lists printed for the auction. He thought about the gravy and the coffee for a moment. He decided against both.
The auctioneer continued. “Two-two-two-two, now one hundred, who’ll give me one hundred, hundred-hundred-hundred annnd now fifty, now fifty, fifty-fifty-fifty I HAVE FIFTY!”
Mahoney continued to consult the list, somehow believing that the Camaro would magically jump off the page in front of him. He didn’t notice Freddie Rondeau from Grosvenor Towing until he spoke into Mahoney’s left ear. “What’re you bidding on, Mahoney? Better not be the parts car for my Magnum.”
Mahoney shook Rondeau’s hand. “Hey, Ronco! Haven’t seen you for a while. You still souping up that ugly Cordoba?”
Rondeau looked annoyed. “Why does everyone think it’s a Cordoba?”
“Because it is a Cordoba. And a Fury and a Chrysler 300.”
“And it’s also fast as fuck,” said Rondeau. “I put that 440 in from that RCMP highway car. It’s fucking scary.”
“Now it’s as scary as it looks. Nightmare scary. Shit the bed scary.”
“Well, if you ever fix that Camaro of yours, we might have to find out.”
Mahoney nodded. “It’s a date. That’s why I’m here.”
“For what?” said Rondeau. “There’s no Camaro today.”
The auctioneer corrected Rondeau. “And now we’ve got a last-minute addition for today, item number one-b, a 1967 Chevrolet Camaro two-door coupe, water damage, no keys. Who’ll give me a thousand dollars WHERE?”
“Well,” said Rondeau. “I stand fucking corrected.”
Mahoney had tuned out Rondeau. He got his bidding card ready. The auctioneer would always start high, then drop to a sensible number to bring in multiple bidders. He had already dropped from a thousand dollars to two hundred. Six hands shot up. The auctioneer played his bidders. At three hundred, two hands dropped out. At four hundred, two more. Things started to stall at $450. The auctioneer felt it too. “Four fifty going once. Four fifty . . .”
“Six hundred!” Mahoney shouted. He felt the eyes of the hall upon him. Four fifty was nuts, but someone went to six? Now they all shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Even the auctioneer perked up. “All right, whoever wants it is gonna get it, I have six hundred, who’ll gimme six-fifty, six-fifty, six fifty, I HAVE SIX-FIFTY!”
Mahoney looked for the competing bidder. He couldn’t see him, just an arm that went up as quickly as Mahoney’s counterbids. Six-fifty became $700, $750 became $800. At nine hundred, the counter staff left their posts, eager to see the contest. The auctioneer kept poking the bear. “All right folks, we have nine hundred, nine hundred, can I get nine-fifty-fifty-fifty-fifty-fifty, I HAVE NINE-FIFTY!”
“Twelve hundred!” Mahoney heard the number without realizing he’d said it. The audience let out a gasp, peppered with holy versions of shit and fuck. Mahoney looked for his opponent, but the hand was gone.
The auctioneer brought the drama to a close. “Twelve hundred once, twelve hundred TWICE!” The well-worn gavel hit the podium with a crack. “SOLD! Item number one-b to bidder number eight, eight. Just a minute here, folks. CAN THE BIDDER PLEASE SHOW HIS NUMBER?”
Mahoney was riding the winning bid high, so high that he didn’t realize his hand had obscured his bid number. He adjusted his grip. Most of the people around him were still shaking their heads, including Rondeau. “And you think my Dodge is a joke? Why don’t you just go buy a decent Camaro for four grand?”
“Simple,” said Mahoney. “I don’t have four grand.” He smiled as he headed over to the counter to pay for his purchase. There was enough change left over from his stack of twenties and fifties for gravy and coffee. Mahoney decided against both.
The arm that had tried to outbid Mahoney was now in use outside the auction hall, dialling on one of two pay phones mounted on the exterior wall, near the entrance.
“Commonwealth Motors Jeep Renault AMC, how may I direct your call?”
“Gimme Scrapneck,” said the arm’s voice.
“Surely. May I tell him who’s calling?”
“No.”
The receptionist didn’t know how to answer that, though the tone told her not to question it. “One moment, please.” The arm tapped its fingers on the phone as the call rang through. Scrapneck answered on the third ring. “Commonwealth Motors, Peter Scrapneck speaking.”
“Pete, it’s Guy. We got a problem.”
Chapter Nine
June 12, 1985
10:42 a.m.
Mahoney headed over to the Hook Me Up office. He fed Larry Ballendine a story about taking Unit 36 home to check its timing. By 11:30, he was back at the salvage compound, hooking up the car that had become the overpriced talk of the Wednesday auction. By noon, he was easing the Camaro into the coin-operated car wash on Rothesay, next to Wiebe’s Foods. He had 12 dollars’ worth of quarters in his pocket, and he planned to use every one of them. He also knew that this coin-op had the longest cycles in the neighbourhood.
It didn’t take long until a few curious pensioners stopped by to watch the strangest of car washes. He had torn open the rest of the carpet, slicing off large chunks to get the water out faster. He laid down across
the buckets seats, shooting water up behind the dashboard. He hosed down the entire engine bay, paying no attention to how the water was saturating the inline six. Wherever he saw brown water, Mahoney sprayed until it flowed clear. The adhesive holding the trunk pan drains was brittle enough to open with a screwdriver, just like the floorpan plugs. Mahoney raised the car as high as Unit 36 would let him in the wash bay, rinsing the undercarriage clean. He took special care with the headliner, using a sponge soaked with healthy squirts of dishwashing liquid to clean it. It was black and would look a little strange with his blue interior, but it was intact. So were the metal bows behind it. The ones on his Hot Rod had been mangled by the Kildonan Park elm.
Mahoney felt the sleep coming back hard. He grabbed a Pepsi Big Gulp at a 7-Eleven but passed on the meat stick. He brought the Camaro back to his garage, easing it past the hulk that remained of his Hot Rod on the driveway. He gazed at the purple car and its soon-to-be-attached parts for longer than he should have. He locked up the garage and headed for the couch. He checked his watch: almost half-past three. Enough time for some shut-eye before the evening shift.
June 12, 1985
3:33 p.m.
Guy Clairmont was checking his notes. He had followed Steve Mahoney from the salvage yard to Hook Me Up Towing, back to the salvage yard, the car wash, the 7-Eleven on Edison, and the bungalow on McTavish Street. Clairmont had flipped the A/C to the recirculating function on his black Merkur XR4Ti. It helped to slightly reduce the effects of the mushroom farm, though the smell was still making him queasy. He was parked beneath the CN Rail line. The train rattling overhead and the heavy trucks passing by him on the gravel industrial street did little to distract him. It did knock his Carrera sunglasses off the dashboard and into the passenger-side footwell. Clairmont didn’t flinch. He gave his green eyes a rub with his left hand, then a pass with the same hand through his wavy brown hair. He continued by grooming his bushy moustache before flipping to the next page of his notes.
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