The pay-phone call with Scrapneck hadn’t gone well, as expected. Clairmont had been authorized for a grand on the Camaro. He had three hundred of his own on him, and it would stay on him. He’d been burned before in similar deals, topping up a difference that he would be questioned about, and, just as likely, never see again. Scrapneck had demanded to know why he didn’t up the ante to secure the car. Clairmont was blunt: “I don’t spend what I don’t have.”
There was another reason for not dipping into his own personal kitty: maximizing profit. The job was simple: make the Camaro go away, by any means necessary. The longer that took, the more he could potentially make, even with the failed Autopac bid. Making wheeled things go away had been Clairmont’s specialty since the mid-’70s. He wasn’t a big guy, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in skills. He had familiarized himself with the latest car-alarm wiring schematics, the mechanical parts of the locking systems, and the electrical systems of numerous vehicles. He took offense to being called a common car thief. Clairmont had made far more through legitimate repossession work than the days of the Bowman chop shops. Nowadays, dealerships and finance companies were his biggest clients. On occasion, a client would request a special service, a cash-money, no-questions-asked situation. The Camaro was one of those cars.
Clairmont glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard: 3:37 p.m. He checked it against his dress watch, an Omega Seamaster Classic. The hands were parked at 3:39. He corrected the car display. A beeping from his sports jacket on the passenger seat didn’t startle him, a beeping that he had thought he heard before it happened, like the way that “Radar” O’Reilly heard approaching choppers on the reruns of M*A*S*H. Clairmont reached over to the jacket without looking, retrieving a Motorola numeric pager from the inside pocket. The number was the Commonwealth Motors main line, with Scrapneck’s extension and “911” next to it. Clairmont tossed the pager onto the seat. It fell to the floor beside the sunglasses.
Chapter Ten
June 12, 1985
3:44 p.m.
Peter Scrapneck slammed the receiver down, hard enough for the receptionist and three of the salesmen in their offices to notice. He was starting to sweat, which was never good for the adhesive strips gripping his hairpiece. He opened his bottom desk drawer, revealing a mirror, and leaned down out of sight of the rest of the showroom staff. Once his hairpiece was adjusted, he could think clearly. He looked up at the AMC clock in the showroom; he was late for his pager swap and coke bump. He slid the dead unit into the charger, then headed for the men’s.
He was leaving the washroom when he saw the car hauler pull in. It wore Minnesota plates. Scrapneck smiled. He met the driver at the cab, directing him to unload the truck at the rear of the dealership. Twenty minutes later, Scrapneck was surveying the latest additions to the used car department; an Oldsmobile Cutlass, an Impala Sport Coupe, two Ford Granadas, a Chevette, and a Dodge St. Regis sedan. They were all 1979s, easy to import into Canada. All the cars were in good shape, except for the Dodge, which had had something large and heavy recently dropped on its trunk lid. Scrapneck drove it over to the body shop. A replacement trunk lid had already arrived from the wrecking yard, having been re-sprayed in the correct colour. The dented trunk lid eventually made its way to the back of the lot, with the rest of the scrap sheet metal.
The remainder of the evening was typical Wednesday dealership fare. Scrapneck sold two Cherokee Chiefs that had just arrived on the lot on Tuesday. There was a deposit on the Eagle in the showroom, but it didn’t look good on the financing side. The used car department sold the American Chevette before it had a proper cleanup and took a deposit on one of the former gas company cars. The grease pencil teaser on its windshield was truthful enough: ONE OWNER.
It was almost 9:45 p.m. when the last customer left the main building. Scrapneck exited through the shop, making sure the man door was locked behind him. As he was securing the door, a pair of headlights swung into the lot. They were attached to an old Ford half-ton. The magnetic signs on the doors said “Free Scrap Metal Removal,” with a phone number under it that had to be a pager. The driver gave a quick horn hit, even though it was obvious Scrapneck had seen him. “Hey there,” the driver said. “Got any scrap I can take off your hands?”
“Help yourself,” said Scrapneck. “It’s over there, by the garbage bins.” The truck driver nodded his thanks. Scrapneck watched as he went through the panels one by one. He hoisted the Dodge trunk lid into the box, leaving the rest of the panels behind. Before he left, he removed the magnetic signs from his truck and threw them in the open garbage bin. The doors now stated that the truck was in the painting business, with a new pager number. Scrapneck watched as his crack cook drove off the lot, with a kilogram of 90 percent pure cocaine stashed inside the Dodge trunk lid.
Scrapneck wrestled open the driver’s gull-wing of his Bricklin. He held the door as high as he could, fishing out a thick manila envelope behind the driver’s seat. He locked the Bricklin and headed over to a nondescript Dodge Aspen with his spare dealer plate. The cold Dodge protested, but finally started. Scrapneck headed towards the lab.
The lab space was about 10 minutes from the dealership, in a cinder-block industrial building off Wellington Avenue. Scrapneck gave a quick horn chirp at the rear of the building to open the overhead door. He pulled in quickly when he thought the door was high enough, forgetting the antenna, which was still flailing madly as he exited the car.
The building was a former upholstery shop. Most of the space on the ancient workbenches had been taken over by various chemicals and lab equipment. The damaged trunk lid from the scrap pile was on a folding metal sawhorse, and the crack cook was using an air chisel to separate the exterior panel from the inner structure. The vibration was walking the lid off the sawhorse. Scrapneck caught it. The cook nodded his thanks. Five minutes later, the trunk lid was on the floor. Scrapneck and the cook separated the two pieces with a pair of pry bars.
The cocaine was stowed near the lock mechanism. Scrapneck’s connection in Minneapolis had disconnected the mechanism after the drugs had been stashed. The damage, and the fact that the trunk lid couldn’t be opened at the Emerson crossing, was of little concern to the border guards. Commonwealth had been buying used and lightly damaged cars at various American dealer auctions for years. The paperwork was always in order. The transport drivers never seemed jumpy during the inspections. It also helped that the dealership had recently sold a large fleet of Cherokees to the local federal government office. Commonwealth was a trusted vendor, properly vetted. Nobody ever strip-searched its cars.
The Dodge was the first car to make a smuggling trip. Scrapneck knew he could probably get away with three or four more shipments until he had to shut things down. Once the crack hit the streets in Winnipeg, the local police and the RCMP would watch the border more closely. Eventually, known criminals like the Heaven’s Rejects would move in and probably use their preferred channels from Montreal for the coke base. The window of opportunity was small, but the payoff would put Dick Loeb into the cellular phone business and Scrapneck into the president’s chair at Commonwealth, if he wanted it.
Once the cocaine was out, Scrapneck tossed the envelope to the cook. The cook rifled through it. He gave an approving nod for the five grand, then hit the garage door opener for Scrapneck to exit. He felt his throat constricting as he approached the Silver Heights apartments, better known to current and former residents as the Silverfish. Once a pinnacle of 1950s apartment living, the Silverfish needed both a serious makeover and regular visits from an exterminator.
Scrapneck wanted to see if there was any police activity at the apartment block. Judging by the black-and-white, the unmarked Ford LTD, and the Crime Scene Investigations van parked in front of the Silverfish, the police had found the home of the woman in the Camaro. It was apartment 207. It had chocolate-brown appliances and green drapes. It had a bubble-gum pink bathroom, with a toilet handle t
hat needed an extra jiggle to keep it from running after a flush. Scrapneck knew the apartment. He knew the woman who lived there.
The one he had agreed to handcuff to the steering wheel.
Chapter Eleven
June 16, 1985
8:24 a.m.
Steve Mahoney decided on a proper breakfast at the end of his shift. He eased the Plymouth through the McDonald’s drive-through on Henderson Highway, opting for two Egg McMuffins, hash browns, and a large coffee. He had succeeded in taking a few catnaps during his Saturday night shift in Unit 36. It had been slow, allowing him to duck out early. Larry Ballendine had told him on Friday that he would be switching Mahoney’s shifts to days. He gave him the opportunity to join in with the illegal shenanigans of the night crew one last time, but Mahoney refused. “Then days you fucking get,” said Ballendine, as he slammed the door to his office, shaking the venetian blinds on his window. Mahoney had made the decision that today would be a full garage day and had already stocked the fridge accordingly: Old Vienna for Scheer, Black Label for Petkau, and Club for himself and Fiddler. Two extra-large Gondola pizzas chilling in the fridge would supply the fuel.
The Camaro had dried out sufficiently from Wednesday’s coin wash, aided by a couple of dehumidifiers in the garage. Since the auction win, Mahoney had done as many of the one-man jobs that he could, saving the major mechanicals for the crew. Scheer was sent in for the under-dash wiring harness work, the usual task assigned to the most compact of mechanics. Mahoney had made a cardboard template from the Hot Rod’s floorpan to make sure the hole would be cut in the right spot for the floor shifter. The consensus on the donor platform was that it hadn’t seen many winters, if at all. Things that should have been seized by rust came off easily. By 7 p.m., the team had assembled around the pizzas on the Plymouth’s hood. The faded blue steel also served as the coaster for their respective beers.
Mahoney gave the toast. “Here’s to probably the easiest buildup of any piece-of-shit car that any of us has ever owned.” The bottles clinked, along with boisterous approval from the rest of the crew. Scheer took a swig of OV, then went back to examining his hands, flipping them back and forth. “What’s the matter, Rickles? Did you get a sliver?” Mahoney asked.
“Look at my hands,” said Scheer. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
Petkau glanced over. “Well, they do look a little like ladies’ hands.”
Fiddler agreed. “Yeah, when you use that Palmolive to jack off with, that’s what happens.”
“Fuck you, Fiddy,” said Scheer. “Look at them, they’re not cut up!”
Mahoney looked at Scheer’s hands, then his own. “He’s right. What about the rest of you guys?”
Fiddler checked both sides of his hands, while Petkau did the same. They looked at each other, and Mahoney started laughing as they played Patty Cake. “Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man. Fix this car as fast as you can. Wash it, clean it, rub-a-dub-dub. Fuck this shit and give me a Club!” Fiddler sang.
Mahoney was still laughing as he grabbed another Club out of the cooler. As he came back up to the Plymouth table, he noticed that Scheer was still looking at his hands intently. He wasn’t laughing. Mahoney popped his cap with his Bic lighter and took a large swig. “Okay, Rickles, so you’re not as cut up as a typical day with Ponchos and old-fart Buicks. What’s so weird about that?”
Scheer looked at Mahoney, a look that was far more serious than one would expect for anything car-related. “I always get cut when I’m working on anything. Whether it’s my truck, the day job, or that Shit-Vette behind me, I always nick something.” He turned to Fiddler and Petkau. “C’mon, guys, help me out here.”
“He’s got a point,” said Fiddler, checking his left hand with a beer in his right. “I mean, I don’t get as cut as much as I used to. Everything we’re working on is new at the dealer.”
“Fiddy’s right,” said Petkau. “The used cars’ll bite yah. Look at what this fucking Malibu did to me on Friday.” A deep slice on his thumb was only starting to heal. “Stupid Iraqi taxi. Had a burr on the shifter linkage. Who the fuck orders a three-speed stick on the floor anyway?”
“I heard it’s all those guys know how to fix,” said Fiddler. “The automatic is too complicated.”
“There’s something else,” said Scheer. “How much shit got broken?”
Mahoney thought about it. He looked at the Camaro in the garage. The open hood showed off the gleaming chrome of the transplanted engine. “Nothing I can remember. Fiddy? Pet?”
“Nothing from me boss,” said Fiddler. “Howie?”
“Not even a stripped bolt,” said Petkau. “I mean shit, we got it done in one day! This thing went perfect.”
“Well, that’s what we hope,” said Mahoney. “I guess we better make sure.” Mahoney put his beer down and went to inspect the engine bay. Everything had been tightened and torqued to specification. The radiator cap was off, a funnel inserted in the hole, ready to add additional water when the thermostat opened. The engine bay wiring harness from his Hot Rod had been fastened to its factory-approved routing. The Cragar Screamer wheels needed a little more spit and polish, but they still looked respectable, especially with the fresh set of Radial T/As that Mahoney had installed on the Hot Rod a week before the tree branch came down. A newish battery was ready to supply the starter drive. Mahoney headed for the driver’s seat.
The rest of the crew had moved to the front fenders as Mahoney slid behind the wheel. He had convinced himself that the blue upholstery was working. The black headliner was the only piece of soft trim retained from the Camaro’s river plunge. Mahoney took a deep breath. Any Red River funk left behind was barely noticeable. He looked over at the keys, the set he had pocketed when he had first pulled the car out of the river. He brushed against the rabbit’s foot, and it swung back and forth. He turned the key to the ON position. The various idiot lights came on in the gauge cluster. The heater fan motor started to hum. The Pioneer Supertuner II transplanted from the Hot Rod started up into a promo for the Lamont Hollywood afternoon show on 92 CITI FM, with Streetheart’s “Hollywood” as the music bed. Mahoney turned the key. Nothing. He poked his head out the window. “Hey, Rickles!”
Scheer looked up from the engine bay. “Hey what?”
“Did you tighten up the battery?”
“Uh, maybe.” Scheer checked the connections. He grabbed a wrench from the tool stand to snug up the nuts. “Try it now!”
The engine cranked without issue. Mahoney turned the key back, gave the gas four solid pumps, then cranked again. The Hot Rod’s heart roared to life. He prodded the accelerator to get past a momentary fuel delivery stumble. The engine found the fast idle it needed and stayed there until Mahoney kicked it down. The crew hooted their approval but stayed attentive for any gushing fluids. Scheer added water to the radiator when the thermostat opened. Fiddler checked underneath the car for exhaust leaks and main seal drips. Petkau moved the Plymouth patio table back, allowing the Camaro to roll out into the last of the day’s sun. The car wore the Hot Rod’s old plates. As far as Autopac was concerned they were still valid. There was a bit of a loophole to allow the plate transfer, even if the paper trail was an outright forgery. Mahoney had stated on a hand-drawn bill of sale that he had sold what was left of the Hot Rod to Scheer on the 15th of June. That meant that the Hot Rod’s plates could be transferred to another car for a one-week grace period, with insurance. That also meant that the Camaro was headed out for a Sunday-night cruise.
“Shotgun!” Fiddler shouted. Scheer and Petkau didn’t argue the request. Fiddler was the beefiest of the crew, the best fit for the front seat. Scheer pushed the rear folding seat back up into position. Mahoney was doing lock-up duties: house, garage, Plymouth. He returned with a cheap pair of aviators perched atop his head and his acid-washed jean jacket in hand for when the sun went down. He closed the driver’s door firmly, throwing the jacket in the
back seat onto Petkau and Scheer. “Try not to fart too much on it while you’re back there, ladies.” He put the Camaro in drive and headed north to Mission.
“No farts,” said Petkau. “I’ll just wipe the sleeves on my nut sack.”
“Fuck, that’s gross,” said Fiddler. “Like those mushroom farts on the corner.”
Scheer agreed. “At least you’re not back here smelling it.” He poked Mahoney in the left shoulder. “Hey, your Steve-ness. Turn on the fan, get some air moving back here.”
Mahoney turned to look at the rear seat crew, then at Fiddler. “You boys want some air moving back there?”
The crew caught the tell. Scheer and Petkau frantically scrambled for their lap belts. Fiddler had done the same, smacking the door lock knob down for good measure. The memo about the Hot Rod’s return must have made it to 92 CITI FM. The opening gallop of Aerosmith’s “Back in the Saddle” filled the cabin. Fiddler turned the volume up to 11. Mahoney saw the hole in traffic. He took it, with about three-quarters of the throttle pedal, as Steven Tyler announced at full volume that Mahoney, the crew, and the Hot Rod were finally back. The shrieking tires were almost drowned out by the approval of the Camaro’s occupants. Mahoney let the car’s rear slide out just enough to the right, then backed off the throttle to straighten it out. He then gave the throttle a floor-stomping push. The Hot Rod’s heart tried to push the Camaro sideways again. Mahoney knew exactly where to compensate. He wasn’t as aggressive for the yield onto Provencher Boulevard.
Sunday night was the official car cruising night in Winnipeg. Mahoney had seen the odd black-and-white rolling down the main drag of the French Quarter on previous Sundays. He would have to keep things tame on Portage Avenue, on his way to the Polo Park Shopping Centre. The deserted parking lot made for a popular destination for the car-crazy, in addition to other closed businesses along the Portage strip. The parking lots would become impromptu car shows of varying sizes and makes, if enough cars from a club showed up together. Shop would be talked. Brags would be made. If enough bravado presented itself, drag races would be organized. The Brady Road landfill access was a popular spot, but it was a dead-end street. Park Lane Avenue had better escape opportunities, as did many of the city’s industrial areas. But Mahoney wasn’t here to race. He was here to re-introduce his Hot Rod.
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