June 17, 1985
The new Monday day shift was routine. Mahoney had a few calls to pick up cars from garages where customers had failed to pay their repair bills, part of the provincial protection under the Garage Keepers Act. The cars went to the Autopac compound for auction. A few downtown lockouts, a mid-’70s Malibu Classic with a popped radiator hose, and a three-car pileup at Broadway and Maryland rounded out the day. All the while, Mahoney was thinking about the strange events inside the new iteration of his Hot Rod. He had called Scheer from a pay phone, asking if he remembered anything strange about the wiring harness installation underneath the dashboard. “It all plugged in sweet and tight!” yelled Scheer, over the din of a grinder in the stall next to him at the dealership. “It was a little cramped, but if there’s a problem with the radio cutting in and out, I’d say it’s the radio.”
As Mahoney pulled into his driveway just after 5:30, he noticed a familiar car parked in his usual Plymouth spot, a red Ford EXP with the rear hatch open. His house door was still closed. There was something in the air mixed with the usual St. Boniface aroma. Mahoney followed his nose to the backyard. Diana was making the most of the surroundings. A vinyl red-and-white tablecloth meant for a square table had been placed on top of the wooden cable spool that Mahoney had re-purposed as his patio table. She had stacked a few of the loose cinder blocks on the lopsided patio into a platform for the barbecue, a Hibachi that she had just purchased, judging from the open box next to the bag of Kingsford briquettes. She had obviously been there a while, as the briquettes had burned from black to white. She wore cut-off jean shorts and an oversized white T-shirt that read FRANKIE SAY RELAX DON’T DO IT. Her permed blonde hair was pulled back, contained in some form of clip or hair band he couldn’t see, keeping it clear of the sizzling burgers. The shirt was loose enough that he could see the top of her breasts, as she leaned over the Hibachi with an equally new spatula. A red slimline Sanyo boombox on the cable spool table was cranking out what had to be another Diana mix-tape. It was a Cyndi Lauper standard. Diana sang along, badly.
Mahoney couldn’t resist. “So, is that all you really want?”
Diana looked up. She smiled, turning as red as her boombox. She put her arm in front of her eyes. “Don’t look at me! Don’t listen to me! I know I suck!”
Mahoney smiled back. “You need some help with that?”
Diana looked down at the flaming burgers, a combination of regular ground beef and minimal charcoal experience. “Uh, no, I think we’re okay.” Diana checked the rest of the bags. She frowned. “Uh, you don’t have any buns, do you?”
“I’ll check the freezer,” said Mahoney. “You want a beer?”
“Sure thing. This is thirsty work!” Diana continued with the Hibachi, bending over farther than she needed to, for Mahoney’s benefit. At least, that’s what he told himself. He went inside to check on the meagre foodstuffs in his bachelor fridge. No hamburger buns, though he had a half-dozen hot dog buns with minimal freezer burn. He defrosted them in the microwave as he checked on the condition of the condiments. After a gagging fit from opening a jar of putrid Miracle Whip, he settled on the fast-food ketchup, mustard, and relish in the junk drawer. He grabbed the two lawn chairs that were set up in the living room for the crew, then headed to the patio with the condiment packets, the buns, two Clubs, and some paper plates.
The burgers were very well done, probably a good thing, when Diana mentioned that the meat was half price at Penner Foods. Mahoney was as chivalrous as possible as he set up the bistro space and cut the burgers to fit the hot dog buns. He helped squeeze out the toppings from the packets onto Diana’s burger dog while she told him about her day. She worked for a company by the name of Maclean-Hunter Paging. She showed Mahoney her pager, a Motorola numeric model, explaining how she could be reached. “So all you do is call the number, wait for the message to end, then punch in your number.”
Mahoney held the pager in his hand, then smirked. “I guess I better upgrade my rotary phone.”
Diana almost launched her beer onto him. “Better get with the times, old timer. Actually, I’m one to talk.”
“What do you mean?”
“They keep talking about these cellular phones in the States,” said Diana. “It’s starting up at the end of the month out east. Then I guess it’ll head this way and then I’m out of a job.”
“Or you could sell those phones instead. Looks like you got some experience.”
Diana looked at him, suddenly serious. “I beg your pardon?”
Mahoney stumbled. “Uh, what I meant was, I mean . . .”
“Just kidding, Steven.” Diana took another swig from her Club before continuing. “I’ve been looking into what it’s all about. The shit is expensive! I saw an ad in the States for one for like four grand! That’s almost half what I paid for my car! And that’s just for the phone! Then they charge you for the minutes. You gotta be a rich asshole to even think about it.”
“Yeah, that’s a real problem around here.” Mahoney pointed to his next-door neighbours. “I’m surrounded by millionaires.”
Diana hurried to finish a bite, motioning with her finger that she was about to speak. “Yeah, the whole street smells of money. I can’t believe the city allows that place to be there.”
“Keeps out the riff-raff.” Mahoney figured it was time to dig for some more personal information. “So what end of town do you live in?”
“West K, on Jefferson,” said Diana. Bit of a haul, Mahoney thought. He wasn’t quite sure if she was worth the mileage, yet. He thought of a way to find out. “So, you want to watch a video or something?”
“Sure!” Diana reached into her oversized purse, producing the Avon candles promised in her message. “We can try these out, see if they take away the smell of all that money.”
The two finished their dinner before heading in. Mahoney checked in on the Camaro, telling Diana that he needed to retrieve her mix tape from it. She wasn’t into cars, but she did like the colour. The ballast resistor issue had calmed itself, as had the other lighting issues of car and garage.
Mahoney made the usual apologies for the state of his place. Diana didn’t seem to be bothered. She went through the videos on top of the VCR as Mahoney changed into a less-greasy shirt, one that still had some remnants of cologne in the fabric. He doubted she would find anything in the selection. The crew had spent a night comparing car chases from various car classics. It came down to a tie between Bullitt and The Seven-Ups, with an honourable mention for Burt Reynolds as Gator McKlusky in White Lightning. She stopped on the one title that Mahoney hadn’t got around to viewing. “What about this one?”
Mahoney looked at the Video Stop box. Like most video stores, the Video Stop outlet had switched out the flimsy consumer packaging with something more durable. The only identification for the movie was the title, in black script on a bright yellow background with the Video Stop logo. “Yeah, we could watch that if you want. I hear it’s kinda scary, though.”
Diana didn’t look too concerned. “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t mind if I freak out a bit.”
“I’ll protect you.” Mahoney took the video box from her. He fast-forwarded the movie while she lit her Avon candles and retrieved two more bottles of Club from the fridge. He adjusted the tracking on the movie as the screen displayed the warning about video piracy and explained that Interpol had agreed to start doing something about it in September of 1977. Mahoney sat down on the couch. Diana moved in close. He hit Play on the remote. The sound of something old and carbureted growled through the speakers. A gold vee emblem appeared out of the darkness. The first line of script mentioned that the movie was one of John Carpenter’s. The engine revved. The title appeared in red. The movie was also a Richard Kobritz Production. Diana addressed the elephant in the room. “So, is Christine, like, a person or a car?”
Mahoney thought about it for a moment. “I guess s
he’s kinda both.”
Chapter Fourteen
June 17, 1985
9:46 p.m.
Steve Mahoney had a feeling he would only be seeing bits and pieces of John Carpenter’s Christine. By the time the smouldering Plymouth had pulled into Darnell’s Do It Yourself Garage, Mahoney’s face was firmly planted between Diana’s legs, his pants bunched around his ankles, in return for Diana’s introductory blow job. He’d caught glimpses of what Christine had done to a similar ’67 Camaro Hot Rod, and Buddy Repperton, while he was removing Diana’s RELAX T-shirt. Now wasn’t the time to offer a running commentary on the issues of car continuity for the film, like the fact that the Camaro that Christine had smashed at the gas station didn’t have an engine under its hood. He concentrated on the slippery matter at hand. Hand, thought Mahoney. He inserted two fingers inside Diana, pushing her over the edge.
He lifted her up from the couch, planting himself firmly inside for the short trip to the bedroom. He could still hear the movie playing in the background during their romp. After the third coming of both parties, Mahoney excused himself for a glass of water. Christine was being pummelled, doggy-style, by a bulldozer in Darnell’s Garage, as Mahoney strolled naked past the television. He watched the climax as he sipped from his Return of the Jedi Slurpee cup, the one with the Ewoks on it. The punishment on the small screen truly fit the crime, as far as any Chevy lover was concerned.
Mahoney felt Diana’s arms around his waist. “That’s what I should have done to my last car.”
“Really? What was it?”
“Pinto.”
Mahoney took another swig of water, then offered the cup to Diana. “I thought those things destroyed themselves.”
“Pretty much.” She took a drink, then handed back the cup. She let her hands wander south. “Speaking of destroying things . . .”
Mahoney got the hint. “They’re going to have to call a tow truck for my dick after this crash.”
Diana smiled, leading him back to the bedroom. “I hope your Autopac is all paid up.” She laughed as she jumped on the bed, swinging the door closed for round four.
Guy Clairmont had made a few passes down McTavish Street that night, before heading over to the Robin’s Donuts on Provencher to consult his notes. He had seen the permed blonde arrive with her hamburger and cooking gear. He had seen the pair go into the house. He had seen the lights go out inside, except for what must have been a RadioShack strobe light in the bedroom. The pair had used that freaky light show for about an hour before turning it off. He had also seen how the man who had outbid him at the Autopac auction had locked up the garage with the Camaro on his current Get List: tight, with an EXP and a Plymouth shitbox blocking the door.
Clairmont wasn’t thrilled about what it would take to get the car out of the garage. He had been successful in obtaining cars from darkened driveways and back lanes when the conditions were beyond perfect before. The best driveways for a boost had the steepest inclines. He could glide a vehicle out of a driveway in Neutral, usually landing it a house or two away if the roll speed was right. If the coast was clear, the start-up on the freshly moved car would be far enough away that its owner wouldn’t even roll over in bed. That wasn’t going to happen on McTavish Street. The garage was set too far back on the property, with zero incline. Even if he could make his way down the driveway without a nosy neighbour seeing him, he still had to break into the garage side door before that. Clairmont had no idea how the roll-up door was secured. He could be staring at a separate pair of padlocks for all he knew. That would probably be the moment when the owner would burst into the garage. Judging from the man’s size, Clairmont figured his ass would promptly be handed to him.
Clairmont doodled for a moment. The girl, Clairmont thought. She would be the key. He didn’t know how much of a player Mahoney was, only that the property had anything but an ongoing woman’s touch. Even if the current relationship was destined to crash and burn in a couple of weeks, there would at least be something resembling a proper date within that time. Clairmont figured that it would be soon, probably a dinner date, maybe a stroll down Corydon Avenue. The Italian Quarter would be a good spot for a first summer date in Winnipeg, and a good place to boost the car for Scrapneck. It didn’t seem to matter what day a couple chose for lasagna and garlic bread; the parking always sucked on Corydon. The chances of parking at or near the establishment of choice were slim to none. That meant the lovebirds would have to settle on one of the surrounding side streets. They were well-treed, with minimal opportunity for the street lights to shine through. The Camaro would be beyond simple to lift. Mahoney didn’t look like the kind of guy to spend large on car alarms or defeat systems. If the tits on the permed blonde were as perky as Clairmont suspected, Mahoney would have other things on his mind.
Clairmont had noted that the work shift for his mark had changed from evenings to days. He checked his Omega. Almost Tuesday morning. If the sex was good, Clairmont figured that Thursday would be date night, Wednesday if it was great. Then he could stop avoiding the pages from Scrapneck. He thought about making a few reservations for the lovebirds, just in case.
Chapter Fifteen
June 19, 1985
5:46 p.m.
Steve Mahoney checked what remained of his cologne collection. There were a few department store samples of Drakkar Noir left in his sock drawer, each with at least a nano-drop of fragrance left to extract. He poked a Q-Tip into three of the miniature test tubes until it was soaked, then dabbed. He had found his dressiest black T-shirt, a half-wrinkled pair of tan chinos, and a dark blue houndstooth sports jacket from Jack Fraser that he had last worn while screwing over his career at the Marlborough Hotel. He hadn’t decided on whether he wanted to goop up his hair; he didn’t want to throw a wrench into getting another proper thrashing by Diana. This run-of-the-mill Wednesday would make it three nights in a row, if he could seal the deal. He didn’t know where this was going. He decided not to worry about it.
Tuesday night at Diana’s apartment had confirmed one thing: the uninhibited sex would be occurring at his McTavish Street address. Diana had a roommate taking summer courses at the U of W. The couple tried to subdue their passionate volume, though not quite enough for the roommate. The summer student protested by stomping up and down the hallway and banging the doors on various cupboards and closets.
Dinner was set for eight, giving Mahoney plenty of time for the three Ss: shit, shower, shave. It also meant that he could do some light detailing on the Hot Rod. He made sure to pop the Diana mix tape into the deck. Every point matters, he thought. He even sprang for a new Royal Pine air freshener. The Camaro was date-ready. Mahoney had made reservations at Colosseo Ristorante on Corydon, even though it was a little on the pricey side. He hoped that Diana liked chicken.
Guy Clairmont was giving his Merkur a much-needed spritz at the Mohawk car wash on Archibald. He had driven past the Mahoney bungalow around 6 p.m., and noticed that the Camaro was getting a detail. Date night tonight, he thought. The Merkur needed to be clean, as a grubby car would attract the wrong kind of attention in the city’s various date zones. He could leave the car overnight on a side street, if the boost went off as planned. He didn’t see how it couldn’t. The Slim Jim door-lock pop would take seconds. So would the dash-mounted ignition switch on a ’67 Camaro. No locking column, no fucking problem. He drove over to Provencher and waited.
At about a quarter to seven, Mahoney’s Camaro rumbled past, heading west. Clairmont kept a reasonable distance, though he realized that Mahoney probably wouldn’t be looking for such a concern in his rearview. Mahoney opened the throttle as he entered the CP Rail underpass at Main and Higgins. Even Clairmont was guilty of the throttle push on that stretch of Main, as was any driver with something potent under the hood and something to prove. The underpass made for impressive amplification of the mechanical music. It made a crap car sound good. It made a good car sound great.
Clairmont drove past the Garden Towers apartment block, while Mahoney walked up the sidewalk to pick up his date. Clairmont had done a check on the EXP plate through a cop connection at the district three station. The title had come back to a Diana McRae, 23 years old, apartment 509. Clairmont watched as Ms. McRae walked hand-in-hand with her beau. She wore the quintessential little black dress, dangerously close to falling out of it. Mahoney opened the passenger-side door for her.
Corydon Avenue was packed for a Wednesday. Clairmont checked his Omega: 7:52. He corrected the clock on his Merkur, slow by three minutes. Clairmont figured he had at least a two-hour window, maybe longer if the date included the usual Corydon dessert stroll to Nucci’s Gelati shop. It would be dark enough by 9:30 to boost the Camaro. He parked the Merkur in a visitor’s stall at a nearby high-rise condo. He waited.
The light was changing to Clairmont’s advantage around 9:15. He’d lost his sports jacket and Carrera shades, opting for a pair of well-worn Ray-Ban Wayfarers perched atop his head, with a navy-blue zip-up hoodie. His shoes had gone the way of Reebok trainers. He walked towards the Camaro with an Adidas gym bag. He wanted to look the part of the Camaro’s owner as best he could. For a BMW, Porsche, or Mercedes, he would have kept the sports coat, the Carreras, and he’d have a leather briefcase to tie it all together. If a black-and-white rolled past, it would keep rolling, as long as Clairmont wasn’t smashing the side window with a brick.
There was plenty of age-related gap between the window glass and the shrivelled weather seal, shaving off a solid second for Clairmont to open the Camaro with the Slim Jim. He stowed it in the Adidas bag, throwing it in the back seat. He pulled out his lock-pick tools from a thin case in the hoodie’s front pocket. Clairmont had boosted enough cars to know that most dash-mounted ignition switches were easier to pick than resorting to splicing wires. The Camaro switch was well worn, which would help. In eight seconds, he was able to turn the lock cylinder to the on position, illuminating the idiot lights. Clairmont smiled. He turned it to the start position. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. Shit. He had a few basic tools for such a scenario, but so many things could cause a no-start on an 18-year-old, piece-of-shit Chevrolet. He gave the cylinder a third turn. The Camaro cranked and caught, and Clairmont gave a sigh of relief. No need to tear the damn thing apart this time.
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