The late Heather Price spoke into his right ear. “Wow. Even I know that was too much.”
Mahoney spun to face her. Price was nowhere to be seen. He heard the driver’s side door slam shut behind him. Price was sitting in the driver’s seat, making car noises, pretending to steer the wheel down an unseen road of many curves. She almost lost it on a few of the corners, if her tire-screeching impressions could be believed.
Mahoney amped up his request, simple and to the point. “Get the fuck outta my car!”
Price screeched to a halt. She turned her imaginary engine off. She looked up at Mahoney. “Make me.”
Mahoney didn’t know how to answer that. He started by trying to open the door. It was locked. He went over to the passenger side. Price watched as he made the journey. The door handle gave him the same amount of grief as the driver’s side. He was trying to figure out what to do next when the door button popped up. He looked inside at Price. She was smiling. It didn’t look like an evil grin. He hoped that he had read it right. He opened the door. Price tried to allay his fears. “Just fucking with ya. Have a seat.”
Mahoney hesitated at first, then entered the Camaro. The door closed for him once his feet were in the footwell. The two occupants looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. Price broke the silence. “So are you going to sit there like a big boy or are you going to run away like a pussy again?”
Mahoney bristled. “I ain’t no fucking pussy.”
“You sure run like a fucking pussy.”
“When are you going to get out of my fucking car?”
Price started to speak, then stopped. Mahoney caught it. She doesn’t know the answer. Mahoney thought for a moment about what little he knew about ghosts. Most of it was from bad horror movies that he had slept halfway through on KCND’s Chiller Thriller in the early ’70s. He remembered a DC Comic book series called Ghosts. He had read The Shining by Stephen King. Both the book and the movie had scared him in their own special way, as different as they were from each other. Scooby-Doo wasn’t much help. The cartoon ghost would always end up being a fake. He had seen Ghostbusters the one time. He was starting to think that he’d have to reserve it at Video Stop for research purposes. Should probably take the other movies back first, pay the late fees.
Price snapped her fingers at Mahoney’s head. “Steve-Oh, focus.”
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You just snapped your fingers.”
Price didn’t know either. She looked at her hand. A thought bounced into Mahoney’s head that seemed reasonable at that moment. Maybe she’s a Scooby-Doo bullshit ghost! He reached out and grabbed her wrist. It felt like a wrist. It didn’t feel icy cold. It squished the way it should squish. He felt bone where there should be bone. He was just about ready to say so when he felt a shock. It felt electrical, like the zap you would get if you pulled a bad spark plug wire off a running engine. His hand flew into the windshield pillar, hard. He immediately started rubbing it, waiting for normal sensations to occur. He looked at Price. She didn’t look happy. Neither was Mahoney. “Jesus, what the fuck?”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly,” said Price. She had moved the hand that had just zapped Mahoney to the top of the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t suggest doing that again.”
“How the fuck did you do that? How come you still feel . . .”
“Feel what?”
“You know, how come you still feel, like, real?”
Price looked at her hand. She flipped it around and touched the steering wheel a few times. Her hand didn’t go through. She grabbed the wheel with both hands. She started to steer back and forth, the sensations of the tires moving on the garage floor felt by both occupants. She looked at Mahoney and started to laugh. “I think this qualifies as some pretty freaky shit.”
Mahoney agreed. He turned himself in his seat to address her. She was still poking and touching parts of the car when he asked the question. “Heather, how did you get inside this car?”
Price stopped poking the car. The smile on her face started to fade. “I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
Price tried her best. She started scratching at her left arm. The sleeve was pulled up enough for Mahoney to see the track marks. There had been the mention of drug use in the final telling of Heather Price’s life by the media. They hadn’t delved into the specifics for her drug of choice. Mahoney had run across his fair share of addicts at Hook Me Up. The vacant looks from the working girls. The weirdness of Waller, when he was jacked up on juice. If the hookers were successful in blocking out their day-to-day with Ts and Rs, then Mahoney knew that Price could have easily made her last day a blank tape. Mahoney rewound his memory tape to his last conversation with Price in the garage. If her recollections were correct, the only thing that Mahoney knew for sure was that Price had awoken when the car started filling with water.
The recollections of Mahoney’s spectral comic books and B-movies were thin and jumbled in his mind. Can a ghost be solid? Can you touch a ghost? Can a ghost touch you? He didn’t know what to ask or what not to ask of Heather Price. The tingle in his hand spoke to him. Keep it simple, stupid. “Heather: what do you want?”
“Home.”
“Home?”
Price swivelled in the driver’s seat. She looked at Mahoney. She reached out and touched him. He felt it. She looked at him with glowing green eyes of concern and sadness.
“I want to go home.”
Mahoney checked his watch as he finished securing the locks on the garage. The witching hour had just ended as he knew it, 1:01 a.m. for everyone else. He remembered the reference from another ghost movie that he had added to the scary list, John Carpenter’s telling of The Fog. The coincidence was a bit too much for Mahoney. He checked behind him to make sure that none of the red-eyed lepers of Antonio Bay were waiting to exact their revenge. There was a hint of a mist forming in the cool night air, the kind that hugs low on the grass. If there were murderous ghosts in it, they were only about three inches tall.
The answering machine had no new messages to illuminate the darkened living room. Mahoney flipped on the light to the kitchen. He thought about calming his nerves with a fifth Black Label, remembering the two remaining soldiers jangling about in the back of the Camaro. Instead, he grabbed a dusty bottle of Lamb’s Navy Rum from the top of the fridge, pouring a healthy double into a stray Solo cup that still had some Pepsi residue on the bottom. He winced at the burn as he gulped it back. He poured a second, moving to the kitchen table. Why didn’t you just buy a decent one for four grand? He sipped on the rest of the rum as he considered his options. Selling the Hot Rod was out of the question. Mahoney thought about the ultimate case of buyer’s remorse for a Buy & Sell bargain hunter, a ghost that didn’t seem to be in a hurry to find alternate transportation in the passenger seat of their purchase. He could drive the Hot Rod down to General Scrap, and insist that the car be crushed while he was in attendance, only to find Heather Price in a recycled can of Chunky Soup a year from now. Perhaps another Camaro, one that he could swap his parts into, like the current one. Mahoney knew it was a long shot, with most of the potential donors in the Buy & Sell needing about three grand in metal work just to look whole again. He also knew that the crew would not be pleased with doing another build for him, especially two weeks after the last one had left the garage. Besides, Mahoney thought, Petkau’s Falcon was next on the list.
Mahoney pushed aside the empty pizza boxes on the table, sifting through the collection of recent newsprint below. He found the last story the press had deemed worth writing about, along with the grad picture of Heather Price. It was from the ’70s; the Charlie’s Angels feathered hairdo was a dead giveaway. He dug deeper. The Sentinel had the nugget about Price’s “last seen” whereabouts, the Silver Heights Apartments. Mahoney knew the area well enough; he stopped in at the Silver Heights Re
staurant every few months to quell a craving for their signature ribs. I want to go home. Mahoney could hear Price’s request bouncing around, in-between the sips of cheap rum. Was “going home” a literal request? Or could Price have meant that she wanted to go to the next home, the other side?
Mahoney thought of Heather’s arm scratching. What was she shooting? He hadn’t got around to asking Price about her preferred poison. For all he knew, she could have been getting it from the cab of a Hook Me Up tow truck. Mahoney made a mental note to ask the next time that Price tried to scare the shit out of him. He wondered if the drugs were the root cause of Price’s behaviour. She had gone from shimmering fantasy to Silverfish bitch in six seconds flat. Mahoney figured that the Price he was talking to now was the authentic one. He saw a brief image of her alive in his mind, clattering away on some form of adding machine, working the numbers for the people who needed work on their numbers. He realized that there was something about her that was attractive. It was her eyes. It was hard to look away from her backlit greens, even when she was calling him a pussy.
Mahoney grabbed about five hours of sleep before the alarm buzzer intruded. The first call for Unit 36 was to a condominium on Wellington Crescent, a black Merkur XR-something that the building manager had been trying to get towed since Thursday morning. Mahoney had just left it in the Hook Me Up compound when Dolores Favel hacked through the speaker of his two-way. “Base to thirty-six, base to thirty-six, are you ready for pickup? Over.”
Mahoney picked up the microphone. “Just leaving now. Got an address? Over.”
“In the rear, 2255 Portage Avenue, silver AMC Concord, plate number six-zero-four charlie-howard-delta. Estate sale car, we’re storing it. Over.”
“Got it. Is that a house or an apartment? Over.”
“How the fig should I know? Just pick it up! Over.”
Mahoney smirked. “Sounds like you ran out of milk for your Corn Flakes this morning. Unit thirty-six, over and out.”
Chapter Twenty-One
June 21, 1985
11:07 a.m.
Dick Loeb watched as one of his lot boys transferred the license plates from a rusty Parisienne Safari to the deeply discounted AMC Eagle sedan in the Commonwealth Motors showroom. The oversized doors that allowed for vehicle entry into the showroom were wide open. Another lot boy was using a razor blade to scrape the grease pencil script from the windshield, stopping to spray glass cleaner and wipe clean every word. The remaining words spoke more to Loeb’s current state of mind about everything in the car business: LAST CHANCE!
A few minutes later, the new Eagle owners ambled out of the business office. The finance manager had sold the full deck of car dealer bullshit: fabric protection, security package, paint protection, rustproofing, and undercoating. He handed the couple a brochure on AMC’s additional buyer protection plans, explaining they could opt in within the first 1,000 kilometres. The car would be back on Monday for all the applications, billed as a full-day service. It usually took about three hours in total, depending on how jacked up the detailers were. The extra time allowed the undercoating stink to air out from underneath and burn off the exhaust system.
Loeb exchanged pleasantries with the new customers, thanking them for their business. He looked around the showroom as the car was being backed out. Scrapneck had yet to make his presence known, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Fridays wouldn’t pick up until the evenings at Commonwealth, and Saturday was the most important sales push of the week. The new car sales manager had announced an escalating cash spiff at the morning sales meeting. The spiff started at $20 for the first car, increasing in increments of $20 for the next sale, and paid off retroactively until the close of business on Saturday night. Top salesman for the weekend would also get one of those new Sony Walkmans that all the kids were wearing. Loeb had checked the specs on the box. Apparently, this Walkman had Dolby sound reduction and auto reverse, whatever the hell that was.
A healthy rumble from the lot got Loeb’s attention. He looked outside to see Scrapneck pull up in his Bricklin. Why the hell is he parking in the customer section? Loeb walked outside and helped Scrapneck with the gull-wing door. Loeb’s general sales manager looked rough. His five o’clock shadow was about 20 hours longer. He had forgotten his tie, probably counting on a pre-tied one that most salesmen kept stashed in their desk, in case of condiment stains from takeout accidents. He looked strung out. Loeb had seen it before. He knew Scrapneck could still sell cars, after a quick electric shave and a few Scotch mints. “Rough night, Scrap? Need a wash guy to hose you down?”
Scrapneck swung his legs out, doing the gull-wing limbo. Today’s El Coredo hairpiece selection was a wavy sandy blond, the only part of him that looked right. His cheap sunglasses weren’t dark enough for the approaching noonday sun. He held up his hand to block it as he greeted Loeb. “Late night, boss-man. Working on the books.”
“Everything kosher?”
“Looks like, as far as I can tell. Everything looks paid up. She does good work.”
“Did good work. At least that’s all done with. So, we don’t have to worry about the car?”
Scrapneck had finally made it out of the Bricklin. He steadied himself against the car as he lit a cigarette. “Cops have closed it. Whoever bought it can deal with her ghost, I guess, and the stray catfish in the trunk.”
Loeb chuckled. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.” He moved in closer. “The only thing I do believe in are loose ends. What about this Clairmont guy?”
“No worries there,” said Scrapneck, as he adjusted his belt. “Just a guy who didn’t listen to Constable Finney in school about looking both ways before you cross the street.”
“What about her apartment?”
Scrapneck looked confused. “What about it? It’s a suicide. Done. Over. Nothing to worry about. I told you that’s how the cops would see it. Seriously, we got nothing to worry about.”
“And the Rice Krispies stuff?”
“Rice Krispies?”
“You know, snap, crackle, something-or-other.”
It took Scrapneck a second to realize Loeb was asking about the crack cocaine. “It’s almost ready. The rest of the coke comes in on Monday, gets cooked up, then the street. The first batch is done. My guy is going to do some, what do you call it, market research at the Ex this weekend.”
Loeb moved in closer still. “You better be right about this crackle stuff.”
Scrapneck rolled his eyes. “It’s crack, boss-man. Crackles is pork fat. They serve it in Steinbach. Heart attack on a plate.”
“You’re going to give me a fucking heart attack if any of this shit goes sideways, understand?” Loeb stabbed his finger into Scrapneck’s chest to make his point.
“Hey, owwww!” Scrapneck rubbed at his chest. The stab wasn’t that painful, but it was enough to get his attention. “I get it. Don’t worry about it. It’s all going according to plan.”
Loeb went to finger-stab Scrapneck again, then thought better of it. “Just . . . just make fucking sure, okay?” Loeb kept making the point, stabbing his finger in mid-air. “Just make sure.”
Scrapneck took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that knew nothing of sleep. “Don’t worry, Dick. I’m worrying enough for both of us.”
11:21 a.m.
Steve Mahoney kept watch on the numbers as he rolled west on Portage Avenue in Unit 36. Once he had passed the Deer Lodge Hospital, he knew it would be an apartment building for the estate car pickup. The rest of North Portage was nothing but apartment blocks until almost Moray Street. He checked his hastily scrawled chicken scratch on his clipboard: 2255 Portage, rear, Concord. He remembered Dolores Favel coughing up something about the car being silver. Mahoney knew it would be an easy one to spot. An older AMC product was getting rare enough that it wouldn’t be surrounded by other AMC products.
He slowed to a stop in fron
t of the main entrance to the Silverfish. It must have been something back in the day, Mahoney thought. The Silver Heights Apartments name was spelled out in steel and attached to a mesh background, along with the building number. Most of the motorists driving past would miss the craftmanship, which included a long blade of stylized metal greenery. There were star-shaped metal flowers, culled from a division that wouldn’t be found in any botany textbook. It was 1950s stock art at its finest, standing taller than one of the Silverfish storeys. Rust had erased most of the original paintwork. The windows were large by modern apartment standards, which made it easier to spot the fact that most of the paint that protected them had flaked off years earlier. The brick façade was about the only thing left of the Silverfish that commanded respect.
Mahoney cut through the shopping centre to get to the parking lot. It was only about a quarter full, with most of the tenant vehicles gone for the work day. Mahoney spotted the Concord easily, a late-’70s D/L model, topped off with a burgundy vinyl top. Lipstick on a pig, he thought, as he backed Unit 36 up to the car’s rear bumper: the Concord was nothing more than an AMC Hornet that had been given more facelifts than Phyllis Diller.
A quick dip of the Slim Jim popped the driver’s door. The aroma inside was nothing new for Mahoney; the hot sun had been baking the car’s contents of ash, sweat, and some petrified orange peels for at least a month, judging by the film on the windows. The litter bag on the passenger-side window crank was overflowing. The footwell was full of empty cigarette packs. The front seat had its fair share of burns from hot ash. The ashtray had just been emptied, though with anything but care, judging by the debris field around it.
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