Mahoney's Camaro

by Michael Clark

  Mahoney found the spare set of keys where most people stashed a set: under the car, in a little magnetic box that advertised boldly that it was the Magnetic Key Holder, and that you were Never Locked Out, in shiny gold letters. It was usually the first thing a thief, or a seasoned tow truck driver, would look for. The Concord started with minimal protest. Mahoney straightened the wheels, then secured the steering wheel with a length of rope, closing the driver door on the loose ends to keep the front wheels from wandering during the tow. He added a few extra knots to make sure.

  It was just after noon when Mahoney pulled into the Hook Me Up compound. He didn’t bother with a gingerly drop, not for a car that wasn’t going anywhere but an estate auction. He grabbed the keys and headed into the office. The door buzzer tone was more of a flat than a sharp today as he entered. Dolores Favel was just hanging up the phone when he lobbed the Concord’s keys at her. She was quick enough to catch them, but was not impressed that she had to exert herself. She looked at the keys, then at Mahoney. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The reggie, dipshit.”

  Mahoney realized he’d left the registration in the car. “Shit.” He raised his open left hand for the key lob. Dolores threw the keys wide to the right, so far that it wasn’t even worth the stretch to try to catch them. Mahoney exhaled as he bent down to pick them up. “Remind me not to tap you for softball pitcher.”

  “You almost hit me in the head with those fucking keys.”

  “And a scar wouldn’t be an improvement?”

  “Fuck you, Baloney.”

  “Fuck you, Delectable.”

  As Mahoney walked through the compound, one of the guard dogs followed him to the Concord. He opened the passenger side door, looking for the usual spots to stow a registration. The rubber bands on the visors didn’t hold the paper, just a few parking lot slips and some coupons for Jet Car Wash, the full-service place off Portage. The glove compartment was full of service receipts, mostly from Commonwealth Motors. That was the dealer sticker on the trunk lid too. He found the registration at the bottom of the pile, a blue vinyl wallet that most insurance agents gave out. This one had gold lettering for Saper Agencies on the cover. Mahoney knew that the wallets didn’t necessarily mean that the registration was inside; he flipped it open to check. The German-ish Shepherd standing next to the car cocked its head to the left at the sight of Mahoney’s facial expression.

  The Concord was registered to Heather Price.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  June 21, 1985

  1:07 p.m.

  Peter Scrapneck rummaged through his bottom desk drawer for the spare charger for his pager. Both units were stone dead. He then rummaged underneath his desk for an empty plug. Unaware that there was a considerable length of laminated particleboard directly above his hairpiece, he hit his head hard on the way out. After a quick curse, he planted himself in his chair. He winced at the pain as he pulled his hand mirror out of the top desk drawer. He assessed the damage. He smiled. He still looked like a million bucks.

  Scrapneck had to run back out to the Bricklin to fetch his briefcase. He had brought in a few of the files that Heather Price had doctored. He was hoping for an amazing sales weekend, and it had nothing to do with cars. Scrapneck had cancelled 12 of the rooftop contracts in Winnipeg, contracts that had been made through Dick Loeb’s shell companies to secure the space for future cellular antenna arrays. He had needed the cash to help with the start-up costs on the crack cocaine lab. Now he had to get them back, before Loeb noticed anything hinkey in the accounting. Any new leases would be just like renting an apartment: first and last month up front, times 12.

  Price had kept the cancellations as simple as possible for point of contact, with rooftop sites that were controlled by one property management agency. Scrapneck keyed in the number on his desk phone. The call was answered on the second ring. “Don’t toss, ring Ross Realty, how may I help you?”

  Scrapneck adjusted himself in his chair, leaning forward. His voice was half volume. “Hi, I was wondering who I would speak to . . .”

  “Could you speak up please, sir?”

  “Uh, yeah, sorry about that. I wanted to speak to the property management department, please.”

  “Please hold.”

  Scrapneck tapped his fingers to a Muzak version of Gordon Lightfoot’s “Rainy Day People.” Twenty seconds later, a man answered, quick and sharp. “Ross Realty Property Management, Curtis Craven speaking.”

  Scrapneck looked around from his half-walled office before he spoke. “Yeah, uh, yes. I’m calling on behalf of Skyview Ventures. We had some rooftop leases that were cancelled about four months ago that we need to secure again.”

  “Skyview?” Mr. Craven seemed confused at first. “Skyview, Skyview. Let me see here. Skyview.” Scrapneck heard the telltale sound of a file cabinet door being opened and closed. “Skyview Ventures . . . here it is. Leases cancelled February 28th, possible renewal noted. Is that the reason for the call, uh, Mister . . .?”

  “Scrapneck. I believe you had spoken to my associate, Heather Price?”

  “Can’t say for sure, Mr. Scrapneck. So, you want to lease the sites again, correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scrapneck. Let me put you on hold for a moment.”

  Scrapneck listened as the Muzak played the next tune in the voiceless Gordon Lightfoot mix. It sounded like “Carefree Highway.” He heard almost 30 seconds of it before Craven returned. “Mr. Scrapneck? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Yes, Mr. Scrapneck, the leases are still available. We can do the five-year term you had specified. And the rate was . . .”

  Scrapneck knew the rate: $575 a month. It still seemed pricey for a place to bolt an antenna. “I think it was about five-something,”

  “Yes, it was five seventy-five per month. And it is now . . .”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Scrapneck, but there has been an adjustment.”

  “What kind of fucking adjustment?”

  Craven wasn’t fazed by the F-sharp. “We’ve been tracking rooftop tower site leases since the initial interest in Winnipeg over the last year, after the Cantel plans broke.”

  “How much?”

  “For the sites that Skyview has specified, the new rate on the five-year lease is eight seventy-five per month.”

  “That’s fucking bullshit!”

  “No sir, that’s the current market value for Winnipeg. Other cities are already speculating between twelve hundred to fifteen hundred a month, perhaps twenty-five hundred a month in certain markets by 1987. It would be an opportune time to lock in now for the five years. Can I do up the paperwork for you?”

  Scrapneck felt the sweat starting beneath his adhesive tape. Eight-fucking-seventy-five per goddamn month! He did the quick math on his desk calculator. First and last month up front, times 12 sites. He stretched the handset cord for a moment before he returned it to his mouth. “So, what you’re saying is you’ll need twenty-one grand to secure the sites, is that correct?”

  “Plus the government’s share,” said Craven. “Can I get the paperwork ready?”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Sir?”

  Scrapneck found the half-cup of composure he needed. “Yeah, do up the paperwork. I’ll have the cheque to you on Monday.”

  “Certified cheque, please.”

  “Yeah, certi-fucking-fied cheque.”

  “Have a good weekend, sir.”

  “Yeah, don’t get hit by a bus or anything.” Scrapneck threw the handset on the desk. With what he had in the bank, his wallet, and the outlay for the second key of coke arriving on Monday, he knew one thing for sure: he was 17 grand light. He picked up the handset and punched the button for the outside line. His call was picked up on the th
ird ring. “National Pagette call centre, can I have the pager code number please?”

  “One, zero, four, two.”

  “And the message?”

  “See you at the Ex.”

  1:23 p.m.

  Jerry Waller felt the buzz on his hip as he ate lunch in the front seat of his Corvette Stingray at the Dairy-Wip Drive-In. He pulled his new Motorola Optrx that Peter Scrapneck had recommended out of its holster to read the message. He smiled. He put the rest of his cheeseburger on the dashboard as he exited the car, heading over to the wall-mounted pay phone. It was a new phone, not as greasy as the last one that had been marinated with years of salt and oil. He flipped open a little black book for the needed number. He dialled, hung up, then dialled again. The voice was unsure at first. “Wallbanger?”

  “Yeah, Ray,” said Waller. “It’s me. Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, boss-man’s out getting new bells. Are we good to go?”

  “Yeah, we’re good to go. How many guys working the Ex tonight?”

  “The Group of Seven. They’re all cool, Ray Fontaine–approved. Two hundred a head?”

  “Only if they sell out, a hundred if they don’t. And I know exactly what I’m handing out, so no fucking around. I get everything back that don’t sell, okay?”

  “It’s cool. Still four hundred for me?”

  “Like we talked about.”

  “So, do I get a taste of this new shit or what?” Fontaine pushed.

  Waller hesitated. He knew it wasn’t a good idea to start handing out samples, especially to subordinates like Fontaine, who were either full-blown junkies or apprentices-in-training. Anyone with Videon or Cablevision could tune into the coverage of the ravages of crack from the American television-feed every night. “Ray, I don’t think you wanna go down this road. This is fucking hardcore, no-coming-back kinda shit. It’s at least Smack Light. I’ll get you some better weed instead, okay? How about some coke?”

  “Yeah, sure I guess. Okay.”

  “And Ray?”

  “What?”

  “I’m keeping track. For real. Don’t fuck me around on this shit, understand?”

  “Okay, Wallbanger. It’s all good.”

  The call ended. Jerry Waller returned to his cheeseburger.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  June 21, 1985

  2:47 p.m.

  Steve Mahoney had yet to dig into Heather’s car at the Hook Me Up compound. First, he needed a reason to go into the compound, which meant dropping off another car. The two-way in Unit 36 had been pretty quiet for a Friday afternoon. The spare change in his pocket was enough to call Diana about the Ex. The forecast was 50-50 for thundershowers, the expected forecast for any evening the Red River Exhibition was in town. Diana gave the okay for a 7 p.m. pickup at her apartment. The Ex took over the parking asphalt at the Winnipeg Stadium, a sizable chunk of Empress Street, and much of the property for the Winnipeg Velodrome. The Winnipeg Arena was stuffed with vendors, hawking everything from miracle knives to the world’s smallest juicer. Some of them even had PA systems to heighten the excitement. Mahoney would only venture inside if the sky opened up. The hawkers were worse than the carnies on the midway.

  Was there anything in the car? Mahoney knew it was anyone’s guess. The late Heather Price remembered little of the events that had led to her current place of residence in the Hot Rod’s cabin. Mahoney remembered the most recent of interactions, how Price felt more human than spectral. Could she leave the car if she wanted to? Mahoney was deep in thought and halfway through his Pepsi Slurpee lunch when the radio crackled to life. “Base to thirty-six, base to thirty-six, what’s your twenty? Over?”

  “Just gassed up. Watt and Talbot, over.”

  Dolores cleared her throat. “Got a lockout, Richardson Building parkade on Lombard, second level, brown Pontiac J2000, plate number five-eight-three delta-bravo-tango, over.”

  Shit, fucking lockout. “Got it. Is owner with car? Over.”

  “Yeah, owner with car, locked her kid in it. Freaking out. Over.”

  “Got it, freak-out lockout, brown Pontiac Richardson, on my way. Over and out.”

  The lockout took about five minutes to pop, the mother in a state of complete meltdown, while the toddler within amused himself by gnawing on a Little Golden Book. At least the car wasn’t in the hot sun. The Pontiac had plenty of previous lockout entries, judging by the battered driver’s door window-rubber on a three-year-old car. He gave the mother the empty key locker-box that he had retrieved from Heather Price’s Concord. Mahoney knew that Larry Ballendine wouldn’t approve of the generosity. He swore the mother to secrecy.

  Summertime construction was in full swing in the downtown, which made for slow going. Mahoney had hoped to be out of the downtown by 3:30 when the calls for the no-parking removals would start. Dolores the dispatcher had crackled his two-way speaker at 3:25: at least four imminent illegal parkers on Kennedy Street, next to the law courts complex. It was the city contract, a must-go. Two of those vehicles were probably police units. Mahoney made it just in time to see that three of them were unmarked cruisers, most likely detectives who were testifying for court cases. One of the other Hook Me Up trucks had already hoisted an offending Ford Pinto by the time Mahoney arrived. Shit, Mahoney thought. Nothing for the compound.

  Mahoney was home by 5:30, and freshened up by just after 6. He decided on the Plymouth for transportation. Most of the parking lots around the Ex were of the five-dollar variety. That annual surprise would always amp up people’s anger flinging their doors in frustration into the cars parked next to them, not to mention the whining kids in the back seats who were in desperate need of cotton candy and rides that maximized their upside-down time. He fiddled with the AM radio as he backed out of the Video Stop. The late fees had cut into his carny budget by 90 bucks. He hoped his aim was true.

  The Plymouth’s sound system was usually parked on one of the two AM rock/pop stations in Winnipeg: 13 CFRW or KY-58. Mahoney’s preset switch punches weren’t finding them, unless you counted unintelligible static. Manual tuning didn’t seem to help. Perhaps the thunderhead clouds massing overhead had something to do with it. Mahoney stopped dialling when he hit the only station of strength. The announcer came in strong and purposeful. “From coast to coast on CBC Radio and around the world on shortwave, this is As It Happens.”

  He listened to the theme music, a catchy jazz tune that he’d heard before, on the odd occasions that the radio dial would land on the CBC. Alan Maitland and Peter Downie chimed in their greetings. It was white noise at best. At least, it was until Mr. Maitland began the segue into the first story. “We begin tonight with the things that go bump in the night, and a Winnipeg medium who claims that she has not only been able to speak to the dead, but can help counsel these spirits in limbo, assisting them in their journey to the other side. We spoke to Madame Marie Marshall at her favourite haunt, The Chocolate Shop restaurant in downtown Winnipeg.”

  Another voice chimed in. Mahoney figured it had to be the Downie guy. He listened as he drove towards the city centre. “Madame Marie, thank you for joining us tonight.”

  “Good evening, Peter, thank you for the invitation.”

  “Madame Marie, we understand that you have worked as a medium for some time.”

  “Yes, Peter,” the woman replied. “In addition to my regular work with tarot and tea leaves, I have been involved in the field for almost thirty years.”

  “When did you first discover that you had the ability to communicate with those who have passed on?” Mahoney listened a bit more intently.

  “It was actually at a very young age. When I was about four or five, I remember going to my parents’ bedroom almost every night, telling my mother that I couldn’t sleep because it was too loud.”

  “What was too loud?”

  “All of the voices.”

  “What kind of voices?”r />
  Yeah, Mahoney wondered. What kind of voices?

  The Madame continued. “It was as though I was listening to a myriad of conversations, as if a hundred people were all talking at once, desperate to be heard. And not only heard. They wanted to send a message, to let someone know that they were all right, or to warn them.”

  “Warn them of what, exactly?”

  Warn them? Mahoney was doing his best to listen carefully while piloting the Plymouth.

  Miss Marshall continued. “Sometimes, a spirit may wish to communicate a caution of a sort, a subtle advice to someone they care for. A . . .”

  Mahoney was so focused that he didn’t see the red light. He swerved just in time to miss the Beatrice Dairy delivery truck, its angry horn accompanied by equally angry obscenities from the driver, easily seen through the open sliding doors on each side of the van. Madame Marie continued, “with the right skills, I try to relay this information in a way that the living person can understand and act upon.”

  Mahoney scrawled “Marie” and “Choklit” on an old envelope as he waited outside Diana’s apartment. She didn’t seem too impressed by Mahoney’s choice of transportation. “Where’s your Hot Wheel?”

  “Tucked away,” said Mahoney. “Too many door-ding clowns at the Ex.”

  “Not to mention real clowns. They’re just as scary.” She gave him a playful kiss before settling into her seat, struggling with the sticky seatbelt. “I guess there’s more room in this shitbox for all the stuff you’re going to win for me, right?”

  “Don’t forget the trunk,” said Mahoney, thumbing towards the rear. “We still might need two trips.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  June 21, 1985

  8:39 p.m.

  Ray Fontaine sat in the cab of the Ice-Cycle Frozen Treats company truck, a well-worn 1-Ton Dodge with dual rear wheels. The heavy-duty Dodge was used to move multiple ice cream pedal carts to special events. Seven carts were strapped down to a flatdeck trailer, waiting for their riders to arrive at the usual muster point on Westway, next to the Mercury dealership. At the Ex, the shift was nine at night until one in the morning. Fudgesicles, Creamsicles, and ice cream sandwiches took up most of the cart’s cooler cavities. The rest of the space was home to a new flavour that would have its Winnipeg debut at the Ex: Scrapneck and Wallbanger’s Old-Fashioned Crack Cocaine.