Anyone with eyes could see that Fontaine used. He had a Harry Dean Stanton after a Hunter S. Thompson Las Vegas weekend look about him. He looked 60, with a driver’s license that said he wasn’t quite 40. Crack was one of the few drugs that Fontaine had yet to try. Waller had warned against it. The way Fontaine saw it, his money was his to do as he pleased. He had been able to handle everything else that he had snorted, shot, and swallowed. Why would this shit be any different?
The ice cream riders were starting to arrive. They shared the general sketchy look of their supervisor, with gaunt faces, lanky frames, and twitchy eyes. Fontaine knew that most of them would be customers as well as vendors. The Group of Seven ranged in age from early twenties to mid-fifties. They all looked as though they were related.
Fontaine exited the truck cab, heading to the back of the trailer to off-load the carts. Each cart had received a stock of a hundred rocks, about a 10th of a gram for each. Scrapneck and Waller had decided on $20 a rock. It was a premium, though with zero competition and a get-in-get-out business plan the pricing made sense. Fontaine knew most of the carnies would balk at the price. They would be used to $10 rocks, if they had spent any time in the carnival route Stateside. Fontaine’s riders still had their regular loads from Waller, the drugs that the HRs knew about. The two hundred bucks Waller was offering per rider was over and above the usual take that a rider would make for peddling weed, hash, and pills. The Group of Seven usually threw in the ice cream for free as a bonus. There was little doubt about the crack being a hit, though there still needed to be a solid night of regular sales to keep the HRs eyelids from lifting. Friday nights at the Ex were always good nights for weed and acid, for those wearing all-you-can-ride wristbands. The location was inspired for selling illicit substances. There were the suburban kids with money to burn and the inner-city youth who were only a five-minute bus ride away from the grounds. How they got their money didn’t require a lot of guesswork. The West End was rife with thefts from parked cars and back-lane garage break-ins.
9:02 p.m.
Peter Scrapneck was winding down for the day at Commonwealth Motors. The last customer exited the business office at five minutes shy of nine o’clock. The business manager flashed five fingers to Scrapneck, indicating another full house of protection add-ons. Old-man Loeb had gone home around six, after his wife had informed him earlier in the day that she was heading to the cabin at Big Whiteshell Lake with her girlfriends. He wouldn’t be back till Monday. The front door was firmly locked at nine sharp.
Scrapneck went out one of the auto-locking side doors to check on his Bricklin. The SV-1 was locked up tight and sitting up high on one of the ramps in front of the dealership. If only the gull-wings would stay open, Scrapneck had thought, as he inched the car onto the ramp. It would have looked more airplane than earth-bound. The price was a bit of a reach: $7,995 RARE SPORTS CAR had been drawn with care on three-quarters of the windshield. Scrapneck needed every penny he could get to ensure his cheque didn’t bounce for the realty company on Monday. He didn’t have any issues plating a used car for wheels for the rest of the summer; any of them would be easier to get into than his Bricklin. He knew Friday night at the Ex would be lucrative, but he was still skeptical. There was still the return on investment that Loeb was expecting, plus Waller’s end, and the crack cook. Scrapneck felt that things were getting closer and closer to a successful conclusion for everyone involved. He used his key to re-enter the dealership. The rest of the staff had already left through the rear. He walked around the showroom a few times, doing a wide-and-sloppy figure-eight around the wheeled inventory. I could have this, he thought, as he let his fingers drag along the fenders. He stepped into Dick Loeb’s office, flicking on the light switch. He sat himself down in the well-used chair. He looked up at the buzzing Nash clock.
“That’s the first thing to fucking go.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
June 21, 1985
10:13 p.m.
Steve Mahoney’s touch was bang on, much to the chagrin of the carny at the Skee-Ball Row on the Red River Ex midway. A combination of wrist angle, speed, and follow-through were paying off handsomely. Diana was hanging on to an overstuffed panda bear, with a little red velvet tongue sticking out from its synthetic fur. Mahoney was two throws away from a Lloyds stereo system. The carny was doing everything he could to jinx it with his play-by-play, while using the potential for a big win as a lure for additional marks. “That’s right, folks, big winnah, big winnah comin’ up here, only two throws away, just two throws away, and . . . AND JUST ONE THROW AWAY! Big winnah, folks. WHO’S MY NEXT BIG WINNAH?”
Mahoney rolled his last ball to secure the win. The carny reacted to the ball drop by looking furious and festive at the same time. His exuberance distorted the dried-out speakers of his Skee-Ball PA system. “BIIIIIIIG WINNNNNNAH! A brand new supah-dupah ray-dee-oh stereo cassette record playah for the BIG WINNNNNNAH!!!” The carny motioned Mahoney over to the microphone, but switched it off before he spoke. “No more winnin’ for you tonight, mistah. Time for root beah and Bavarian pizzah, doncha think there-ah, mistah?”
Mahoney played along, trying to guess whether the carny’s voice was an accent or an occupational affliction born of the midway. “No worries there, mistah.” He motioned to the microphone switch. “Let’s find some suckers to make up for the ray-dee-oh.”
The carny gave him a crooked wink as he flipped on the microphone. “All right, mistah! Tell us how easy it is to win this here Skee-Ball. What’s your special secret there-ah, mistah?”
“It’s all in the wrist.” Mahoney mimicked his style at the gathering crowd, a show of skill that maybe one of them would be able to half-master. The wannabes would spend at least 30 dollars trying, usually ending up with the carny’s pity doll for their dates, in hopes that the mark would reinvest. The pity doll made for an excellent study in offshore textile pathos. The sandpaper texture of the fabric, the cheap creepy eyes, even the stuffing felt wrong. It was also a potential case-study for identifying true love, if any professor of the mind chose to make it part of their annual funding requests. The girl who looked at the pity doll sideways was a short term. The one who gripped it as tightly as her arm around her beau would be with him until the end of time.
Mahoney had picked the perfect time to win the stereo. The thunderheads grumbled, released a spat of drizzle, then cleared just enough to showcase the dying sunset. He decided to take the carny’s advice, stopping with Diana at one of the oversized root beer keg stands for a frosty beverage and then to the pizza stand with the Oktoberfest decor. Diana kicked in dessert, springing for a bag of the miniature doughnuts with at least a pound of cinnamon sugar holding in their deep-fried heat. The least-moist of picnic tables presented itself for their midway feast. Diana hung on to her new panda friend with one hand, steadying the slice of pizza in the other. “What did that carny say to you when you won?”
Mahoney smiled. “It wasn’t exactly congratulations.”
“He sure made a big deal out of it, though.”
“They always do. That’s how they let the other carnies know you’re a bad risk.”
“So it’s all rigged?”
“Just like wrestling,” Mahoney confirmed. He kept a firm elbow on the top of the stereo box, something resembling security, as he devoured the pizza slice. Then he remembered. “Aw, fuck!”
Diana stopped digging into the little doughnut bag. “What is it?”
“We can’t go on the Ferris wheel with all this shit.”
Diana looked at her new panda partner with fabricated sorrow. “Awww, sorry Mister Panda. I guess I’ll just have to go on another ride.” She kicked off her left flip-flop and placed her foot firmly into Mahoney’s crotch, the bold flirtation shielded by the picnic table. She held her hands apart to an approximate size. “And you must be ‘this tall’ to ride.”
Mahoney smiled. He checked his front pocket, pushing aside
his new Kin Kar Corvette tickets. The Ferris wheel wouldn’t have happened anyway; there was only one ride coupon left. “Will this do?”
Diana was about to answer when she was interrupted by a commotion on the midway. Even with the clangs and whoops, something else punched through. It was a panicked voice.
“Somebody call an ambulance!
Mahoney turned to see. A pair of St. John Ambulance volunteers were running up to someone lying on a picnic table, obviously in distress. The victim was partially blocked from view by curious onlookers, security guards, and a group of teens who looked like his friends. Judging by what could be seen, it seemed like a young man was having a seizure. “Maybe it’s a bad trip.”
Diana reached for another little doughnut, but she kept her eyes on the developing scene. “I’ve never seen a bad trip like that before.” The convulsions reached a fever pitch. The friends of the patient were looking one of three ways: panicked, tearful, and ready to run like hell. The victim went limp, and one of the St. John attendants jumped on the table to begin administering CPR. Three of the teen’s friends started to back away, slowly, then bursting from the scene at full speed. The other St. John attendant was on his two-way, calling for paramedics, stat. It took a minute for the paramedics to arrive. One of the paramedics readied something in a syringe as the CPR continued. The injection did nothing. Mahoney saw the look on one of the paramedic’s faces as they readied the stretcher, and the nod, the left-to-right nod that never meant anything good. It was the nod of death.
On the drive back to Mahoney’s house, there was little talk of the frantic events that Diana and Mahoney had just witnessed. There would probably be a mention of it in the papers on Saturday if the death nod was correct, maybe a follow-up story if there was any heart-tug to the tale.
Diana wanted to cash in Mahoney’s remaining ride ticket when they arrived at his house. Mahoney obliged, opting for a doggy-style romp that wouldn’t reveal the mood-killing thoughts that were showing up on his face. What the fuck was that kid on? As far as he knew, there weren’t any new concoctions being distributed from the cab of Jerry Waller’s Unit 32. This overdose was downright scary. He wondered if there would be more in short order.
Mahoney’s eyelids fluttered open around 9:30 on Saturday morning. Diana had found just enough meat, potatoes, and recently expired eggs in the fridge to pull off a breakfast hash. A friend paged her as the last morsels left their forks. The phone number that accompanied the page was a reminder for a baby shower that afternoon in Portage la Prairie, a reminder that sent her into the full spastic mode that Mahoney was becoming accustomed to. He dropped her and the panda at her apartment just before 11. She planned to stay overnight in Portage. Mahoney’s Sunday had been earmarked for Petkau’s Falcon. They agreed to meet up at his place Sunday night, eight-ish.
Mahoney stopped for gas on the way back from Diana’s apartment. He grabbed the Saturday edition of the Sentinel, a one-dollar indulgence that included the comics insert and the new TV listings guidebook for the coming week. He saw the small story about the overdose at the bottom of the front page. He pulled his Plymouth off to the side of the pumps to read it.
TEEN CLINGS TO LIFE AFTER SEIZURE AT RED RIVER EX
By Jil McIntosh
A 15-year-old St. James teen is in critical condition at the Health Sciences Centre, after suffering a seizure at the Red River Exhibition late Friday night. Braeden Westmacott, a Grade 10 student at St. James Collegiate, collapsed on the midway of the Ex shortly after 10 p.m. First-aid volunteers from St. John Ambulance gave assistance to Westmacott until paramedics arrived. Westmacott was transferred to the Health Sciences Centre in unstable condition, which has since been upgraded to critical condition as of press time. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Winnipeg Police Department at 986-6222.
Mahoney put the paper down on the seat. Making this a police matter right out of the gate meant this wasn’t a nut allergy gone wrong. The Westmacott kid had OD’d, plain and simple. It could have been any number of products, though it was most likely something that fell under the distribution arm of the Heaven’s Rejects. Mahoney wondered if Jerry Waller had sold the kid the dose. He wasn’t sure if he cared one way or another. The only thing on his mind today was assuming full ownership of his Hot Rod. He opened up the Saturday Classified section of the Sentinel. The Personals section had the ad Mahoney was looking for:
MADAME MARIE
PSYCHIC READINGS
MASTER OF THE MYSTICAL TAROT
BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
CALL THE CHOCOLATE SHOP
947-9109
268 PORTAGE AVENUE
Mahoney circled the ad with a well-chewed pencil from the grubby dashboard and headed for the pay phone next to the gas station’s icebox.
Chapter Twenty-Six
June 22, 1985
1:04 p.m.
Peter Scrapneck couldn’t believe his good fortune. The new owner of his former Bricklin SV-1 was waiting to exit onto Portage Avenue, blissfully unaware that one of his brake lights was out. The recent graduate from Kelvin High School had been promised a car for his successful completion of the 12th grade. His dad didn’t seem too impressed with the choice, considering that a new Renault Encore with a warranty was also priced at the same $7,995 ask that was on the 11-year-old Bricklin’s windshield. The base Encore was a non-starter: the kid couldn’t drive stick. However, he did have the upper body strength needed to fling up the Bricklin’s gull-wing door like it was made of cardboard.
The showroom was thick with traffic. Three Cherokees had just received the “SOLD TO A NICE CUSTOMER” placards on their rearview mirrors. The used car department had just sold the Impala coupe that was part of the recent American shipment, with an extended warranty, plus a $200 service fee to change the miles-per-hour speedometer to kilometres. The owner of the Fast Pink Lady courier company had just inked a deal with the fleet department for six Encores. There was even a deal pending on the ’84 Renault Fuego Turbo that had been on the lot since last February, a car so loathed by management that it had earned a $200 spiff to get it off the lot at any price. Scrapneck cringed slightly at the prospects of the lot-rot that would gum up the semi–sports car’s mechanicals in short order. Maybe he could get the new owner to trade it in on a new Cherokee in the fall.
Scrapneck’s high was natural. There were still the remnants of heroin and cocaine in his bloodstream, though this sensation wasn’t as illicit as the current urine analysis would have shown, if Commonwealth Motors had cared about such things. Waller had dropped off the previous night’s take from the Ex, as well as his own crack sales from the cab of Unit 32. The cancelled leases for Loeb’s rooftops would be easily secured. The kilo of coke due for Monday would also be covered, thanks to the ongoing sales push for the crack derivative. He even had enough left over for lunch for the staff. The scent of Gondola Pizza wafted through the showroom.
Waller had explained how the rest of the month should go for the remaining crack stock, as well as the new shipment. “We don’t want to poke the bear,” he’d warned, as he handed Scrapneck the manila envelope of cash from his Corvette’s front seat office. “We’ll stay away from the Ex till Monday. There’s plenty of weekend junkie-business that we’ll do well off of, plus the bored kids in the housing projects. We’re gonna sell a lot of ice cream.”
“Was there any trouble?” said Scrapneck. “Any ODs or freaky shit?”
“Just one,” said Waller. “That’s a regular night at the Ex. And that’s why we’ll stay away this weekend. Don’t want the narcs to get wise.”
Scrapneck agreed. “So, by the end of the summer, we’ll be kinda rich. What are you going to do with your share?”
Waller stretched out in the driver’s seat. “I’ve got my eye on a fishing lodge north of Kenora. American plan, on Separation Lake. It’s amazing what those rich assholes will pay for eating fresh pickerel full of mercury over a campfire
. And it’s only May to September. Maybe get a condo in Florida for the winter.”
“Make sure I get a couple of weeks at the condo,” said Scrapneck. “As for the black flies and fish guts, you’re on your own.”
Waller smiled as he fired up the Corvette. He chirped the tires as he headed towards the rear exit of the Commonwealth lot. Scrapneck watched him as he left. He wondered how long before he had enough money to buy Dick Loeb out. Waller had said by the end of the summer.
Scrapneck looked over at the shit-brown Dodge Aspen, tagged with his dealer plate. He decided he didn’t want to wait that long.
June 22, 1985
2:57 p.m.
Steve Mahoney waited patiently at the Chocolate Shop Restaurant on Portage Avenue, wedged into a booth where the hostess had left him. He had cleaned himself up somewhat, with a shave detail around his moustache and sideburns, a fresh blue shirt untucked over the cleanest dirty jeans he owned. The Chocolate Shop was a favourite destination for those who enjoyed a vague foretelling of their future. One patron was hunched forward in awe, as her tarot card reader explained the meaning behind the King of Pentacles, The Lovers, and the card of Death, which apparently wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Mahoney’s eavesdropping stole his focus long enough to believe that Madame Marie Marshall had simply materialized in front of him. She certainly looked the part of her profession: a deep red velvet dress with a shawl of black lace and poker-straight black hair that hung past her shoulders. Her nails were long, with multiple coats of blood-red polish. Mahoney couldn’t put a guess on her age. Maybe 40, maybe 50, maybe even 60. Something told him that he shouldn’t even put the number into his mind, for fear that she would immediately see it with her hazel eyes and tear out his heart for his insolence. She stared at him with an intensity that was anything but comfortable, her face expressionless as she spoke. “It is an invitation to darkness to listen to the fortunes of another without express invitation.”
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