Mahoney felt the words hit his mind like hot oil. “I’m, I, I mean, I . . .” Mahoney felt as though his throat was closing off, the way that Darth Vader could close off throats. He struggled to find the words. He decided on formality, with a touch of Chiller Thriller Theatre for effect. “Madame Marie, I seek the help that only you can provide.”
The medium seemed pleased by his answer. Her smile broadened. She closed her eyes and instinctively reached for Mahoney’s hands. She massaged his fingers, cocking her head slowly from one side to another, stopping every so often with a twitch or a tick that must have been terribly important. Mahoney did his best to keep a straight face. He didn’t know if it was all an act. Even if it was, it was well worth the $40 he’d paid for the performance.
Madame Marie’s eyes fluttered open. She looked intensely into his eyes. “You have a secret that you are afraid to share; a secret that few mortals would ever be able to comprehend. Is that correct?”
Don’t we all have secrets? Mahoney didn’t think that this statement was more than a 50-50 chance in the realm of clairvoyance. At the same time, she wasn’t wrong in saying it. “That is correct, Madame Marie. I heard on the radio how you can, uhm, how you can, uhm, talk to the, talk to the . . .”
“The dead?”
“Yes, exactly. Talk to the dead. Yes.”
Madame Marie closed her eyes again. After a minute of head bobs, she opened her eyes. “The spirit is not here.”
No shit, Sherlock. “That is correct. She’s not here. She’s . . .”
“In your house?”
“No, not in my house, she’s . . .”
“A she. A former love?”
“What? No, we’ve never . . .”
“An unrequited love, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t, I mean I don’t think . . . anyway, she’s in my car.”
“In your what?”
“My car. It’s a Camaro. A Chevrolet. A nineteen—”
“The spirit is in your car?”
“Yes! Exactly. She’s in my car. She died in the car. And she won’t leave.”
Madame Marie closed her eyes again. After a minute more of twitches and bobs, she opened her eyes. “I will speak to the spirit in the car.”
Mahoney was relieved. “Thank you, Madame Marie, I appreciate . . .”
“One hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Say again?”
“This is my standard fee to cleanse a domicile. I have not yet had such a request for a motor vehicle, though I do feel that this qualifies as the same realm.”
Mahoney did the math in his head. He had spent almost three times that amount for his car stereo when it was new. Not hearing voices and not seeing dead people would certainly make for a more enjoyable ownership experience. “When can you . . .”
“Tonight,” said Madame Marie. “It must be tonight, the witching hour.”
“I can do that. Should I bring the car here?”
“No. I shall come to you.”
“Alright. I’m at —”
“Plus twenty dollars for gas.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “And twenty dollars for gas.”
Madame Marie removed a card from an ornate holder on the table. She slid the card towards Mahoney. “Write the address down and give the card to the hostess. I will be there . . . at midnight.” The medium closed her eyes and bowed her head. Mahoney didn’t know what to do. She broke the silence after a solid minute with a mediocre whisper. “You can go now. My 3:30 is here.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
June 22, 1985
11:42 p.m.
Mahoney was worried. An I-should-have-told-you-about-my-plans kind of worried, since he hadn’t informed the late Heather Price about the visitor that would be arriving to meet her in the next few minutes. She said that she wanted to go home. Mahoney had opened the garage door, inviting in the warmth of an evening usually suited for late July. He thought about what Madame Marie had asked him at The Chocolate Shop. Unrequited love. How could he be in love with someone who was already dead?
Mahoney busied himself with under-hood checks of the Camaro’s condition while he waited. There were no new leaks. Oil consumption was practically nil. The drive belts were right tight. Other than the four-wheel lock-up event near Bird’s Hill Park, the Hot Rod had seen little stress since it returned to the road. He saw headlamps in the driveway as he closed the Camaro’s hood. He turned to see a car that most people wouldn’t expect a medium to drive: a rusty white ’73 Chevy Vega Kammback, with woodgrain panelling holding most of it together. Well, the Vegas were kinda scary, Mahoney thought. He had dealt with enough of their evil tendencies while working at Terry Balkan.
Madame Marie exited her suburb-friendly compact, wearing the same outfit that she had worn at The Chocolate Shop that afternoon, with the addition of oversized amber-tinted glasses that she must have needed to drive. She carried a small black bag, the kind that was normally seen in the hands of doctors making house calls in black-and-white movies. She offered no greeting, walking past Mahoney to his workbench. She removed something that looked like a band of twigs from the bag. She rummaged further. “I require sacred fire.”
“Fire?”
“Yes, to light the sage.”
Mahoney had nothing in his garage that qualified as sacred, as far as he knew. He grabbed a propane torch from the workbench, lighting it with a flint striker. “Will this do?”
Madame Marie nodded. She turned the bundle of sage slowly in the outer reaches of the blue flame. Once it was lit, Madame Marie let the bundle burn for a moment, then smudged out the flame in one of the ashtrays on the bench. She walked the smoky stalk around the Camaro three times, waving the sage in a slow weaving motion. “This will help to diminish the negative energy of the spirit.” Judging by the smell, Mahoney figured it would make Heather Price as mad as Dolores Favel was whenever he lit up a Colt in the Hook Me Up office.
Madame Marie asked Mahoney for a place to lay the smouldering sage. He looked around the garage, finding a battered wheel cover that was hanging on a nearby nail. She produced a hand fan that must have been tucked up the sleeve of her red velvet dress and used it to spread the smoke throughout the garage. Mahoney knew it was only a matter of time until Madame Marie started to recite something, something that ghosts were supposed to respond to. She closed her eyes for effect. “Greetings to you, oh lost and gracious spirit. I am the Great Madame Marie. I have come to you at this, the witching hour, to ask your favour, to assist you in the journey that will release you from this earthly realm and bring you to the afterlife you desire. I command you to reveal yourself . . . NOW!”
Mahoney was squinting slightly as the medium spoke, tightening his eyelids as the command to the late Heather Price was spoken. He was sure that some form of intense light would fill the garage and the Camaro, the garage doors would slam behind them. Then, if all the Video Stop horror movies that Mahoney had rented could be believed, the floor of the garage would open, sending Mahoney, Madame Marie, and the Hot Rod to the bowels of Hell.
Mahoney waited for the lightning strike and the thunder crack. They didn’t come. The radio didn’t start playing by itself. There were no bubbles of soft, shimmering light inside the Camaro, or anywhere else in the garage. The only sound was the buzzing from the fluorescent light fixtures overhead. Even the stench of Loveday’s mushroom manure was the same pungent aroma it always was. Maybe she’s gone, Mahoney thought. Maybe the car is finally mine.
Madame Marie thought so. “The spirit that had inhabited your vehicle has left us. She has gone over to the other side, and is at peace.”
Mahoney was skeptical. “That quick? How do you know for sure?”
“A professional knows. This car is clean.”
Mahoney remembered where he had heard that before, from another so-called professional, right after the cleansing of the house
in Poltergeist. That flick had cost Mahoney a six-dollar late charge at Video Stop. He asked about Madame Marie’s customer service policy. “So what if the ghost comes back?”
The medium was not impressed. “Are you doubting my ability?”
“It’s not so much a doubting,” said Mahoney. “I’m asking for, like, just in case.”
Madame Marie closed her eyes again. After a minute, she opened them. She smiled at Mahoney. “There are no wandering spirits here. The realm is empty. I have brought you peace.” She gathered her tools into her physician’s satchel. She bowed slightly to Mahoney as she held out her hand for payment. “That will be one hundred and seventy dollars.”
Mahoney handed her eight twenties and two fives.
June 23, 1985
12:37 a.m.
Peter Scrapneck had just untied the rubber tubing from his left arm. He hoped that the hit, mixed with his daily coke regimen, would assist him in finding the nerve — the same nerve that Waller had exerted without hesitation when faced with Heather Price in full overdose. How am I going to get rid of that tow-truck fuck? He leaned back in his recliner. Waller was the lowest character he knew, not counting the cook who was awaiting the next kilo of coke. He didn’t know the crack cook well enough to bring him on board. The guy could just as easily inform Waller there was a hit coming, and then it would be Peter Scrapneck’s mug on the front page of the Sentinel and his body being removed from a soggy shit-brown Dodge Aspen with a dealer plate attached. No, if Waller was to go, Scrapneck would have to do it himself. That was the only way to speed up his payout.
Scrapneck noticed movement outside. There was a good chunk of moon overhead, with enough light and a clear sky to illuminate the young buck that was sampling his sod. Scrapneck knew he had to be the buck: He knew that Waller didn’t see any of those qualities in him, especially after the night Heather Price went into the river. Waller was the alpha male. Waller was the hero that night. He’d been the fixer. Scrapneck let that idea swim with the chemicals in his brain. Then it hit him with acute clarity: Waller can’t say no to a call for help. ANY call. Scrapneck figured that it was part alpha exertion, part self-preservation, in the case of Heather Price, and part old-fashioned job description, as the dealership and Hook Me Up had a long-standing contract. When he had made the panicky call from the dealership, Waller was there faster than one of the shit-kicked yellow Chevettes from Gondola Pizza. When a call went out for a run-of-the-mill tow from Commonwealth, Waller jumped to the legitimate duty just as quickly. Scrapneck knew that he could lure Waller to the scene of his ultimate demise.
And he wouldn’t need a body to do it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
June 23, 1985
10:47 a.m.
Mahoney steadied the Salisbury House coffee in his right hand as he headed north on Highway 59, towards Howard Petkau’s former schoolhouse. The Hot Rod had started that morning like a freshly minted 1985 model. The Supertuner fed the 92 CITI FM Sunday morning classics through the speaker cones. The DJ must have needed to drop a deuce. That usually meant one of three songs on CITI FM: the full version of “Time Has Come Today” by the Chambers Brothers, the fattest run of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” by Iron Butterfly, or the current weirdness, a 13-minute telling of the demise of the Titanic by Jaime Brockett. Mahoney figured the DJ must have had a touch of the 26-ounce flu to choose that track.
The RCMP had pulled over an older Winnebago near the exit to Bird’s Hill Park. That meant they’d be busy for a while. Mahoney waited till he was just past the park entrance to toss the coffee cup and drop the shifter into second. He held the throttle to the floor, ignorant of the speedometer reading, slapping the shifter forward just enough to avoid neutral once the tachometer crested the 4,800-rpm mark. The soundtrack was now a Humble Pie standard, “30 Days in the Hole,” mixed with small-block Chevy. Mahoney chimed in for the chorus.
The crew was already under Petkau’s Falcon, fine-tuning the alignment of the dual exhaust piping, when Mahoney pulled up. “Not too low,” said Petkau, as he eyeballed the driver’s side section from the rear of the hoist as Fiddler and Scheer adjusted the hangers. “Not with all these new speed bumps they’re putting in the parking lots.”
“I scraped my crossmember on one at the IGA,” said Scheer, holding the pipe at the right height as Fiddler tightened the clamp. “I think they owe me some paint.”
Mahoney looked at the pipe. “I think you can tuck it in another half-inch.”
Scheer went for the low-flying fruit. “Didn’t your new girlie say that the other night?”
“Ouch,” said Fiddler. “Or, I guess she won’t be saying ouch if there’s still room.”
“Hey, stop talking pussy and hold the pipe,” said Petkau. “Now it’s too low!”
Mahoney stepped in with an extra hand as Fiddler tightened the clamp. Petkau eyeballed the two pipes against the bottom of the rear bumper. “Eh, we’re out by a quarter of an inch.”
“That’s not the pipe,” said Scheer. “That’s your bent-up bumper.”
Petkau protested. “Bent? It’s straight as an arrow!”
“It’s bent,” said Scheer. He went for the automotive jugular. “Just like everything else on a Ford.”
Petkau bristled. “Fuck you, Rickle-Dick. Hey, Fiddy, help me out here.”
Fiddler was busy checking the connections at the exhaust headers. “If you think this car’s bent now, wait till Howie hits the gas pedal. It’s gonna twist in half with that Cleveland under the hood.”
The good-natured bashing of Petkau’s Ford continued. Mahoney felt his stomach growl. “Hey, Fiddy, what did your mom make for lunch today?”
“She’s doing up a stew,” said Fiddler. “Brought Gramma too.”
Mahoney’s eyes lit up. “We get fresh bannock too?” Fiddler would head out to Peguis on most weekends, bringing his mother and grandmother into the city for Saturday shopping. Stores were closed tight on Sunday, and after a few too many visits to the zoo, Fiddler would bring his mother and grandmother along during his visits to Petkau’s garage. They were mechanics of all things food, quickly overtaking Petkau’s schoolhouse kitchen. Mahoney cast his nose into the air of the shop. The stew was a given, the fresh-baked bread hard to detect.
“Fresh yesterday,” said Fiddler. “That’s like a workout for her now. She’s like eighty-four, man.”
“Evan! I’m only eighty-three.” The crew turned to see Maria Fiddler in the doorway. She steadied herself with the door frame on her left and used a hospital-issue cane to manage her right. No one in the family called her by her first name, which included the extended family that was the crew. It was Gramma for Fiddy, Biddy for everyone else. She grabbed the door frame tight, aiming her cane at her grandson to punctuate her disapproval. “Evan, if you want to get a wife and keep a wife, never give her more age than she’s got.” Biddy’s speech was a little jumbled, which meant her teeth were probably back home on the reserve. She brought the cane back down to hobble into the shop, an official frame of five feet that was hunched over to four-foot-six, and had been for the last five years. The march of time had tried to shrink her into submission with various health issues, with little success. Mahoney knew she was back in her garden a week after her last stroke in May. Her cheek had dropped slightly on her right side as a result, the accompanying eye in a permanent state of squint. She looked up at the Falcon on the hoist. “What kind of car is that?”
Petkau stepped forward. “It’s a ’64 Ford, Biddy. A Falcon.”
“A Ford.” Biddy ambled closer to Petkau. “My husband had a Ford once.” She craned her neck at the undercarriage as the crew listened. “Then he got a job.”
The crew roared with approval. Petkau took it the way a good surrogate grandson always should. Biddy ambled away from the crew into the midday sign, using the fenders of the crew’s cars to steady her stroll. Fiddler’s mother, Ada, appeared at the doorway, drying her h
ands on a well-worn tea towel. She was the spitting image of Biddy, but in her early 50s, without a squint, a cane, and the effects of a stroke to slow her down. “Lunch is ready, come get it while it’s hot!” Ada’s stew was the stuff of legend, with Biddy’s best potatoes, turnips, and a mix of Interlake rabbit, moose, and venison, a ratio that varied throughout the year with what was in the freezer and what was in season. Biddy’s bannock would ensure that the plates were wiped squeaky clean.
The interior of the former Highland Glen School had little remaining that spoke of school days, except for the kitchen, and two former boys and girls bathroom doors that had become an oversized dining room table. The signs for Dick and Jane were still screwed tight to the doors, which were mounted on sawhorses culled from scrap lumber. The rest of the space was at least two years away from being renovated, with gutted walls, naked framing, loose drywall sheets, and a few buckets placed strategically around the house for the leaks from the flat roof. Petkau had hung a protective tarp over his most prized indoor possession, a massive Sony VideoScope projection TV. The curved screen was about three times as big as a regular console unit. Petkau had picked it up at a sheriff’s auction last summer. It was fed by a satellite dish on the front lawn that looked big enough to talk to ham radio operators on Jupiter.
The crew dug into the lunch, worrying little about the ladle slop that was splashing the makeshift table. Ada shook her head. “I don’t know why we use a table. You boys could get by with a trough.”
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