Mahoney's Camaro

by Michael Clark

  “Base to thirty-two, base to thirty-two, go for dispatch. Over.” Shit, thought Waller. There was hardly enough time to handle the current docket of illegal activities for Hook Me Up Towing, let alone his new freelance business venture of crack cocaine. A tow, a lockout, a battery boost. What the fuck did they think this is? A tow truck? Waller picked up the mic. “Go for thirty-two. Over.”

  The night dispatcher detailed the call. “Got an illegal park on Kimberly, at the fire hall near Golspie. Over.”

  “You mean it’s on Kimberly or Golspie? Over.”

  “I mean its parked in front of the fire hall. Probably some drunk who got out and walked home. Over.”

  Shit. City contract. Waller knew anything for the City of Winnipeg was a drop-everything-and-roll situation, especially with a new tender expected in September. He hit the mic button for the details. “What am I getting? Over.”

  “A little red Ford hatch, no plates. It’ll be hard to miss. Over.”

  Waller acknowledged and signed off. He headed towards the fire hall.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  June 23, 1985

  11:42 p.m.

  Diana McRae watched the fire hall on Kimberly Avenue through the smudged windshield of Mahoney’s Plymouth. She’d followed him to the rear parking lot of a church on Golspie Street that offered a good view of the front of the fire hall. She had even offered to tuck herself underneath the musty sleeping bag in the back of the EXP. Mahoney explained that as much as he appreciated the gesture, and that she was a far better fit, the dogs in the Hook Me Up yard had no idea who she was and might bite first and ask questions later. He removed her car’s license plates and took the registration from the glove compartment. Then he tucked himself into the hatch and had her drive the car to the fire hall driveway with the lights off. She parked the car in front of the centre door that separated the two overhead doors, then ran across the street, cutting through an unfenced backyard to the back lane that led back to the church. The car’s placement wouldn’t block the fire trucks if a call came in, but its presence would be quickly discovered, probably when one of the night owls went outside for a smoke. Diana watched as a fireman opened the man door. He looked at the Ford. He called to someone inside. Another man appeared at the door. They inspected the vehicle, which they found to be locked. A third man checked on the situation. Judging by his hand gestures, the call for the tow would be imminent.

  It took about 12 minutes for the Hook Me Up tow truck to arrive and another three minutes for the driver to open the car and roll it into position for a front-end tow. There was plenty of room on the fire truck–sized driveway to manoeuvre. The driver switched on the tow truck’s amber beacon. Diana started the Plymouth.

  Steve Mahoney may not have seen the driver that picked up Diana’s EXP, but he knew where he would be going. It took about five minutes until Mahoney felt the washboard surface of the Bowman parking lot, a surface that became even rougher as the truck entered the Hook Me Up compound. The car came down quick and hard into the rutted gravel. Mahoney made a mental note to promise Diana that he could buff out most of the scratches. He listened as he heard the driver unhook. The driver’s side door swung open, hitting whatever was parked next to it. Drakkar Noir. Mahoney figured it had to be Jerry Waller. Mahoney kept quiet as Waller quickly rummaged through the places where spare change might be, better known to the Hook Me Up drivers as “the tip.” Waller pocketed the loot from Diana’s ashtray. What a cheap asshole. Waller locked up the car and headed back to Unit 32. Mahoney heard the truck leave the compound, and the Bowman yard, assured by the sound of the tow truck’s gears being changed as it picked up speed towards Watt Street.

  Mahoney waited another five minutes to be sure before unfolding himself out of the cargo hold. He wriggled through the passage between the bucket seats, opening the passenger door to exit. He was immediately greeted by the guard dogs, licking his face and demanding ear scratches. Mahoney obliged, and the time spent bonding with the canines helped the feeling return to his hatchback-cramped legs. The extra Slim Jim tool that Mahoney had found in the bag of the would-be Camaro thief was at the ready. Mahoney worked it into the weatherstrip of the Concord’s passenger door. He kept an eye on the Hook Me Up office and the rest of the Bowman compound, in case anyone popping outside for a smoke developed a case of curiosity.

  Heather Price’s Concord was still the mess he remembered. He pulled a cheap flashlight out of his pocket to check the interior. He fished through the fast food bags, looking for anything that could have had some importance. The glove compartment presented no additional clues. He was trying to figure out how to get into the trunk when he realized that the Concord was a hatchback model, something he hadn’t remembered from the tow at the Silverfish. He folded down the rear seatback, revealing a well-stuffed cargo hold of empty washer fluid bottles, jumper cables, an old snowmobile suit, a compact snow shovel, and a few shopping bags with the Eaton’s logo on them. The bags were in varying degrees of half-empty and full, stuffed with paper. He checked under the front seats, finding a few plastic bags that had been tied shut. They might be important. He threw the additional items into the half-empty Eaton’s bags. He was just about ready to leave when he noticed another bag at the rear of the cargo area, a dark blue vinyl travel bag, with Wardair Canada written in white script. It had some heft to it. He added it to the pile. He also had plans for the snowsuit.

  Mahoney carried the bags to the rear of the compound. The chain-link fencing had seen better days, thanks to a few impacts from cars that had been dropped a little too quickly. This was where the junk lived, like the old milk truck that the guard dogs were squatting in. As bent as the fence was, the barbed wire on the top was still intact. A rusted-out Dodge Tradesman boogie van with teardrop rear windows would supply the ladder, a small aluminum unit bolted to one of the rear doors for roof access. Mahoney took two trips to get the bags to the top of the van. He could see Diana parked on Raleigh Street in his Plymouth. The bags were easy enough to toss to the other side. Mahoney laid the snowsuit on top of the barbed wire. He could still feel the sharp bits as he slid over, but he wasn’t slicing himself open in the process. The guard dogs watched as he retrieved the bags. Diana had seen him coming. She pushed open the passenger side door to help with the getaway. “Looks like you found some stuff.”

  “Yeah, there’s stuff all right.” Mahoney threw the bags into the back seat and got in the front. “Let’s hope that whatever she’s looking for is in here.”

  Diana put the Plymouth into drive. “Are we going to show her now?”

  Mahoney looked out at the night sky. A full moon was shining back. “Tonight’s probably as good a night as any.”

  “I hope she’s not cranky.”

  Mahoney nodded. “I hope so, too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  June 24, 1985

  12:21 a.m.

  Steve Mahoney flicked on the overhead fluorescents. He grabbed a well-used Black & Decker Workmate to use as the presentation table for what was in the bags from Heather’s car. Diana grabbed a couple of short shop stools with wheels from a dusty corner. Mahoney opened the driver’s side door of the Camaro. He kept the Workmate platform at its lowest level to go through the bags. The position was anything but comfortable. Mahoney hoped that they wouldn’t be sitting in the position for too long.

  Mahoney and Diana sat and watched the cabin of the Hot Rod for a solid minute. He was about to ask Heather if she was in when the lights overhead started to flicker. A nodule of light began to emanate from a space on the driver’s seat, a space that must have been where Heather’s heart would have resided in life. The light grew enough that Diana had to turn away slightly as it reached its peak. Then she was there, Heather Price, in the same green sweater, red boots, and acid-wash jeans that were never going to fit. She looked at the presentation setup. She smiled. “You guys look like you’re sitting in the kindergarten chairs on parent-tea
cher night.”

  Mahoney was busy fishing through the first Eaton’s bag. “Yeah, well, if this was elementary school, your homework is pretty sloppy.” He pulled a stack of papers from the first bag, bringing them closer for Heather to see. “What is all this shit anyway?”

  Heather looked at the papers. She reached slowly, then clamped her fingertips on the sheets and pulled the pile closer. She flipped through the stack. She shook her head as she handed them back to Mahoney. “Just my taxes from ’83,” said Heather.

  Mahoney rolled back to his earlier position. Diana rolled forward, her arm outstretched with a new stack. “These look like taxes too,” she said, as Heather gripped the papers and brought them closer. She agreed. “I kept most of my tax stuff in those Eaton’s bags. They’re worth the four-bits they charge for them.” The rest of the Eaton’s bags drew similar responses, as the remaining stacks of papers were passed into the Hot Rod for examination.

  Diana uncoiled the knotted plastic bags that Mahoney had found bunched up beneath the front seats. It was wise on her part to unfurl the bags instead of digging in; the bags held a collection of Heather’s spent syringes. Diana showed the contents to Heather. “I guess that’s one of the pluses of being dead,” Heather sighed.

  Diana pulled back the bag. “How so?”

  Heather smiled. “I haven’t been jonesing for a fix for more than two weeks.”

  Mahoney was working the zipper on the Wardair Canada bag. It finally came loose, though the bounty inside was just another selection of personal papers for Heather Price. There were no scribbles, no paper-clipped addendums, not even one of those yellow sticky notes that Dolores Favel liked to plaster around her desk at Hook Me Up. The something that was supposedly in the car simply wasn’t there.

  Heather Price faded once again into nothingness. Mahoney figured that he had to stow the bags somewhere. He put them in the trunk of the Hot Rod.

  That night, sleep didn’t come. Mahoney and Diana shifted into multiple positions, trying to capture it in the lumpy mattress. The shifting was almost a conversation that didn’t require any vocalization. Diana heard it, so did Mahoney. Will I ever sleep again? They watched as the digital clock readout mocked them with every minute. Mahoney wondered if Heather Price was thinking the same thoughts, sitting in the Hot Rod, watching the sweep hand of the clock in the console gauge cluster that had been transferred in from the smashed donor car. That’s when Mahoney remembered.

  The clock in there had never worked.

  June 24, 1985

  6:33 a.m.

  The clock radio had been blasting the CITI FM morning show for at least a couple of minutes. Mahoney hadn’t slept a wink. Neither had Diana. Something is in the car. Mahoney wasn’t sure if that was simply in his head, or if he was listening to Diana’s thoughts next to him. The only thing he knew for sure was that both of them needed to get out of bed. This Monday would be crueller than most. The soul-sucking day jobs would be the icing on the proverbial shit cake.

  There was little conversation. Coffee was instant, the cream was no-name powder, the toast stale. Diana went to say something as she left to catch the bus, then seemed to think better of it. Mahoney sipped on his black instant, with dried creamer blobs refusing to dissolve. His head was pounding. Something is in the car.

  He headed to work early. No one had touched Unit 36 all weekend, thanks to its quirks. He pulled the wrecker up to the front door of the office to let it idle up to operating temperature. Dolores Favel had already arrived, currently indisposed in the washroom. Mahoney checked the desk for any immediate pickups. None of the sticky notes spoke of such a task. He hollered through the washroom door. “Hey Dolores! Can I roll or what?”

  Dolores was busy, and said as much. “Christ! I can’t even pinch off my morning loaf without somebody fucking bugging me!” Mahoney heard the telltale fumble of toilet paper being unrolled, a toilet being flushed, and a toilet handle being jiggled. Dolores burst out of the door faster than Mahoney had expected, or wanted. Her evacuations were the stuff of stinky nightmares. She knew it too. She fanned the door back and forth as Mahoney gagged. “What’s the matter, Baloney? Can’t handle a proper dump?”

  Mahoney’s voice went nasal, as he pinched off his nostrils. “You should really get that looked at, Delectable. Even Luscious Larry’s don’t smell that bad.”

  “You probably sit down to pee, Missus Mahoney.” Dolores made a beeline for her chair, the Winnipeg Sun, and a cigarette half-reduced to embers. She flipped through her sticky notes. “Nothing, nothing, nuth-, wait a sec. That silver Concord.”

  “Yeah.” Heather’s car. “What about it?”

  Dolores squinted at her chicken scratch. “It’s gotta go to Commonwealth on Portage. Outstanding lien or something, in-house finance deal.”

  “I thought that was going to an estate sale.”

  Dolores looked at Mahoney as sharply as she could. She tossed the keys at him. “Who cares what you thought? Just take it where I fucking tell you to take it!”

  The dogs in the Hook Me Up compound seemed slightly curious as to why their ear-scratcher was back so soon. After five minutes of puppy love, Mahoney, Unit 36, and the Concord were rolling west on Watt Street. He knew he couldn’t just swing by Diana’s work and ask her to help search the Concord for whatever it was that they had missed. He had maybe 10, possibly 15 minutes of extra time to give Heather’s car one last look before he dropped it off at the dealership. He hoped it was enough.

  He headed towards Fort Gibraltar. With schools shutting down around the city for the summer break soon, he figured that there would be few field trips to the historical site. It would be quiet. He pulled into the parking lot and gave the Concord a final once-over. Nothing. He headed towards the dealership.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  June 24, 1985

  9:12 a.m.

  Something is in the car . . .

  Mahoney couldn’t shake the phrase, first from Biddy Fiddler, then from the late Heather Price. He remembered the teardown of the Lincoln Continental in The French Connection, one of the movie car chase–contestants that the crew had recently enjoyed from Video Stop. The movie car was practically in pieces before the rocker panels were popped open to reveal the heroin shipment from Marseilles. Mahoney doubted that the Concord was playing such an important supporting role. It simply wasn’t big enough for smuggling.

  The front of Commonwealth Motors was impassable; a new Jeep was being wheeled out of the oversized showroom doors. Mahoney drove around to the rear of the dealership, which wasn’t doing much better than the front. A car transporter was a third of the way through its deliveries, blocking off the easy entrance points for a tow truck to make a quick drop-off. Mahoney drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and the shaking shifter knob as he waited. He noticed that the cars were without plates, with some type of grease pencil scrawl on the windshields that wasn’t retail car-dealer language. Probably auction stuff. The bulk of the shipment looked like former economy rental cars with minimal flash, the kind that most people would immediately upgrade at Tilden Rent-A-Car. The last car was almost ready to be off-loaded, a car that definitely wasn’t like the others. Mahoney watched as the transporter driver slowly backed a light-green Oldsmobile Toronado off the rickety ramps. It was the last of the big 1970s’ Toros, with a wraparound rear window that must have been part of a special option package. That is one ugly boat, thought Mahoney, as the monstrous coupe touched down on the Commonwealth Motors asphalt. It must have been a bargain. Something had fallen on the trunk lid, almost caving it in. Something heavy.

  Mahoney watched as the lot jockeys assisted with the off-loading. A man with a light-khaki sports coat and neon green pants was checking a clipboard with the driver of the transport. Looks like Crockett has really let himself go, Mahoney thought, as the tedium of crossing t’s and dotting i’s played out in the parking lot. The Don Johnson–wannabe’s dirty blond h
air didn’t look right, maybe a rug. He did something that looked like a signature on the clipboard page, judging by the flourish of his wrist. The transport driver hopped into the cab of his truck and moved the empty transporter out of the lot. Mahoney pulled in with the Concord. He found a spot next to the wholesale units at the back of the lot.

  As Mahoney lowered the car, a familiar beige Corvette convertible flew into the rear lot at a speed that would have immediately fired one of the lot jockeys on duty if they were the pilot. Fucking Wallbanger. Mahoney figured that the Hook Me Up drug dealer was there to top off the salesmen and possibly a few of the mechanics on flat rate that needed to keep their speed up to maximize their take-home. Jerry Waller didn’t head for the shop or the showroom. Instead, he ambled up to Mr. Miami Vice with a fat manila envelope. The man who signed things with great flourish nodded at Waller, took the envelope, then walked over to a shit-brown Dodge Aspen with a dealer plate. He stowed the envelope in the trunk. Mahoney thought it odd that Miami Vice didn’t produce his own envelope to pay for whatever Waller had dropped off. What kind of drug deal was that? Waller hopped back into his Corvette, leaving just as quickly as he had arrived.

  Mahoney grabbed the keys and the paperwork for the Concord and headed through the shop to the reception desk. A chesty brunette was busy filing her nails at the desk, keeping time with the popping of her bubble gum. Her name plate stand was something that Mahoney had never seen at Terry Balkan. The woodgrain slab said Lisa Bentley: Director of First Impressions. Mahoney silently agreed; her cleavage was the first thing that impressed him. He plopped the Concord’s remnants on the counter. “Got a drop-off for you guys.”

  Ms. Bentley kept at her filing and gum-popping without looking up. “Second office on the left.” Mahoney scooped up the keys and the papers. The first office was empty, one of the business offices, judging from the posters on the walls extolling the virtues of rustproofing and fabric treatments. The second office was less sales, more executive. The occupant wasn’t around. The top of the desk was thick with paperwork, file folders, and extra keys. It looked like a great place to lose the keys that Mahoney had in his hand. I’d better wait. He let his eyes wander around the office. It was hard not to notice the old Nash clock. Mahoney figured the light and the buzzing clock movement were responsible for at least a quarter of Commonwealth’s monthly hydro bill. He noticed the black-and-white picture of two men, one holding a large trophy and a Plymouth banner. Mahoney had heard about the old-school diagnostic competitions when he was an apprentice, but they’d fallen by the wayside in the early ’70s. He was staring at a black-and-white picture of a 1940 Ford when he heard a voice behind him. “Something I can help you with?”