Mahoney's Camaro

by Michael Clark

  The announcer was talking wildly as the selection of used cars drove up, stopped for a moment, then drove off camera, the cameraman trying to keep the announcer in focus as he went. The “No Dicker–Sticker” tag line was flashing on and off at the bottom of the screen. The prices were drawn on white cardboard, secured under the passenger side wiper. Some of the No Dicker script had been misspelled, probably on purpose.

  “Check out this No Dicker deal, a ’79 Concord hatchback with whitewalls, tinted glass, and automatic for just twenty-seven ninety-five!”

  Holy shit! Mahoney was a little surprised at how quickly Heather’s car had made its way from the hook of Unit 36 to the front line of the dealership. Did the lot guy find what was in the car? Was there anything in the car? He wanted to say something to Heather, though he didn’t want to explain to Scheer that he was currently chatting up a ghost for her phone number. He glanced at Scheer and Heather. She offered no obvious tell.

  The announcer continued. “Need something bigger for the family? How ’bout this ’78 Mercury Colony Park wagon, big V8 power, leather and air conditioning for just thirty-four-ninety-five! Or cruise in style to Grand Beach in this 1978 Oldsmobile Toronado coupe, with sure-footed front-wheel drive for just twenty-nine ninety-five! Only at Commonwealth Motors, home of Winnipeg’s No Dicker–Sticker used car deals, open till 9 p.m. Your best deal on used cars on the Portage Avenue strip!”

  Mahoney reached up to the TV to turn down the volume. “That guy’s the fastest talker I’ve ever heard.”

  “Those Commonwealth ads are almost as good as Kern-Hill,” said Scheer. “Or that Flam guy at Transcona Dodge.”

  “Flam?”

  “Yeah, Flam. Monty Flam!”

  Mahoney rolled his eyes. “It’s Flom, you idiot. Monty Flom. The would-you-care-of-course-you-would guy.”

  “Whatever.” Scheer took another sip. “Where does this guy find all this shit anyway?”

  “It’s auction stuff,” said Mahoney. “I was there this morning. That Toro had a mashed-in trunk lid when I saw it. Must have had a fresh one ready to go. Even looked like they matched the colour pretty good.”

  Scheer shook his head. “It’s still ugly as fuck.”

  Mahoney clinked Scheer’s bottle. “No argument there.”

  “Yeah, whaddya think, Heather? Would you be seen in that? Heather?”

  Scheer and Mahoney turned to look at the Camaro. Heather Price was gone. Scheer looked around the garage. “Hey, where’d she go?”

  “Probably taking a leak. Or she’s, uh, letting out the cat, or something,” Mahoney fumbled.

  “Gotcha.” Scheer gave him an elbow. “So, she like, got a boyfriend?”

  Mahoney thought about it for a moment before he answered. “Yeah, she kinda does.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  June 24, 1985

  10:37 p.m.

  Peter Scrapneck was sorting the information into his mind as he watched the news on CKND. The ambulance in front of the Savoy Hotel was anything but out of place for most nights, and the overdose was news enough for a Monday. Scrapneck breathed a sigh of relief when there was no follow-up as to the drug type that took the life of the 34-year-old male victim. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Health Sciences Centre.

  Waller had told him to expect a few overdoses, until the users settled into an understanding of how the crack would affect them, especially when mixed with their current drug diet. “We can probably rule the summer until somebody gets wise,” Waller said, when he had dropped off the weekend take at the dealership that morning. “Let’s just call it collateral damage.”

  Scrapneck looked at the stack of bills on his dining room table. The money to cover the rooftop leases had already been converted into the certified cheque that the leasing company had requested, done and delivered. The pile of money was hefty, not buy-out-the-old-man-hefty, but very respectable. By week’s end, he figured that he might hit six figures. He’d have even more if Waller was out of the picture.

  Loeb had brought him in earlier in the day to tell him the good news. “I made Ted Rogers blink,” said Loeb, as he bragged about the conversation. There hadn’t been a hard-and-fast number on the buyout for Commonwealth yet. Scrapneck knew that there had been talk about an “image program” in the works for the AMC/Jeep/Renault dealers. That would mean a considerable infusion of cash for renovations, maybe even the construction of a new dealership. Loeb would have to spend that money if he stuck around. Scrapneck was betting that Loeb wanted out. He wasn’t going to give the dealership away, but he would be reasonable.

  Waller wouldn’t be reasonable, especially since he had dreams of his own. Scrapneck kept contemplating as he tied off his arm for a hit. He’s in a dangerous business. Bad things had been known to happen to people in dangerous businesses. These were the risks of the trade. Scrapneck thought about how Waller’s business could be his undoing as he heated the spoon and reached for the syringe.

  June 25, 1985

  11:37 a.m.

  Dick Loeb looked at the number in the legal documents from the Cantel lawyer who had kept Ted Rogers from jumping through the phone and strangling Loeb. It had the right number of zeros on the end. He had already signed off on the copy to be sent back to the lawyer to transfer ownership of the rooftop leases, witnessed by his director of first impressions. His luck was continuing to come up sevens. His wife had informed him at breakfast that she was leaving him, for the recently widowed neighbour at their summer cabin. The affair was two summers old. The neighbour’s wife had passed away peacefully in palliative care from breast cancer at the beginning of June. The neighbour was wealthy enough that Loeb’s wife was asking only for the deed to the cabin and half of their investment portfolio. Loeb could have won an Academy Award for his performance as the dejected/easily agreeable pushover of a soon-to-be ex-husband. With the money that would be coming from Cantel and the money owed by Scrapneck, he could easily pay out the amount of the second mortgage, sell the house, and head for the West Coast with a trunkful of retirement funds. He was thinking about Tofino on Vancouver Island, the end of the Trans-Canada Highway for those heading west. The end of the road.

  Loeb wasn’t completely without worry. The accountant that had brought the venture to fruition was as dead as disco. He couldn’t be 100 percent sure that there wasn’t a paper trail that could come back to bite him. But he was as sure as he could be, somewhere around 85 percent. It would have to do. He was about to have his sales manager paged when Scrapneck entered the front door of the dealership. He was carrying a large manila envelope. Loeb waved him into his tight office. “Close the door, Scrap. Looks like I’m just about to wrap this up.”

  Scrapneck clicked the door behind him. He handed Loeb the envelope. Loeb checked the contents, the money owed for financing the crack venture. Loeb smiled, placing it on top of his desk. “So, I understand you’re in the market for an American Motors dealership.”

  Scrapneck grinned, still wearing his sunglasses. “Yeah, I’ve heard this one might be available soon. Any truth to that?”

  “That there is.” Loeb pushed a piece of paper towards Scrapneck. “I’m thinking this is more than fair.”

  Scrapneck looked at the figure. He looked confused. He pushed the paper back to Loeb. “Are you sure that’s all you want for it? I’ll bet Jack MacIver at Midway would pay that just for the land.”

  “He probably would, but then it gets into all the nitty-gritty of paper, lawyers, land surveys, and all the other shit. I tell the Zone Manager, sign a few papers, and cash your cheque. Then it’s yours.”

  Scrapneck pulled the paper back and looked again. “When do you need it by?”

  “I’m thinking half by the end of July. I’ve had enough hot Augusts in Winnipeg for one lifetime.”

  “Fair enough.” Scrapneck got up from his chair and extended his hand. Loeb shimmied up out of his chair to seal the deal.
Scrapneck headed back to his desk. Loeb picked up the phone and dialed three ones. Lisa Bentley answered on the first ring. “Reception.”

  “Hi, Lisa. Can you order lunch for the guys? Maybe Gondola? Thin crust.”

  “Yes, Mr. Loeb, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.”

  The call disconnected. Loeb looked up at the buzzing Nash clock. He thought he might take it with him. He’d grown accustomed to the buzz.

  11:45 a.m.

  Peter Scrapneck was doing the quick math at his desk. His timeline had been effectively cut in half. He had originally budgeted for a one-million-dollar price tag to be scribbled on the piece of paper that Dick Loeb had just passed him. The amount in its place was half that. If he went through the summer with Waller and the current crack venture, he would easily have the amount required, with enough cash to cover the acquisition of additional kilos to be converted into crack.

  The problem was exposure. It was no secret: the longer he stayed in, the harder it was going to be to get out. He knew it would start attracting the wrong attention, the wrong partners. If Waller wasn’t in the picture, the current batch of product would be enough. He’s in a dangerous business. Scrapneck’s eyes popped wide open. He scribbled madly on a notepad next to his desk. He had his answer.

  12:05 p.m.

  Steve Mahoney’s morning had been spent at the Manitoba Public Insurance satellite claims offices, transferring fresh accident write-offs to the Autopac compound. He had driven past Commonwealth Motors a couple of times already that morning. The light-green Toronado from the TV commercial the night before occupied a lofty perch on one of the raised ramps in the used car section. It really is ugly as fuck, Mahoney thought, as he headed towards something resembling a lunch date at VJ’s Drive-In on Main Street. Diana had left a message while he was in the shower that morning. It said she wanted to “talk.” It didn’t sound spastic.

  Mahoney pulled up in front of the eatery. It was strictly takeout, though there were plenty of picnic-style tables for good-weather seating. Diana had already arrived, wearing work togs that did anything but line up with Mahoney’s tow truck rags. She waved as she chowed down on a cheeseburger and fries. Mahoney ordered the same, with extra chili. No one in Winnipeg knew what was in the chili topping that all the Greek burger stands used. All they knew for sure was you couldn’t order one without it. Even the “no-chili” orders still got a little bit thrown on top, to keep the onions from sliding off the burger. Safety first.

  So far, Mahoney felt good about the vibe. The two talked about the simple stuff first: how was your day, get any sleep, how’s your burger. When it was time to get into the “talk,” Diana got things started. “So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this, uhm, you know . . .”

  Mahoney tried to help. “Situation?”

  “Yeah, situation. What do we, like, do about it?”

  Mahoney finished his chew before he answered. “She keeps saying that whatever ‘it’ is, it’s in the car. I just don’t think it’s in her car.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “If there was something in her car, she’d probably just come out and say it. ‘It’s in the glovebox, under the Air Supply cassette, next to the extra tampons,’ you know? Anything that was worth grabbing, I grabbed, even her druggie garbage. I still can’t feel parts of my left side from being crammed in the back of your car.”

  Diana smiled. “Now you know what one of those clown-car clowns from the Shrine Circus feels like!”

  Mahoney nodded as he dug into his fries. “Yeah, not a job I’m looking to fill.” The mention of a job jogged his memory. “Speaking of jobs, what was her day job, anyway?”

  “Accountant?”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. For who?”

  “Dunno. Maybe we should ask her.”

  Mahoney smiled. “You’re starting to be quite the detective there, McRae.”

  Diana answered through a mouthful of fries. “Yeah, a regular Laura Holt.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  June 25, 1985

  7:45 p.m.

  Mahoney hadn’t entered the garage yet. He was waiting for Diana to show up, his lovely assistant for the interview. You’re starting to be quite the detective, McRae. Mahoney wasn’t sure if it was a job description he wanted for himself. All he knew for sure was that he wasn’t getting a clear title to his Hot Rod until the whole Heather Price mess was figured out. He needed all the help he could get. He was in his kitchen attempting to scrape petrified Kraft Dinner from one of his pots when the phone rang. It was Evan Fiddler.

  “Hey, Fiddy, how’s it hanging?”

  “It doesn’t hang. It drags.”

  There was a moment of laughter between the two motorheads, then an awkward silence. Fiddler shattered it into a million pieces.

  “So Gramma says you got a ghost in your car or something?”

  Mahoney blinked. It was a good haul back to Peguis, Mahoney thought. They had to talk about something. “Uhm, yeah. It looks like it.”

  “So that’s like the girl who was in it, in the river?”

  “Yup. That’s the one.”

  “And she’s still in it?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s alive . . . no, I mean, she’s in there.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “So, you gonna keep her?”

  Mahoney thought about that for a second. “I don’t think she wants to be kept. She wants to . . . I mean, she keeps saying she wants to go home, then something about something in the car, but I didn’t find anything in her car.” He could almost hear the gears turning in Fiddler’s head as he processed the information.

  “Something in the car.”

  “Yeah. Got any ideas?”

  “Fresh out.” Another awkward pause ensued until Fiddler made it very awkward. “So, can I like meet her?”

  “Uh, I guess so. Rickles did on Monday. He actually tried to pick her up.”

  Fiddler laughed. “I thought the minimum requirement for Rickles was a pulse. I guess I stand corrected.”

  “Yeah, but Rickles doesn’t know she’s like, you know . . .”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah, dead.”

  “I guess you’ll have to tell him sooner or later. Or maybe we can scare the shit out of him for fun first.”

  Mahoney knew that Fiddler didn’t mean anything by it, but it still set him off. “Listen, Fiddy. She’s not some kind of fucking seance Ouija-board bullshit. She’s somebody who might’ve got fucking murdered.”

  “Hey, I know, it’s freaky shit. My grandma talks to ghosts all the time. The only thing I know for sure is that they don’t leave until they get the help that they want.”

  Help me, baby. “Yeah, she’s already mentioned that. Any other Biddy tips?”

  “Yeah, don’t get ’em mad.”

  “Way ahead of you, brother.” Mahoney explained that Diana was coming over to help interview Heather.

  “Maybe me and Howie can help too. And we better break it to Rickles, before he buys her a ring at Consumers Distributing.”

  Mahoney hadn’t thought about enlisting more help. He knew it was needed, and it was a big ask of the crew. He thought of the builds they had participated in, how everyone seemed to anticipate the next one’s move. He couldn’t remember the last time any of them even dropped a wrench when they were together. Teamwork like that was a rare thing. “Yeah, sure. More the merrier. Might as well get a pizza while you’re at it.”

  “Ham and pineapple?”

  “Bring that, and we’ll be dealing with two ghosts.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  Mahoney hung up the phone. As he did, he heard Diana’s car roll into the driveway, recently retrieved from the Hook Me Up compound. She was already rummaging around in the hatchback when he reached her. “Watcha lookin
g for?”

  “This!” She pulled out her red cassette blaster. “It’s got a condenser microphone. We can tape the interview.”

  Mahoney frowned. “Don’t you think we should ask her first?”

  “It’s just in case we miss something, so we can go back to it.”

  “I still think we should run it past her first.”

  Diana smiled. “You do have a thing for her, don’t you?”

  Mahoney rolled his eyes. “No, but Rickles does. Oh, and Fiddler’s coming by tonight too. Biddy told him about Heather. He’s bringing Howie along.”

  Diana had yet to meet the crew. “Jesus. Anybody else you want to invite?”

  “Naw, that should do it.”

  Diana shook her head, chuckling as she headed towards the garage.

  Fiddler had picked up Petkau and pizza on the way to Mahoney’s. Judging by the look on his face when he exited Fiddler’s Dodge, he’d been told about the late Heather Price. Mahoney had already hustled the pair into the garage when Scheer pulled into the driveway. Fiddler had called him over, said it was “important, non-car-related stuff.” Judging by the getup, Scheer definitely had Heather on the brain. He was wearing a fancy purple paisley shirt, new acid-washed jeans, and a hand-tooled belt with cowboy boots straight out of Urban Cowboy. The ensemble was topped off with the leather jacket Mahoney had given him, the one that must have belonged to whoever was trying to steal the Camaro. Scheer had even switched up his usual garage beer selection for wine coolers. Mahoney felt bad that he was about to kick Scheer in the nuts of his twitterpated heart. It’s not like he had any choice. “You clean up nice, Rickles.”