“Pepsi, Pepsi, cheeeburger, cheeeburger . . .”
Fiddler caught it. He pointed at Scheer with a French fry. “Saturday Night Live, right?”
“Yeah, Saturday Night. Cheeeburger, cheeeburger . . .”
Diana chimed in. “Pepsi, Pepsi!”
After a minute, the whole table was doing their best impressions of the Not Ready For Prime-Time Players homage to the Billy Goat Tavern. The staff at the counter shook their heads.
Scheer interjected during the laughter. “So that guy was a ghost, right?” He went for volume over discretion.
Mahoney immediately shushed. “Hey, keep it the fuck down.”
Fiddler asked about the ghost’s condition. “So was he like all fucked up?”
Scheer kept talking. “You know, he looked not bad, until I saw his — his head.”
The group had little warning. Scheer threw up over most of the table and their burgers. He then turned around to the other table, which was thankfully empty. Round two brought one of the staff over to the table with speed. He wasn’t happy.
“Get your drunk asses outta here, NOW!”
Diana had already pushed herself from the table when Scheer first vomited. Mahoney had received minimal splash-back. Fiddler and Petkau had raised their Fat Boy’s out of harm’s way. They were still chewing on them as the group ran out the door. They had to pull Scheer towards the parking lot as he apologized like an eight-year-old with the flu.
Mahoney threw the driver’s door open. He pushed Scheer into the seat, then Diana towards the middle position. “Better roll down his window.” Fiddler and Petkau hopped in the back, still holding their burgers, as Mahoney spun gravel as they tore out of the lot.
It took about 15 minutes to get back to Mahoney’s house. Diana had been doing her best to keep Scheer as calm as possible. He was hanging his head out of the window like a dog, the exception being that he wasn’t enjoying it to any degree. He kept apologizing.
“I’m sorry, guys.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Mahoney, as he turned into the driveway. “At least you didn’t yack in the car.”
“Yeah,” said Fiddler. “That shit never comes out.”
The group proceeded to the garage. The lights had been left on inside. Heather, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Hot Rod, noticed Scheer’s condition straight away.
“Wow. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.”
Scheer felt the bile rise again. He pushed his way out to the driveway. Petkau watched from the door, wincing.
“Yikes,” said Petkau. “It’s like when they cut into that shark’s stomach in Jaws.”
Fiddler reached into the old fridge, retrieving a leftover OV from the Camaro build. “If he yacks up a license plate, I’ll buy you a Coke.”
“So I guess he’s a little freaked out,” said Heather.
Mahoney pulled up one of the rolling stools. “Looks that way. He hasn’t really said much yet. Hope his brain hasn’t spun a bearing.”
Scheer appeared at the side door of the garage. Petkau helped him inside, going slow. Diana took his other arm.
“Feeling better, Rickles?” She guided him to the comfiest of the fold-out chairs.
Scheer nodded, slow and careful as he sat. “Do you got any 7Up?”
“I’ll check the fridge.” Diana was halfway there when Scheer spoke.
“Not cold, warm. That’s what my mom used to give me when I threw up.”
“Just like mine,” Petkau said. He went over to the side of the fridge, retrieving a can from a shelf of warm soda mixes. He handed the open can to Scheer. He sipped it like soup.
“Can I get a cold one too?”
Diana looked at him, confused. “I thought you wanted it warm?”
“The cold one’s for my forehead.”
Diana rolled her eyes. “Men. They all turn into boys when they’re sick.”
Mahoney rolled his stool over to Scheer. “Rickles, I’m guessing from the yack-fest, you had a chat with the bus guy. I know you’re freaked out. I still get freaked out every time I talk to her.” He pointed at Heather to drive the point home.
“That’s ’cause you’re a pussy,” said Heather.
Mahoney didn’t acknowledge the dig. He continued. “We gotta know what he told you. Anything and everything.”
Scheer sipped his 7Up. “He said he saw you tow his car.”
“Which car? When?”
“Mercury. No, wait! The one that’s not a Mercury, sounds like it.”
“That’s a Merkur,” said Petkau. “They got one in the other day at Bridgeway. It’s like a German Ford or something. Double rear spoiler. Ugly fucker.”
Mahoney pressed Scheer. “What about the Merkur? Is there something in it?”
“The key,” said Scheer. “He said there’s one in back, under the spare tire.”
“Is there anything else in the car?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mahoney paused. The car that belonged to the would-be thief of his Hot Rod was sitting in the compound at Hook Me Up. He was formulating his next question when Scheer remembered something.
“He said he tried to buy the Camaro at the auction.”
“He was bidding against me at Autopac?”
“Yeah, he was . . . he was buying it for Scrap.”
“Scrap? He was going to scrap it?”
“No, the guy he was buying it for. Scrap, Scrap . . .”
Heather unexpectedly broke in. “Scrapheap . . .”
They all turned to look at her. She was looking at Scheer. “Scrapheap. It’s Scrapheap.”
Mahoney turned to Scheer. “Rickles, who the hell is Scrapheap?”
Scheer struggled to remember. “It wasn’t Scrapheap. It was Scrap-something. Scrap…”
“Neck.”
Mahoney looked at Heather. “Scrapneck? Is it Scrapneck?”
Heather nodded. “I called him Scrapheap.”
Mahoney had heard the name but couldn’t place it. “Who is he?”
Scheer suddenly remembered. “No Dicker–Sticker!”
Fiddler leaned in. “The late-night used-car guy?”
Petkau laughed. “He’s always wearing a different rug, right?”
“That guy’s hilarious,” said Diana. “He’s gotta be on coke.”
The group at large continued its surface conversation of the known facts. Mahoney zeroed in on Heather. He rolled closer to her. Even in her otherworldly form, he could tell that whatever remained of her once-beating heart was in distress. He touched her hand. It felt as real as any he had ever touched. She raised her head to look at him. He pushed some stray hair away from her face.
“Heather, you knew him, didn’t you? Who was he to you?”
“He was just somebody.”
“Somebody who?”
“Somebody I knew.” She leaned back in the driver’s seat. She massaged her face with her hands as she processed the information.
Mahoney figured there had to be more to it. He went for broke. “Heather, how did you know this guy? Was he your boyfriend?”
Heather started to laugh beneath her hands. “Fuck no. He was like a, like a . . . you know.”
Diana finished the thought. “A fuck buddy?”
“Yeah, a fuck buddy.”
Mahoney pressed. “How did you meet him?”
“He was the go-to at the dealership. He was bringing in the coke in the used cars.”
Mahoney took a think break, a short one, considering everyone, including the recently departed, was waiting for him to put it all together. He said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Fucking Wallbanger!”
“What? A Harvey Wallbanger?” asked Scheer.
“Wallbanger. Jerry Waller. He works at Hook Me Up, deals and pim
ps. I saw him at Commonwealth. He was talking to that Scraphe — I mean, Scrapneck guy!”
Diana took a stab at clarifying the whole mess. “Okay, let me get this straight. Heather’s banging this Scrap guy, and she’s doing his books for the dealership. Scrapman —”
“Scrapneck,” Heather corrected her.
“Right. Scrapneck is bringing in coke in the used cars.” She turned to Mahoney. “Your buddy at work is mixed up in it.”
“He’s not my buddy,” said Mahoney. “But that means Wallbanger has got something to do with the selling.”
“Why’s that?”
Mahoney continued. “Because Wallbanger is already selling drugs for the HRs. Crack would have been big news down at Hook Me Up. Hell, they probably would’ve tried to make it part of my job description. If the HRs had crack, I’d have heard something by now.”
“I have a question,” said Scheer, who was still a little pale. He had his hand raised like a well-behaved grade schooler.
“What is it?” said Mahoney.
“How did drugs, tow trucks, used cars, and sketchy accounting put Heather in the river?”
Heather corrected him. “I prefer creative accounting.”
“Wait,” said Mahoney. “He’s got a point. Maybe it’s just . . .”
“Just what?” said Diana.
Mahoney looked at Heather. “Heather, you used for a while, right?”
“So what?”
“So, you know your way around this shit, right?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Then why did you OD?”
Heather went to answer, then stopped. Mahoney pressed her.
“This was new stuff. Stuff you’d never done before.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Who gave it to you?”
On this point, Heather was certain. “It was Scrap. Fucking Scrap!” She slammed her hand on the Camaro’s steering wheel.
Scheer raised his hand again. Mahoney acknowledged it.
“Yes, Rickles.”
Scheer lowered his hand. “So, who’s the bad guys in all this?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Mahoney. “But I know where to start looking.”
Chapter Forty-Two
June 26, 1985
8:07 a.m.
Steve Mahoney didn’t know what he would say to Jerry Waller. He knew he couldn’t strong-arm him into a confession; Wallbanger could snap Mahoney’s bones like twigs. He thought about feigning interest in joining the seedier side of Hook Me Up, but he had no idea how to do it. Undercover wasn’t his style. Maybe I should talk to that cop. He also wasn’t convinced that telling the detective-sergeant what he knew was a good idea. He remembered Milroy saying he talked to the ghosts of the victims he’d investigated, every goddamn night. It had to be just a figure of speech, right?
Mahoney made a right turn onto Bowman. Something was definitely up at the entrance to the industrial park. There were three black-and-whites parked outside of the main gate and a uniform cop motioning him forward.
“Morning, constable.”
The uniform leaned down to the window. “Morning.” He pointed inside the compound. “You work at one of these places?”
“Yeah, Hook Me Up. What’s going on?”
The uniform looked at Mahoney, deadpan, but with a little something extra. Oh, great. They found the stash. Mahoney did his best not to reveal a tell, but judging by the simmering grin on the uniform, he was failing miserably.
The uniform pointed inside again. “You better park and go inside the office. One of the investigators will want to talk to you.”
Shit. They found the stash. Mahoney decided to play it as cool as he could. He parked next to the compound. The guard dogs wagged their tails as he headed towards the office.
The overhead buzzer sounded more like a bullhorn when Mahoney entered the office. He wasn’t expecting any of what was in front of him. Larry Ballendine was blubbering like a five-year-old who had dropped his ice cream cone. Dolores Favel was snivelling just as Ballendine was, but still managed to have two cigarettes on the go in her ashtray. Two of the Hook Me Up drivers that Mahoney only knew in passing were giving statements to the plainclothes officers. One of them turned to look at Mahoney. It was Detective-Sergeant Milroy.
“Hey, Tow-Job,” Milroy said. “Might as well wait outside for a couple of minutes. I’ll come out there to talk to you.”
Mahoney did as he was told. He pulled out a Colt from the pack in his pocket. As he lit it, he noticed that Wallbanger’s Corvette was still in the parking lot, wearing a coat of dust from the police car traffic. He probably wasn’t back yet from his shift; Unit 32 was nowhere to be seen on the Bowman lot. Mahoney looked down the street, hopeful that Waller was just running late. Maybe he could talk to him before he was questioned by the cops.
The Colt was about half finished when Milroy came out of the office. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said, motioning towards the compound. They probably want me to snitch. Mahoney had already decided that he would tell Milroy what he needed to know. Fuck Hook Me Up. Working for shit money in some shit garage for a shit boss was looking more sensible by the minute.
Milroy walked into the compound, probably the only spot at the Bowman that would provide something resembling privacy. The guard dogs must have sensed something alpha approaching; they trotted back towards their milk truck apartment instead of trying for their usual ear scratch from Mahoney. The detective-sergeant paced among the varied selection of vehicles in the Hook Me Up compound. He stopped at an early ’60s Pontiac that was missing all of its glass, the word SCAB spray-painted on every available panel. Milroy nodded towards it. “Looks like somebody got mad.”
Mahoney wasn’t interested in small talk. “So, what the fuck is going on?”
Milroy turned. He smiled at Mahoney. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a small plastic baggie. He tossed the baggie at Mahoney. He caught it, a much easier catch than the key tosses of Dolores Favel. Mahoney looked at the bag. It looked like some kind of pellet.
“What is it?”
Milroy chuckled. “Don’t give me that.”
“Don’t give you what?”
Milroy reached into his pocket. He had a handful of the mystery bags. He started walking towards Mahoney, pelting him with the bags as he went. “You know exactly what this fucking shit is!”
Mahoney tried to protect himself the best he could. “Hey, knock it off!”
Milroy pointed to the bags. “Now pick that shit up.”
“Why? It’s not mine.”
“Once you pick it up, it will be. Possession with intent to distribute. Pick it up.”
“Hey, fuck you, cop. I’m not into this shit.”
Milroy kicked out the only headlamp on the Pontiac that hadn’t been smashed. “I said pick it the fuck up!”
Mahoney did as he was told. He held the bags aloft in his left hand. “There! Now put the fucking cuffs on me and arrest me, asshole!”
It happened fast. The next thing Mahoney knew, his face was resting against the hot hood of the Pontiac, warmed by the morning sun. His right arm was locked behind him by Milroy. The Detective-Sergeant leaned in close.
“You know, it’s one thing to sell this shit to junkies, but when you start trading it for a kid’s paper-route money, I get a little pissed.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Milroy placed the handcuffs on Mahoney’s wrists. He made sure they were uncomfortably tight. He flipped him around fast to answer the question.
“You read the paper, Tow-Job?”
“Maybe.”
“You hear about that kid at the Ex? The one in the hospital?”
“What about him?”
Milroy grabbed Mahoney by his shirt and pulled him so close that Mahoney could smell the Player’s that Milroy
must have smoked that morning.
“He died this morning. He OD’d on that crack you and that piece-of-shit Waller have been selling.”
“I’m not selling shit!” said Mahoney. “Ask Ballendine! He’ll tell you!”
“Don’t worry, he’s getting asked. He looks like a real throw-you-under-the-bus kinda guy.” Milroy chuckled to himself. Mahoney had no idea why.
“What’s so funny?”
“The bus,” Milroy said. “I thought that was what ran over your partner last night, until we found the Buick. We found his stash in the tow truck when they were scraping his brains off the pavement.”
Wallbanger’s dead? “What partner? What Buick? I’m telling you, I don’t deal!”
“Let’s go downtown and talk about it.” Milroy led Mahoney to his unmarked LTD. He made sure to whack Mahoney’s head hard on the door frame when he shoved him in the back seat.
“Please watch your head, sir.”
Chapter Forty-Three
June 26, 1985
10:47 a.m.
Mahoney’s head was smarting. He couldn’t rub it, thanks to the handcuffs that were still digging into his wrists. At the Public Safety Building, Milroy had put him into an interrogation room that seemed more like a repurposed broom closet. It couldn’t have measured more than five-foot-square, covered floor to ceiling in small acoustic tiles. There were no windows, no one-way mirrors. There wasn’t a new-fangled video camera on the wall. It stank of cigarettes, piss, and desperation. This room was for the interrogations no one got to see.
The way out, or in, was the doorknob on the wall facing him. Whoever had attached the tiles had done such a good job that it was hard to make out the outline of the door. When it finally opened. Milroy came into the room with a large file folder. Sticking out from the folder were large photographs, a size that wasn’t available at any of the one-hour photo shops Mahoney knew about. Underneath the folder was something he did know about: the White Pages. Mahoney had heard stories about the White Pages at the PSB, how they were seldom used for looking up a phone number. The Yellow Pages directory had become much too large for any of Winnipeg’s finest to use in interrogations. The White Pages had been allegedly used by certain patrol car teams, not that you would ever find a copy of it in the trunk or under the front seat. Mahoney remembered a story by a kid he went to high school with, a Marcel Something-or-other. He had lipped off at a couple of uniform cops at a Pic-a-Pop store in East Kildonan, which had earned him a “ride-along” to discuss the distributors of illicit drugs in the neighbourhood. While he was sitting in the back of the cruiser waiting for the ride to commence, the rookie in the passenger seat got out, went over to the bank of pay phones on the wall, and ripped a White Pages directory from its holder. Marcel returned about an hour later, his face swollen, absent of the marks associated with fists or nightsticks. He didn’t lip off to the cops after that.
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