Mahoney's Camaro

by Michael Clark

  The flapping of the overhead pennants were interrupted by the quick chirp of a horn. It was the mobile production unit from CKND television, a Ford Econoline, with the extended body and raised roof to house its television tools. The station identification was accompanied by a large ellipse-shaped logo beneath it, the numbers nine and 12 on each side.

  Scrapneck walked over to the passenger side of the van. He didn’t know who the passenger was. He made it known that he didn’t care.

  “I thought you were going to fucking be here by noon!”

  The passenger did his best to calm the man in charge. “Sorry about that. We had to clean the heads on the camera before we came out.”

  “Whatever,” said Scrapneck. “I’ve got the script, same shit as last time.” He looked towards the spot where the first car would come from. The nose of the silver Concord was at the far end of the lot, waiting for its cue. Scrapneck held up two fingers to advise the driver to wait. The cameraman readied his equipment. The man that Scrapneck didn’t know readied the boom mic. Scrapneck checked his rug in the mirror of a nearby Renault. He was ready.

  “Okay, we’re rolling,” said the cameraman. He mimed the numbers as he spoke. “In three, two . . .” Scrapneck turned to wave at the Concord. He always wondered why the cameraman never said “one.” Must be a TV thing.

  Scrapneck jumped into high speed. “Hi, folks, Peter Scrapneck down here at Commonwealth Motors, the home of the No Dicker–Sticker on the Portage Avenue Strip . . .”

  The Concord rolled to a stop. Scrapneck provided the details as best as he could remember.

  “. . . a rare Concord hatchback coupe with deluxe trim, whitewall tires and AM-FM radio, No Dicker priced at twenty-seven-ninety-five.”

  The Concord pulled away. Scrapneck heard the next car come forward. The script said it was a Colony Park station wagon. He started with that.

  “. . . and what better way to get to the lake this summer than a Colony Park station . . .”

  Scrapneck caught himself. The car next to him wasn’t a Colony Park. It didn’t have woodgrain panelling. It was black. He quickly glanced at the badge on the rear deck. He gave the car a bullshit name.

  “No folks, it’s a, it’s a late-model Mercury XR4! Yes! The baby brother of the XR7, fully loaded, and a price so special you’ve got to see it to believe it!”

  Scrapneck made a mental note to fire whoever was driving it. He heard the third car pull up behind him. A big V8. It had to be the Toronado. It damn well better be.

  “And cruise out to Falcon, uhm, I mean Grand Beach in big car style, in this beautiful green Oldsmobile Toro—”

  Scrapneck saw the green car pull up next to him. The passenger side mirror had been broken off. It was still attached by its adjustment cable. Scrapneck reached for the mirror instinctively, trying to somehow re-attach it with a hope and a prayer. It dangled as the Buick Centurion that killed Jerry Waller started pulling away. Scrapneck knew the car. He started to falter.

  “And, and we’ve . . . got . . . uhh . . . a great selection of . . . scratch and dent cars here at Commonwealth Motors . . . ”

  The Buick pulled out of the camera frame. Waller’s Corvette pulled up in its place.

  “That’s uh, that’s uh . . . a Sting . . . a Sting . . .” What the hell was happening?

  The Corvette pulled ahead. Unit 32 from Hook Me Up Towing was next. At least it was the passenger side. Scrapneck fumbled his way through.

  “And . . . and we’ve got, uh . . . used, uh . . . commercial vehicles at Commonwealth Motors . . .”

  Unit 32 pulled ahead. Scrapneck had yet to turn to see the car that replaced it. The driver revved the car’s powerful engine to get his attention. Scrapneck was falling apart. He was shaking. He dropped the clipboard that held the script. He turned his head slightly to see. It was a car that Scrapneck knew all too well.

  “. . . And our, our . . . last . . . special No . . . Dicker . . . Sticker. A classic nine . . . nineteen . . . sixty, nineteen sixty . . .”

  A woman’s voice corrected him. “Seven!”

  The “seven” snapped Scrapneck back into character. “A classic 1967 Chevrolet Camaro coupe, performance-modified, ready for Sunday cruising for only, just —”

  “One million dollars, you fucking asshole!”

  Scrapneck froze. Heather! He turned to look at the passenger seat of the Camaro. Heather Price was looking back at him, wearing her green sweater and his acid-washed jeans. He looked back at the camera for the sign-off in absolute fear.

  “AT COMMONWEALTH MOTORS, HOME OF THE NO-DICKER-FUCKING STICKER ON THE PORTAGE AVENUE STRIP!”

  Scrapneck ran for the front door of the dealership. The mic operator dropped the boom pole and grabbed a two-way radio on the front seat of the van.

  “Suspect has entered dealership! REPEAT! Suspect has entered dealership!”

  Scrapneck ran into the showroom. It took him a moment to get his bearings. The rest of the staff and customers were looking at him as though he was a rabid dog from a nearby back lane. He ran through the service door to the shop. He bolted the door behind him. He looked for a point of exit. The overhead door at the rear of the shop was wide open. Scrapneck looked to the left. The Toronado that held the last shipment of the cocaine was getting towelled off. He ran to the driver’s door, pushing the lot boy to the rear. The Toronado started without protest. He slammed the car into drive and hit the gas.

  The path to freedom had obstacles. Scrapneck saw someone pointing a gun at the Toronado as he picked up speed. A bullet shattered the driver’s side glass of the Toronado, a second bullet shattered the strange wraparound rear window. Almost there! Scrapneck heard a third bullet hit the sheet metal of the Toronado. He was wondering where the fourth one would hit when the purple Camaro screeched to a halt outside, passenger-side facing the opening to the shop. Scrapneck hit the gas for his escape. He knew his mass would easily win.

  Scrapneck was almost on top of the Camaro when Heather Price decided to say hello. The Camaro’s passenger door flung open to its widest detent. It was the ball of fiery red light that came from her eyes, mouth, and the rest of her body that first got his attention, followed by a scream that came from a place he never wanted to visit. He hit the brakes hard. The Toronado skidded into the floor hoist at the last stall on the right, narrowly missing the mechanic who was working on the car above. Scrapneck’s head slammed into the steering wheel on impact. He was dazed, bloodied, and still trying to escape. He pushed with all his might against the jammed driver door. That’s when he heard the groan.

  The groan came from the undercarriage of a midnight blue ’79 Lincoln Continental. It teetered on the top of the hoist that he had just slammed into. Scrapneck watched as the rear arms of the hoist buckled. The last thing he saw was the Continental logo coming straight for his head.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  June 26, 1985

  1:15 p.m.

  Dick Loeb wondered what all the fuss was about. The front of the Commonwealth lot was packed with police cars, a tow truck, and even a beat-up Buick that must have been from the wholesale row. There was even a CKND van parked in the mix. Shit, that’s almost a Sandra Lewis. He parked his Grand Wagoneer on Portage Avenue. He walked around the police cars into the showroom.

  The scene inside was anything but car dealer. There were plenty of people in the various cubicles and offices, though few of them were employees. Some of the cops were using the hood of a Cherokee in the showroom as an impromptu desk. Paper coffee cups were leaving rings on the paintwork. He was going to say something when Lisa Bentley grabbed him. She had been crying so hard, it looked like her face had melted.

  “Oh my god! Mr. Loeb! Oh my god! It’s terrible!”

  Loeb stared blankly. “Yes, Lisa. What’s, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Loeb. All I know for sure is Mr. Scrapneck is dead!”


  “Dead? What? Peter is dead?”

  “Yes sir, he’s in the shop. Oh my god. It’s horrible!”

  Loeb pushed past her. He swung open the door to the shop and saw the massive blue Lincoln, its nose pointing at the ceiling. The rear of the car had landed on the front seat portion of a green Toronado. The Toronado must have been supporting most of the Lincoln’s weight; its front suspension looked like it had completely collapsed. Loeb’s entire contingent of mechanics, lot boys, and dealership staff were standing about 20 feet back from the accident, a buffer that was being enforced with yellow police tape. Loeb assumed that the man taking flash pictures of the aftermath had to be with the police. He didn’t think the press would be allowed in that close.

  Loeb ducked under the police tape and headed towards the scene. One of the uniform cops tried to stop him. His weight propelled him towards the scene. He was almost there when another police officer stepped in front of him. He was in plainclothes, a badge on his belt, and had salt-and-pepper hair.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you back there.”

  “You sure as hell can! I’m Dick Loeb! I own the place! What the hell happened? Who are you?”

  “Sir, I’m Detective-Sergeant Milroy. Peter Scrapneck is your sales manager, right? I regret to inform you that he’s deceased. He’s in that green car over there. Mr. Scrapneck was also under investigation.”

  “Investigation? For what?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir. However, I do need to speak with you. Can I talk to you in your office when we’re done here?”

  “But, but, my, my dealership . . .”

  “I’m sorry, sir. If you could, please . . .”

  Loeb allowed Detective-Sergeant Milroy to manoeuvre him to the crime-scene tape, lifting it over their heads as they went. Once Loeb was out of the crime-scene area, the Detective-Sergeant returned to the scene. Loeb kept watching the going’s-on. He sensed that someone was looking at him. He looked towards the open door of the shop. He had to keep looking, making sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. As the various tiers of public service moved back and forth in front of the door, he saw a woman sitting in the passenger seat of a two-door coupe, a car that Loeb couldn’t place as to make or model. She looked familiar. There was one thing he couldn’t understand. As he stared at her, it seemed as though her hair was floating, the way that hair floats in water.

  Loeb backed up through the crowd of assembled staff. He made his way back to his office. He shimmied around his desk. He didn’t know what had been said, understood, or discovered by the police. He did know that they would be looking closely, at Commonwealth, at Scrapneck, and at him. Definitely at him.

  Loeb looked up at the buzzing Nash clock. He was still staring at it when the detective-sergeant tapped on the glass.

  “Mr. Loeb? I’m ready for you now.”

  Loeb motioned him into the office.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  June 30, 1985

  5:45 p.m.

  Steve Mahoney was wondering where it had gone. It wasn’t the burgers that Diana was cooking on the Hibachi for the Canada Day long weekend. It wasn’t the fresh Biddy bannock that Fiddler had brought. It certainly wasn’t the over-the-top splashes of Drakkar Noir on Rick Scheer’s person. The Saint Bee stink. It had taken the night off on McTavish Street.

  Mahoney flipped through the pages of the story that he had been immersed in over the last few weeks. The Sentinel’s lead story was about the mess at Commonwealth Motors, the untimely demise of Peter Scrapneck, and the arrest of Richard Loeb on multiple charges, thanks to a truckful of files found at Scrapneck’s house in Southdale. Mahoney didn’t understand much of the white-collar crime charges that Loeb had copped to, charges that apparently were pending for other Winnipeg businesses. There was a story about some guy named Ted Rogers, who was trying to renege on arrangements that he had made for acquiring rooftop leases from one of Loeb’s shell companies. There was only one story that Mahoney was interested in. It was buried on page nine: “Death of accountant in Commonwealth Motors scandal probed.”

  Mahoney had just popped off the cap of a Black Label with his Bic lighter when he saw the red Wildcat pull into the driveway. He had told Detective-Sergeant Milroy about the little get-together, one that wouldn’t be in a five-by-five closet with a telephone book. Milroy greeted the rest of the crew as he made his way to the open garage door. He had a bottle in his hand. It looked like scotch, the good kind that Mahoney never bought. He placed it on the workbench. He looked around the rest of the garage.

  “So, I’m guessing that the only cups you got out here are Styrofoam or plastic.”

  “You guessed right,” said Mahoney, as he looked at the bottle. It was a Glen-something. “What do you recommend?”

  “I recommend fine crystal for this nectar. But, when in Rome . . .” Milroy chose the plastic. He poured healthy doubles into the cups. He raised his inferior vessel. “Here’s looking at you, Tow-Job.”

  Mahoney gulped more than he should have. The burn was intense, but a better burn than any bottle of Silk Tassel. He coughed before he spoke. “Uh . . . yeah. Smooth.”

  “It is if you sip it, Tow-Job. If you sip it.”

  “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

  Milroy took a healthy pull of the whisky, a burn he clearly was used to and enjoyed. “I guess I should, you being out of a job and all. Any feelers out there?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Mahoney. “That Terry Balkan bullshit is still haunting me.”

  “That’s too bad. Of course, if you were working for the city . . .”

  Mahoney’s ears perked up. “Say again?”

  “I talked to my buddy at the police garage. You’ve got your Red Seal, right?”

  “Since 1975.”

  Milroy took another sip. “Then you should go talk to him Tuesday. Name’s Oystreck. He’s a good guy. Do the work, he leaves you alone. I think you get cost-plus-ten on parts too.”

  Mahoney smiled. “That’ll come in handy.”

  “And I think we can prove that this Scraphead had something to do with that Price girl.”

  You mean woman. “Yeah, what you find?”

  “Went and checked the clothes she was wearing,” said Milroy. “Didn’t think we’d find any fibres or anything after the river, but we did find something.”

  Mahoney took a sip from his cup. “What?”

  Milroy gulped the last of the pour from his cup. “Her jeans were men’s, a 36 waist. Same as Scrapyard.”

  Mahoney grinned. “Shit. She’d have to hold those up with one hand to keep them from falling off.” He glanced at the Camaro to see if Heather was listening in. He couldn’t see her, but he knew that she was. He hoped that she was smiling.

  Milroy snapped his fingers. “Shit, I almost forgot. I got something in the car for you.” He walked back to his Buick with his cup. He came back to the garage with something in a brown paper bag. “You got a VCR, right?”

  “Yeah. Why, is that an Electric Blue?”

  “I wish,” said Milroy. “No porno, but still an interesting watch. It’s the video that the CKND guy shot. I didn’t even know he was actually recording.”

  Mahoney peeked in the bag. “I’ll take a look at it. Thanks. And thanks for the job tip.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, Steve. Whose dick do I gotta suck to get a hamburger in this joint?”

  “Follow me,” said Mahoney. He brought him over to the Hibachi for more formal introductions.

  July 1, 1985

  12:22 a.m.

  Mahoney couldn’t sleep. Diana had turned in around 11:30, right after the rest of the group had left. He slowly lifted her arm off as he left the bed. He headed for the living room.

  The VCR needed a good cleaning; it took a good 20 seconds for the tracking fuzz to even itself out. The tape was the last commercial that Pe
ter Scrapneck would ever do for Commonwealth Motors, a commercial that would never air. Mahoney turned the volume down to nothing. What he needed to see wasn’t in need of a soundtrack.

  Mahoney fast-forwarded through most of the commercial, past the flustered reactions of Scrapneck as the cars rolled past. Then it was time for the Hot Rod. Mahoney could see that Scrapneck was looking at someone — someone who was sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro. Mahoney knew who it was; he had seen and heard the whole thing, including the fiery explosion that had given Scrapneck a 5,000-pound headache. He watched. He rewound. He used the slow-motion function. Heather Price was nowhere to be seen, or heard. She wasn’t on the videotape, just like the audio cassette from Diana’s mini blaster. When they had played back the cassette from the garage interview, the only voices heard were those of the living.

  Mahoney scooped up his clothes from the living room couch and got dressed. He headed outside to the garage. The fluorescent light tubes did their weird warmup over the Hot Rod. Heather Price was waiting for him.

  “Hey,” she said. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, her arms crossed and resting on the top of the driver’s side door.

  “Hey.” Mahoney didn’t know exactly what to say. For some reason, he didn’t think there was much left to say at all.

  “You want to go for a ride?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Ten minutes later, Mahoney, Heather, and the Hot Rod were heading north on Main Street. He didn’t have to ask her where to go. He just knew. He slowed for the exit to the North Main boat launch. The place was quiet. There were no fire engines, no police cruisers, no weeping grads watching them from the Paddlewheel Queen. It was just Mahoney and Heather.

  She opened her door. She held up Peter Scrapneck’s acid-washed jeans as she exited the Camaro. There was a sliver of moon out that night. Mahoney didn’t know what kind.