Torque

by Glenn Muller

  “In case the office didn't tell you, Myrtle,” he began, “My name is Charlton Fenn, but please call me Chas.”

  “And my name, young man, is Muriel.” Both hands gripped the purse on her lap. Chin up, sharp blue eyes fixed directly ahead, and thin lips pressed tightly together. Not a good start.

  Fenn checked the client form. Yup. Myrtle. Then he grinned. This was Asha’s revenge for his comment that her Doc Marten boots were butch Birkenstocks. Mess with the booking clerk at your own peril, Chas Fenn.

  “I do apologize, Myr—iel. I’ll fix that typo right now.” He made a show of correcting the entry, checked her permit, and then began some basic orientation. After switching seats, they drove around the quiet block at bicycle speed. Fenn's placid style was calming and, before long, Muriel began to enjoy herself.

  Fenn always used the first lesson to get to know his client. Talking about familiar things reduced their tension. Muriel beat him to the punch, though, by asking if Fenn was an Irish name.

  “My grandfather was Irish and my grandmother was, well still is, a Cree Indian.”

  “I used to paint portraits,” volunteered Muriel. “And a lot of life studies. We all inherit something from our ancestors. I’d say your dark hair and high cheekbones were maternal. And something tells me your father or grandfather might have been a boxer.”

  “I don’t know much about either of my parents—they split when I was young and my grandmother raised me.” Fenn reached over to the steering wheel and gently guided the car back to the center of the lane. “My grandfather was an engineer, though he may have boxed.”

  “I have a charcoal sketch of a boxer. The hands are large and scarred, like yours.”

  Fenn looked at his knuckles. The skin was dry and broken.

  “These scars are from rock climbing. My fists get pretty hacked up when I jam them into crevices.” He corrected her steering again then said, “You’ve done well today, Muriel. Your house is just up ahead, so move your foot over to the brake and let’s ease over to the curb.”

  They parked, did a brief review, and then arranged for her next lesson. A cup of tea was offered and politely declined. Perhaps next time.

  == == ==

  Fenn finished the day with Pham Quang and his wife Thao, a young Vietnamese couple. They were pickers at a local mushroom factory and always came to the car with a small bag of their harvest for him. Intelligent and enthusiastic, like many imported workers their English was limited to ‘yes,’ ‘thank-you,’ and ‘sorry’. Communication was generally accomplished with picture diagrams and pointing. Fenn would eat a lot of mushrooms before they’d be ready for licensing but, given their situation, it was par for the course. He’d taught several just like them, and they too would pass the test.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wednesday, October 7th

  The Stockport Lounge was busier than normal for a Wednesday. Fall’s crisp calling card had arrived and the office crowd was feeling cozy. Located on the mezzanine of Hanlon Place, a hybrid of office tower and luxury hotel, the bar’s hospitality beckoned to those who disembarked soundless elevators opposite the rain-specked brass and glass street exit.

  Chatter ebbed and flowed around small round tables, cresting occasionally into laughter then receding to choppy conversation. Over bobbing heads, new arrivals caught the eye of the bartender. He nodded while slicing limes for the ever popular Mai Tai and Daiquiri. He couldn’t see the TV but listened, as he worked, to the news anchor’s summary.

  “The Bank of Canada is forecasting yet another rise in interest rates, and the body of a second youth has been discovered in Hamilton. More details in a moment.”

  The station switched to a commercial and the barman changed the channel. Stark reality was not good for the tip jar.

  “You don't mind?” he said, indicating the large screen to the only patron who might have an interest in it.

  The heavyset man on the barstool shook his head.

  The Stockport Lounge wasn't exactly Stanislaw Svoljsak’s kind of place. Next to a beer at home he preferred a street corner tavern where the drinks were cheap and the patrons talked about hockey or fight clubs. The two-for-one cocktail hour was okay, though. He raised his glass and drained the amber dregs of a double scotch.

  “Another one, sir?”

  Svoljsak assented, and armed with the plastic miniature spear he sat hunched over the drink like an Inuit at a seal hole. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. On the side with the goose, written in fine blue marker, was the name of the lounge and the date and time he was expected. It was a novel way to get his attention, though a mere C-note wouldn’t keep it for much longer. Now twenty minutes past the allotted time his patience was already evaporating with the alcohol.

  He took a sip and stole a glance at the segmented mirror behind the bar. The view was obscured by the bottles in front so he hitched around on his stool and casually panned the room. Most of the suits and skirts were there on his arrival. A mixed group in a large booth appeared to be fanning the flames of an office romance between two of their co-workers.

  His scan had nearly reached its unobtrusive limit when he caught the pale sheen of white flesh in silk stockings. He took a quick mental snapshot then turned back to the bar as if he hadn’t noticed.

  That woman hadn’t been sitting there when he'd arrived. Nor had she entered after he'd found a stool at the bar, he could see the doorway and wouldn’t have missed legs like that coming in. She must have followed him from the lobby. That could just be a matter of timing, but in Svoljsak's line of work timing was important.

  There was a motion beside him, a hint of perfume, then a flash of silk-clad thighs being crossed on the next stool over.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Svoljsak. I'm sorry for the delay, but one can never be too careful.”

  Svoljsak centered his glass on the napkin and turned to take her in. “No problem. There’s always a wait when it’s a contract job. Or is it just a con job?”

  Perched beside him, sitting tall, her steel-grey eyes were almost level with his own. Straight dark hair lay on her shoulders and down her back.

  “Now why would you think that?” Thin lips under dark pink lipstick pursed slightly.

  “There’s a con where theater tickets are mailed to folks with big homes,” he said. “The tickets are genuine but made to look like a contest prize. While the lucky winners enjoy their night at the opera, or whatever, a moving van pulls into their driveway and they get cleaned out.”

  Svoljsak watched the corners of her mouth rise to the hint of a smile, the barest imprint of crow’s feet at her eyes. He figured early thirties. Technically, young enough to be his daughter.

  “That would not be a good start, now would it, Mr. Svoljsak?”

  Svoljsak chuckled. Anyone breaking into his place was welcome to whatever they found. “No it wouldn’t. And call me Stanislaw, Ms—?”

  She chose that moment to summon the bartender.

  “I’ll have what he’s having, and add his tab to mine.”

  No sooner had the barman delivered the drinks and moved along when Svoljsak felt the woman put a hand on his shoulder and lean into him.

  “Let me tell you a secret.” Her breath brushed his ear while her other hand slipped inside his sport coat. “If we're going to get along, you’ll need to avoid any initiatives of your own for the next little while.” Her slender fingers caressed his chest then rode the buttons of his shirt down to the belt line where they made a quick tour of his love handles. With the whiskey kicking in, Stanislaw found the sensation pleasurable to the point of arousal.

  “Finding anything you like?”

  “Yes. No wire.”

  She detached herself and raised her glass. “Salut.”

  A grin creased its way into Svoljsak’s broad features. He moved a hand, palm up, toward her breast. “And when do I get to frisk you?”

  Her smile was all business.

  “When I’m confident that you're qu
alified. The people I represent need a tradesperson with your skills to retrieve an item, with minimum impact on the surrounding environment.”

  “So, no dynamite or trucks through warehouse walls.”

  “Not even a broken window or jimmied lock. Ideally, the operation will remain undetected.”

  “For how long? Hours? Days? Weeks?”

  “Indefinitely, if you do it right. There are risks, naturally, but with your attributes they shouldn’t be a great concern.”

  “Well, now, that brings up a good point. Just how do you know what my attributes are, and what I might find a concern?”

  “Hopefully my information was accurate, Stanislaw. I did ask for a stand-up guy with balls, and they did give me your name.”

  Svoljsak recognized the prod for what it was and didn’t react.

  “May I make a suggestion?” she said. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, and get to know each other better.” She slipped off the stool, exposing the last bit of thigh still hidden under the grey flannel of her short skirt, and headed toward the booths. Svoljsak followed and slid onto the bench across from her as a waitress replaced stained coasters and empty glasses with fresh placemats and menus.

  For the next hour, over more double scotches and passable bar food, Svoljsak embellished at will the roles he had played in various heists and drug deals. In return he’d got the full attention of those sparkling eyes, laughter for his jokes, and most importantly the indication that somewhere down the line there would be a generous payoff.

  As enjoyable as it all was, though, Svoljsak knew when to stop talking. This was still her meeting. He was just here to present a face.

  “Well, Stan,” she said, taking his silence as her cue. “I think we can do some business.” The shine in her eyes wasn’t all from tales of car thieves and hookers. Neither was the flush of her skin.

  “Good to know,” he said. “But I’m going to need more details before I commit.”

  “We’ll get into that, later.” She dug into her purse. “Here. Take this.” She placed a gold card embossed with the hotel insignia on top of the bar tab.

  “What is it?”

  “A room key. Give me ten minutes, then come on up.” She eased out of the booth then leaned forward to run a finger down his cheek. “And do leave a nice tip.”

  The lounge was now mostly empty and he could watch her hips sashay through the maze of tables until she reached the mezzanine. If it was her intent to coerce him, Svoljsak mused, then she was going about it the right way.

  He tapped the key absently on the table and tabulated the points. He’d definitely given away more than he’d learned. She wanted something boosted. It would take some finesse. Her first name was Brittany, and she was a lawyer with an ambiguous clientele.

  Or was she? For all he knew she could have been a narc. A narc with a wire. Shit. He’d confided the sins of his life. Even told her about the kid he’d fathered when he was nineteen.

  He checked the exit. No cops waiting to cuff him. Besides, wouldn’t she have said ‘You’re busted’ and flashed a badge?

  He examined the room key and was puzzled for a moment because there was no room number on it. Then he noticed that #710 was written at the top of the bar tab.

  A nice tip would bring the total to about a hundred and twenty bucks.

  Her room. Her tab. Hell, let’s make it a hundred and fifty.

  He looked around. All that remained were a few conventioneers quietly abusing their expense accounts. The stools by the bar were vacant but tripped a memory of the flannel skirt rising past her stocking tops.

  “This is going to cost me,” he thought. “I just know it.”

  His reflection skipped between the bottles as he passed near the bar. The lights in the mezzanine were bright.

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday, October 8th

  Fenn had ten minutes to find a victim. A left on Pine Lane, over one block, and then a right put the car onto Pearl Street; a quiet promenade in Burlington’s chic shopping district. Beneath a canopy of maple and oak, elegant Victorian homes had been turned into boutiques and offices for retailers and professionals who wanted an address to impress. Along the curb ahead he spotted a car with ample space behind it.

  “There’s our victim, Brandon,” he said, pointing it out to his student. “Check your mirror; signal right; and start braking.”

  Fenn’s formula for parallel parking was simple and efficient. He could get a student into and out of a spot within two minutes. The less time it took, the less chance there was of the other car’s owner overreacting. About once a month someone would glare, yell, or run out in bunny slippers to move their vehicle, so he made a point to linger no longer than need be.

  == == ==

  Svoljsak stepped out of his monthly rental at the Skyway Motel and locked the door. An end unit with a refrigerator and hotplate it provided lodging without attachment, and a somewhat anonymous mailing address. The cloying odour of hot asphalt reminded him a paving crew was resurfacing the parking lot, and that he’d left his car a couple of streets over. He lit a cigarette and skirted the workmen by walking beneath the overhang access to the second floor units.

  He’d awoken hung-over and alone at the Hanlon Place Hotel. All that remained of the mystery woman was a stale potpourri of scotch, sex, and perfume. Last night might just have been a helluva dream—except that it wasn’t. Svoljsak had found her on the king-sized bed, open and ready for business. For some reason he’d expected tattoos but from the dark locks on her forehead to the stilettos piercing the mattress, her body was a blank canvas. Not even a hair, elsewhere.

  Her intensity told him she was on something other than scotch. Svoljsak, not having been laid in over four months and in good shape for his age, was able to keep pace. Well, sort of. He’d simply let her do most of the work, saving his reserves for when she wanted the back door stuff. Proud that he hadn’t needed one of those blue pills, he did recall she’d used an amyl nitrate ‘popper’ to bring him out for round two. Then they’d both passed out.

  It hadn’t all been play. During their time-outs she’d actually revealed a few facets of the job. He now knew the target and the facility where it was kept. However, the vagueness of crucial points like access and timing led him to believe that much of her plan was still under construction. She had a nice chest for holding cards close to, but it would be his ass on the line, not hers.

  After a room service breakfast for one he’d returned to his motel for fresh clothes. He would now take a preliminary drive-by of the facility to see what else he might learn. First, though, he had to stop at a bank machine. The conniving bitch had registered the suite in his name. Hell, he could've had three hookers for the price of last night’s adventure. And they wouldn't have left bloody scratch marks on his back.

  Probably marking her territory.

  That thought brought a wry smile to his face, one that vanished the moment he turned onto Pearl Street.

  == == ==

  Fenn's student had followed the verbal directions precisely and docked neatly into the space behind the Buick. Brandon was still facing the rear when the grey gabardine came into view but Fenn saw the flicked cigarette land beside his car like a warning shot. He maintained his even tone.

  “Well done, Brandon. Now just put on the parking brake. Perfect!”

  Brandon nodded. Fenn thought it prudent to give a heads-up.

  “This guy doesn't look too happy. If he sends any grief our way, don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

  The man stood beside the Buick projecting evident if unjustified anger. Unlocking the sedan, he shot one more withering glance their way then swung his bulk into the car and slammed the door. The Buick's engine roared and the car launched from the curb, though the intended effect was upstaged by the man’s gabardine belt flapping wildly from the doorsill.

  “Well!” Fenn said, flashing a smile to relax his charge. “I guess that's us told.”

  Brandon, still holding the wheel with both
hands, stared at the vacant spot ahead.

  “He reminds me of my dad,” he said quietly.

  == == ==

  Three consecutive green lights helped to diminish Svoljsak’s fire, and by the time he had passed the Joseph Brant Hospital he was wishing he’d kept his cigarette. The ramp onto the Queen Elizabeth Way, locally known as the Q.E.W., was at the foot of the Skyway Bridge. He applied gas gradually through the curve then floored it to merge, enjoying the rush of acceleration as the car powered its way up the steep incline.

  At this hour, traffic crossing the canal from Burlington to Hamilton was light. Cresting the peak Stanislaw snatched postcard glimpses of the panoramic view beyond the iron girders. To the left lay the vast expanse of Lake Ontario, its dark blue surface flecked with white. The absence of pleasure craft marked the lateness of the season but Stanislaw was able to pick out the receding stern of a Laker.

  To the right, across a short stretch of choppy water, sat the steel-production plant that anchored the city’s economy. With clouds tethered to its towering chimneys, the hulking structure absorbed the remaining sunlight with its industrial layer of grime and rust. Svoljsak found the stark vista behind the embankment of slag fascinating and had christened it Armageddon’s Camp.

  Ahead, flashing taillights on an eighteen-wheeler broke his reverie and he changed lanes to overtake it. Thirty seconds later he changed back to make his exit ramp.

  His route now ran beneath an overpass. Peppered with poorly patched potholes the uneven paving was intermittently dissected by train tracks. Farther on, a few small homes dwarfed by the mushrooming shadow of manufacture clung tenaciously to tiny parcels of land. There were no people in sight, just great machines trundling along on huge wheels—giant slave-beasts of unseen masters.

  The grid layout of the city’s streets allowed for a fairly direct route to his destination. Ten minutes after leaving the highway Svoljsak was on Wentworth Street checking out the buildings. He had the address but almost missed it.