Torque

by Glenn Muller

  Anonymity is a basic security device for corporations that handle sensitive material. The sole identifier for Simedyne was a small fingerboard that directed delivery trucks to the loading dock at the rear of the building. Svoljsak drove around the block and then parked where he had a view of both the front and left side of the building.

  Four stories tall and the same length and width as a football field it was set back from the street, old style, with a parking lot in front. Below the first-floor windows some attempt had been made to green the place up, but the small shrubs only heightened the sense of nature being crushed by industry.

  Save for the rolling gate across the driveway, the property was surrounded by a chain-link fence. Three tall stadium lights stood waiting for dusk. He’d been told the company had one hundred and fifty employees, and did not run shifts. Only security staff and workaholics would remain in the building at night.

  From a camera bag kept in the trunk, he retrieved a single lens reflex camera and used its telephoto lens to scan the roofline. That would be the standard place to mount surveillance cameras yet the only visible technology was a small satellite dish and a three-pronged antenna. He captured those on film, took a couple more panoramic shots, then moved the Buick down the block and parked again.

  This angle revealed the white housing of security cameras tucked beneath the shields of the stadium lights. From there, they could cover the entire face of the building with illumination behind them. There would probably be a similar setup around the back so, as discussed, getting in and out would require a degree of subtlety. He’d return after dark to check out the shadows and habits of the staff but, for now, a trip to a one-hour photo booth would give him something to ponder.

  Back on the freeway, Svoljsak’s thoughts returned to the woman and he wondered what her angle really was. He was suspicious of females in general and found them hard to read. They seemed to have ulterior motives for their ulterior motives and it was damned confusing. Like last night. Why bother with all that intrigue when a phone call would have sufficed? Still, he was rather looking forward to his next ‘briefing’.

  As long as it wasn't tonight, although that was highly unlikely. Sneaking from the room without waking him might add to her mystique but it didn’t make her superhuman. Svoljsak had no doubt that she felt every bit as ragged as he did.

  It was nice to know he could still go round for round with the young pizda.

  CHAPTER 7

  Monday, October 12th

  While the rest of the world was making coffee and toast, Marty Durrell opted for bratwurst and beer. He carried them on a tray to the terrace and lit the propane barbeque. The sun had already banished the morning mist and the warming air pushed the dissonant sounds of the day’s commute up to his tenth floor perch.

  The grill would take a couple of minutes to heat up. He leaned on the railing and flicked a few flakes of peeling paint into the void. He watched them helicopter down until the fickle breeze blew them around the corner and out of sight. The bed of a pickup truck, directly below, was an inviting target and Durrell swallowed a fizzy mouthful then snapped his beer cap at it.

  The trajectory was good. The tiny missile stayed the course only to shear off at the last second and hit the asphalt with a faint tink. It rolled across the lot to stop within a few feet of his dark blue Camaro. The yellow numbers that reserved the spot with his apartment number needed repainting but he could still make out what they were.

  From the balcony the car appeared low and curvy. Racy. The Shaeffer Security logo on the bumper, a gold triangle inside a circular white decal, reflected the sun. The sticker beside it, illegible from this height, read;

  MY OTHER CAR IS

  WITH MY EX-WIFE

  A BMW sat in the next spot. Durrell scanned its box-like shape with a critical eye. The car didn't belong to his next-door neighbour. People with Bimmers didn't live in dumps like this. He held no illusions about his digs; the rent was affordable for a night security guard, the location was central to work assignments and, Durrell thought, looking out over the rooftops, Burlington really didn't have any bad views.

  The barbecue was now hot so he went to get the tongs, deciding at the same time to shove some frozen fries in the oven. A barely audible knock detoured him to the front door. The very moment Durrell laid eyes on her his mind began churning out the possibilities.

  She spoke.

  “Oh! Umm. I'm looking for Daphne Everett.” Bright teeth tentatively bit a glossy-pink lip. A sudden headshake caused ringlets of red hair to fall about the high cheekbones and small jaw. “I’ve got the wrong apartment, haven’t I,” she concluded.

  Slim-hipped, black bomber jacket and red leather skirt. Durrell’s eyes made it all the way down to her patent leather heels. His ex-wife used to call them ‘Fuck me pumps’. Perhaps if she had worn them occasionally things may have turned out differently between them.

  The scarlet pumps turned to go.

  “Uh. No.” Durrell stammered, then, “I'm, uh, sorry—who were you looking for again?”

  “Mrs. Daphne Everett. She needs to sign these contracts.”

  Long fingers with crimson nails held up a folder then, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of a dozen pages, lost their grip sending papers cascading to the floor.

  “Oh—my—god! The boss will kill me if I mix these up.” She dropped into a high-heeled crouch and twisted about to gather the forms, causing the short skirt to ride higher with each turn. Durrell wondered if his day could get any better.

  He knelt beside her. “Here. Let me help.” A delicate veil of perfume tantalized his senses.

  “Thanks. I'm sorry about this.” Her eyes were green like emeralds. Contact lens green but Durrell didn’t care.

  “Not a problem. But there's no, what was her name?”

  “Daphne Everett.”

  “Yeah. No. Maybe check the listing in the lobby again.” They both stood and he handed her the last two papers.

  “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.” He watched as she slowly made her way down the hall, her head bowed as she counted the sheets. Now that was one of Burlington's finer views.

  At the elevator she turned and gave a little wave, and another pulse-raising smile. Durrell ducked back into his apartment ready now, more than ever, for the rest of that beer.

  == == ==

  Fries, ketchup, and mustard. The only thing missing was fried onion thought Durrell as he cut into the sausage. Three soft taps on the door, however, stopped the fork before the meat reached his lips.

  Holding back hope he quickly scanned the room and was glad that he’d tidied up before leaving for work the night before. He shoved his boots behind a chair and went to the door.

  “Um. Hi again,” she said. “I need to call my office and can’t find a phone. Do you think I could use yours?” Toes turned in, head tilted to one side, her pose was pure waif. And irresistible.

  “Sure. C'mon in. The phone is right over here.”

  “I'm disturbing your meal, so sorry. Wow. That's quite a breakfast!”

  “Supper, actually. I just got off work. Would you like some?”

  She shook the red ringlets. “No thanks.” She had the phone and was dialing. “Don’t worry. It's local.”

  Dial Hawaii for all I care, thought Durrell. Just stay for a while.

  She held the handset to her ear then put it down. “I’m getting a busy signal. Do you mind if I wait here for a minute, and try again.”

  “No. Not at all. Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, water, beer. I might have something else in the cupboard.”

  “Coffee would be great. I’m Brenda, by the way.”

  “Marty Durrell.” He engulfed her offered hand gently in his own, willing his thoughts to travel through the tenuous link. While his telepathic efforts didn’t send her into his arms, neither did they make her leave.

  While Brenda tried the phone again, Durrell went to the kitchen and rinsed out the coffeepot.

  S
he professed to be a legal secretary, and opted for some Drambuie rather than cream in her coffee. Later, draping the bomber jacket over a chair, she also admitted to taking the odd toke. Did he have any weed?

  He did.

  Durrell kept the conversation going. He told her he’d once been a prospect for a professional football team. “Then I got badly concussed and that was that.”

  “So what do you do now, Marty?”

  “Security guard. Contract assignments. Right now I’m at a chemicals lab called Simedyne.”

  Security guard. Night shift. Boring, right? Apparently not. In fact, ‘Little Red Ringlets’ seemed fascinated by every detail. Whatever. If it kept her from leaving he’d recite the staff phone directory. She finished his Drambuie, had both his joints, and was now standing somewhat unsteadily by the phone.

  “Must be some’ing—something—wrong with the line. All I get is beep beep beep.” She got the handset into the cradle on the second try and flopped onto the couch beside him. He draped his arm across her shoulders and drew her close. She didn’t resist. Durrell drank in her scent and let the russet curls brush his neck.

  “You know I can't let you drive away in this condition.”

  She leaned into his chest. “Well if that’s the case, Officer. Sir. Officer Marty, sir. I guess you ought to restrain me for my own good.”

  Protect and serve. Serve and protect. Repeat if necessary. It appeared that Officer Marty had a duty to perform. He put his lips close to her ear.

  “Now don’t you worry, Ma’am,” he said, nuzzling in. “I’m sure I can handle a lack of restraint.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It had been a typical Indian Summer weekend. Underfoot the earth damp and full of nutrient, overhead the sky deep and blue, and in between a boisterous breeze to swirl the Fall colours around. Perfect climbing weather.

  Fenn had spent most of it scaling Rattlesnake Point, an escarpment cliff face just north of Burlington that was well known among rappellers. Monday morning, and his calves and thighs were a little tight but he felt rejuvenated and ready for work.

  Monday mornings were when he dropped off the previous week’s timesheet at the office. He parked in front of the Burlington franchise of DriveCheck Incorporated and breezed through the door whistling a tune from the radio.

  “Morning, Asha!” He rapped on the counter with his appointment book. Asha Fabiani swiveled on her chair to face him.

  “Chas! C'mere.”

  He held back when she motioned him closer.

  “Forget it. I’m still digging bubblegum out of my ear from the last time I got close to you.”

  She laughed. “You’re safe. See, I don't have any.” The booking clerk stuck her tongue out to prove it then said, “Guess what.”

  Fenn put on a pensive face. “Let’s see. Goth-nation has claimed independence and they want you to be their Queen?”

  Her dark-purple lips puckered to blow him a kiss. Fenn fought a grin. In her Doc Marten boots, hip-hugger jeans, and sometimes-visible navel jewellery, Asha Fabiani was not only popular with the young students who came in to book lessons—she was a looker by anyone’s standard.

  “Not yet, but if you’re wondering why the unmarked cop car is parked outside it’s because the Fuzz are having a chat with Dieter. Carole just ran into the washroom to dump a batch of twigs ‘n seeds from her ashtray.”

  Fenn looked around and sighed. “Why do I always feel like I’ve stepped back into the Seventies when I come in here?”

  “Probably because Dieter and Carole are still diggin’ that groovy scene.”

  No argument there. The Lundsens had emigrated from Denmark a few months after the Woodstock music festival and then, somehow, had remained oblivious that the world had moved on. Paisley shirts and bell-bottom pants for Dieter. Beaded headbands and go-go boots for Carole.

  “The really freaky part,” said Fenn, “is that we work for them.”

  “Pays the bills, Chas,” said Asha as the sound of a cistern filling announced Carole Lundsen’s emergence from the washroom. Busily brushing the front of her suede skirt Carole almost walked into Fenn before she saw him.

  “Chas! Dearest. How’s our top instructor?” Carole’s Danish accent had faded over the years but had a habit of re-emerging when she wanted to charm. “You really must let me clone you, Darlink. With two more employees of your caliper,” she went on, “our troubles they would be over.”

  “That's caliber, Carole, and my clones want a raise.”

  Fenn was no longer taken in by her shmooze. Carole said the same thing on a regular basis to all the instructors. To change the topic he said, “A little bird told me that Ron Jenner is leaving.”

  “No great loss, if you ask me.” This from Asha who gave up the charade of filing when her boss turned to stare at her.

  “Well it's not. He was never on time for lessons—if he showed up at all. He’s had two speeding tickets this year, and there was that woman who claimed he made improper suggestions to her.”

  “Oh, that. Just a misunderstanding.” Not to be wasted on mere clerks Carole’s Euro-accent was back in its locker. “Asha forgets that instructors are hard to come by these days.”

  “The harder the better when it comes to his kind.” Asha shoved the drawer back into the cabinet harder than necessary and went into the storage room.

  Fenn thought he should step in. “He got an inheritance or something, didn’t he?”

  Carole’s brow creased with the strain of recollection. “He's apparently taking over his family’s recycling business, or something like that.”

  Asha came back. “Yes. And he laughed as if he thought that was the funniest thing.”

  “Well, at least we still have Chas, and that's all that matters.” Carole beamed at him again. She had the longest teeth Fenn had ever seen.

  “Is someone with Dieter?” he inquired innocently.

  The smile on Carole's face flickered but quite didn't go out. “Someone with Diet’s? Oh. I hadn't noticed. Well, I mustn’t stand around talking to you two all day—work to do!”

  When Carole turned away Asha pantomimed hanging herself. Fenn smiled and handed her his timesheet. He was about to leave when the door to Dieter's office opened and a tall man in a dark suit and sturdy black shoes backed through it. Dieter’s voice followed him into the hallway.

  “If I can help you in any way, any way at all, just give me a call.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The tall man moved toward the front entrance. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Sure. No problem. Happy to help.” Dieter Lundsen, hair in a neat ponytail, walked his guest the short distance to the door. He watched diligently as if personally responsible for the visitor's safe passage to his car then swiveled on his heel to find three faces waiting in expectation.

  “What did he want?” Carole's whisper could have been heard in the next office.

  Dieter picked invisible lint from the sleeve of his silk shirt. “The fellow came looking for some information, and I was able to help him out.” He said it with the air of one who had just gained an inner sanctum.

  Asha poked Fenn with her pen. “Told ya he was a cop.”

  “Why ever would you think the gentleman was a police officer?” said Dieter with his best ‘I've got a secret’ look.

  The street-wise beauty rolled her dark eyes. She was perfectly cast for a business that dealt with young adults.

  “Well, if you're going to keep it to yourself,” said Fenn closing his binder. “I'll just take some workbooks and be on my way.”

  “I wish I could give you details, Chas, but it's really quite confidential.” The slim Dane tapped the side of his nose and retreated to his office. Carole shoved a half-dozen workbooks into Fenn’s hand with a singsong “Here you go,” and hustled after her husband.

  Fenn turned back to the bemused booking clerk. “Anything of actual importance I need to know?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She handed him a registration card. “Carole filled your l
unch spot.”

  Fenn gave her a knowing look. Technically, he could have refused the student but a solid booking when times were good made up for when they weren’t. He could always find a few minutes here and there to grab a bite to eat. He glanced at the name, which triggered another thought.

  “By the way, Miss Fabiani,” he said arching an eyebrow. “What can you tell me about Myrtle Stafford?”

  “Surely you mean Muriel don’t you, Mr. Fenn?” She batted her eyelashes demurely and swiveled her chair away from him. Fenn’s cheek muscles twitched as he suppressed another grin. The door to Dieter’s office re-opened.

  “Oh, Chas. If you have a moment I’d like to go over this Union thing with you.”

  “Sorry, Dieter. My next lesson is in two minutes, so I should get going.”

  “Later, then?”

  “Yeah. Later.”

  Much later. Like when Hell freezes over. Apart from the fact that covert discussions about Union negotiations were illegal between management and employees, Fenn would rather visit the dentist than sit and listen to Dieter whine. He flashed Asha the two-fingered peace sign and made his escape. With any luck he could avoid Dieter until at least next Monday. Longer, if he won the lottery.

  The undercover police cruiser was still parked nearby when Fenn left the office, the tall detective making notes in the front seat. It was typical of Dieter to puff himself up in these situations, probably ignored as a child, but the boss could no more keep a secret than a paper bag hold water. Asha would have every detail by the end of the day.

  == == ==

  Brandon Perry was practically exam ready so after the student was buckled in Fenn let him choose the route. As he drove Fenn engaged him in conversation. It was a good way to introduce distractions and also kept Fenn in the loop with the latest trends. Brandon had been to a rave on the weekend.

  “So, tell me how a guy in high school got invited to a college rave,” prompted Fenn.