Torque (16 page)

== == ==

Known simply to Fenn and his cohorts as the
barn, it had a concrete floor, fluorescent lighting, and enough
room to store about eight cars. At the moment, there were only
three in residence; each partially dismantled and covered with a
sheen of fine white dust. Fenn tucked the cardboard box he had
brought under his arm and called out.

“Tony. Where you hiding?”

“Where d’you think.”

Fenn threaded his way past workbenches and
engine blocks. Kim followed and tried to stay beyond the distance
that grease can leap onto clean cotton. They stopped beside a 1970
Dodge Challenger that sat on jack stands, minus its rear wheels and
axle shafts. Prepped for painting, brown paper covered the chrome
and glass surfaces and a coat of grey primer had been applied to
the body panels. Fenn placed the box on the floor, beneath the rear
bumper.

“Got that 3:55 out, yet?”

“Almost. Did you bring the 4:10?” The voice
came from under the car.

“Yeah. These rack and pinion sets aren’t
getting any cheaper.”

Tony Demmers grunted with exertion. “At least
you can still get them for this dinosaur of yours.”

“What’s a 4:10?” Kim bent sideways to peer
under the car.

“A gear ratio for racing.” Fenn rooted around
in Tony’s toolbox for something sharp. “It gives the car quicker
starts, although it lowers the top speed. The 3:55 is generally for
normal street use.”

“Normal for a Hemi, anyway,” put in Tony.
“Who’s your company, Chas?”

“Why don’t you slide out and meet Kim.”

A wrench hit the floor with a flat chime.
Tony rolled out on a mechanic’s dolly to stop with his head at
Kim’s feet. Curly hair brushed her boots, bright teeth beamed at
her, and there was a twinkle of mischief in the dark eyes. He could
easily have seen up her skirt but she held her ground and beamed
back.

“Hello, Kim. Is this the most fun you’ve ever
had on a date, or what?”

“At the moment it’s in the
or what
category but I’m keeping an open mind.”

Tony laughed. “Good for you.”

Kim peered at an emblem on the Challenger’s
hood. “So what is a Hemi, exactly?” She stepped back as Tony sat
up.

“A Hemi, my dear, is one monster of a motor.”
Tony put the cardboard box between his knees and reached for a
screwdriver. “So called because the head surfaces, where the
pistons compress the mixture of gas and air are hemispherical, like
a dome, as opposed to flat. That, and a bunch of other stuff like
solid rockers, makes for more power.” He ripped through the packing
tape and opened the box flaps. “The engine in this car puts out
about 450 horsepower.”

“Which is over three times what your Beetle
puts out,” added Fenn.

“My Beetle goes pretty fast,” said Kim,
defensively.

“Not this kind of fast.” Tony looked around.
“I’ve got a beer somewhere. You guys want one?”

“Nah. We ought to go. There’s a mechanical
bull waiting for Kim, over at Dusty’s.”

Kim shook her head, arms folded. “Dream on.”
She walked around the front of the Challenger. “What colour will it
be?”

“Hot Pink,” said Fenn.

“Hot Pink! Really?”

“No. Not really. Ready to go, or do you want
to help Tony with the differential?”

“Why don’t you open a beer, and I’ll help
Tony.”

“Really?”

“Shucks. I forgot my coveralls. Nice to meet
you, Tony.”

“You too, Kim. Next time, bring your
coveralls and forget Chas.”

“Now, there’s an idea.”

== == ==

Fenn chose the Skyway Bridge route into
Hamilton. At night, the view from the top was of a magic land.
Behind the great angular silhouette of the steel mill, a myriad of
fairy lights twinkled from homes and office towers. Along the edge
of the bay the pulsing orange glow of fiery slag pits animated
genie-like clouds of steam and reflected in the dark water
below.

Compared to the barn, Dusty’s wasn’t all that
dusty. With burnished leather and polished wood it made a good
simulation of an old saloon despite its newness. They ordered
highballs to start—gin and tonic for Fenn, rum and cola for
Kim—then moved onto wine with dinner.

Kim couldn’t finish her shrimp jambalaya but
Fenn had nearly demolished his buffalo steak when she said, “I
suppose you’d like to know what I found out?”

“Then I’ve kept my side of the bargain?”

She picked a shrimp from the remaining
rice.

“You have. So what made you think of this
place?

“Well, it has all this tack stuff and I know
you have a horse. Brutus, is it?”

“Bunty. And don’t you dare laugh.”

Fenn speared the last battered mushroom.
“Never crossed my mind. So, what did you come up with?”

“The Grand Marquis is registered to a
numbered company.”

“Numbered, huh. That doesn’t tell us
much”

“I’m not finished. I asked my dad’s secretary
to do a directory search, and the numbered company is registered to
Harrowport Holdings, which is owned by Lucien Harrowport; you know,
the funeral home guy.” She sat back to let the waitress collect
their plates. “Can I ask why you need to know this?”

Fenn emptied the wine carafe into their
glasses and contemplated how much to relate. He began with, “My
apartment has underground parking.” He described the standoff with
the Grand Marquis and how his apartment had been trashed. He told
her of the superintendent’s reaction, and the rescue of Mogg the
cat, but elected to leave out the package and the call from
Brittany Reis. That might provoke questions that he didn’t have
answers for and, tonight, he just wanted to enjoy Kim’s company.
Wherever that may lead.

Kim listened intently until he was finished
then said, “Why would a funeral director send over two guys to bust
your bookcases?”

Fenn shrugged. “Perhaps he’s got something
against Ian Fleming.”

“Did you report it?”

Fenn decided to stay with the fib du jour. “I
did but it’ll hardly get a passing glance. I was thinking of moving
anyway.”

“It’s all a bit weird, though, isn’t it?” She
picked up the dessert menu and opened it.

“Yeah, the things I do to get a date.” That
scored a half-smile, and Fenn snagged the waitress as she neared
their booth.

“Fancy some dessert?”

Settled into Irish coffees and apple pies à
la mode, Fenn asked, “Why don’t you work for your father?”

Their mood having lightened, Kim actually
snorted. “Are you kidding? That tightwad would have me slaving
seven days a week for minimum wage. Sis stuck it out for a while
but quit soon after she got married. It was months before they even
spoke to each other again.”

“Is he that bad?”

Kim licked froth from her spoon. “Oh, he’s
alright as long as you don’t have to work, or live, with him.”

“I saw your sister in Waterdown the other
day. Did you know her husband was my roommate in college?”

“So that’s who let you into the wedding. Did
we get a chance to chat?”

“Only briefly, but it was quite the event.
She seemed pretty happy when I saw her in town.”

Kim smiled. “She and Larry have our
grandparent’s old farm in Flamborough. You know, where the
reception was. She loves it out there. Close enough to home, yet
far enough away to have some distance. Don’t get me wrong—we love
our parents—but during their divorce they saved thousands on
lawyers by venting at my place.”

Fenn gave her a sympathetic look. The Klaasen
divorce had been breakfast reading for months. Just the sort of
thing the locals liked to butter their toast with.

“What about you, Chas, any relatives
nearby?”

He almost said no then realized that may not
be true.

“Right now, the only one I’m certain of is my
grandmother. She lives on a reservation in Quebec.”

Kim leaned away from her cup to see more of
his profile.

“So are you Huron or Mohawk?”

“Part Cree and part Irish. Chas Fenn is my
Irish name.”

Kim caught his deadpan expression and started
to grin.

“Okay. I’ll bite. What is your Indian name?
Stooping Bear? Eagle Feather?”

Fenn waited until she sipped her coffee then
said, “Running Shoe.”

His timing was perfect. She snatched up a
napkin to cough into, then wiped her chin.

“I sure walked into that one, didn’t I.” She
began to work her way out of the booth. “How about rustling up a
couple of beers while Pocahontas finds the little squaws room.”

The disc jockey powered up and started with a
Randy Travis hit. Kim two-stepped around the first dancers on the
floor and, later, managed to pull Fenn into a line dance. A ballad
followed and her arms went around his neck. Slowly, the gap between
their hips disappeared and Fenn’s lips found her ear. They returned
to the booth after the second ballad and Kim slid in beside
him.

The waitress gave them an ‘I caught you
kissing’ smile and said, “Shooters are now on special, you
guys.”

Kim reached for her purse. “Ever had a Black
Sambuca, Chas?”

“Perhaps I should slow down. I’ve still got
to get you home.”

“And waste a good buzz!” She looked at the
waitress. “Did I see a motel next door? Great. Bring us four
shooters and a check-in form.”

With that knack women have of pulling charge
cards from thin air, Kim snapped a gold one onto the table.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Chivalrous.” Her hand found
his thigh. “I’ll let you walk me over.”

CHAPTER
24

Sunday, October
25th

The two guys in the sedan at the back of
Dusty’s parking lot didn’t even rate a second glance. They sat
without talking, occasionally taking a hit from a magnum of vodka
to take the edge off the boredom. Behind the wheel, seat tilted
back, R. J. idly watched the patrons come and go. Brick blew smoke
rings and flicked cigar ash out the window.

They’d been on Fenn’s tail since he’d left
home, debating all the while on the right moment to ‘goose’ him.
The bitch, Reis, had her knickers in a knot over some missing
package and wanted Stan’s son to get the message that she was tired
of waiting for it.

“Do what you need to,” she’d said. “Just
don’t kill him. Yet.”

Brick took another swig. He hated to waste
vodka. R. J. checked his watch. The place would be closing soon. He
looked up and gave Brick a nudge. The pounding beat from the bar
swelled and seemed to push Fenn and his date through the swinging
doors into the cool night air. Arms around waists, gait a little
unsteady, they traversed the parking lot over to the motel.
Stopping at one of the units, Fenn appeared to have a problem with
the key. The woman was laughing. The room light came on for less
than a minute and then went out.

== == ==

The bed had a sag and a creaking frame.
Buttons, buckles, zippers, and clips were undefended and unfastened
as the couple gently sparred their way to the main event. Their
love-wrestle on the threadbare duvet would be a no holds barred
affair that would turn into a best of three falls. Passing voices,
slamming doors, running water in adjacent units, were all
inconsequential. There were no rules and no boundaries, though
occasionally they relied on Fenn’s strength to keep them within the
confines of the ring. The last of the headlights would slide across
the drapes before Kim pinned Fenn to the mattress for the final
prolonged count.

They lay intertwined, their bodies pulsing in
the afterglow. Minutes ticked by before Kim found the energy to
roll off Fenn’s chest and stagger to the bathroom for a towel. She
returned and flopped onto the bed beside him. A moment later she
had drifted off, her breathing soft and slow in the surrounding
quiet.

Fenn found a pillow and pulled the sheet off
the floor to cover them. Hot and bothered from over-indulgence, his
sleep was restless and he could have been out for hours or merely
seconds when the dull rattle of a diesel engine stirred him awake.
It receded in a series of gear changes until the only sound left
was the faint ticking of his watch. He’d been out just long enough
for camels to nest in his mouth. Some water would be nice. As would
a pee. Both involved getting up so he put the urge on hold and
rolled onto his side to face Kim.

Barely visible in the darkness, the S-curve
of her waist and hip undulated slightly as her breath alternately
warmed and cooled his shoulder. Smoke from the bar lingered in her
hair, and a fleeting carnal impulse came to him the same moment she
chose to turn onto her stomach.

Outside, a car splashed out a pothole. Shocks
squeaked over a speed bump as it approached the motel with
headlights considerately off. The vehicle slowed then stopped
across from Fenn’s room, the motor continuing to tick over. He
heard a door open and a trunk latch click. There was no
conversation and the trunk thumped shut a few seconds later.

Fenn lay back and turned away from Kim to
face the window. Beyond, where the drapes didn’t quite meet, a
curious flickering hovered just above the sill and where the fabric
hung away from the wall a yellow light shimmered through the gap
onto the door lever.

Which appeared to be moving downward.

Fenn blinked hard, twice, and looked again.
Slowly, fractionally, the handle started to dip. The deadbolt held
against an almost imperceptible pressure and the handle eased back
up, but Fenn was now aware he’d stopped breathing.

Still watching the door, and the hypnotic
glow, he reached over and gave Kim a gentle nudge. She murmured but
didn’t wake. He was about to nudge harder when his ears caught the
unmistakable ratchet of a large-bore gun.

The flickering light dipped then raced toward
the window.

With no time for warning, Fenn rolled toward
Kim and straight-armed her shoulder as his foot found her hip. Like
a crippled jet leaving a carrier she flew off the mattress,
trailing the sheet like an unopened chute.