Torque (3 page)

Reis stood up and stretched. Retrieving the
disc would take finesse. Simedyne would have tight security, and to
extract even a small object would be difficult. Not impossible,
though it would certainly require some advance planning.

As executor of Aird's estate she could drop
by, flash her business card, and sign out Aird’s termination papers
in person. It would be a perfect opportunity to scope out the
place.

She crouched down to disassemble the computer
and her knees and back protested the hours spent on the floor. She
carried the equipment to her car but there was still one riddle
left to solve.

The patch from Aird’s wallet had to be just
one of a batch. The fat man had obviously run off prototypes and
decided to test market them in the doorways and back alleys of
Hamilton. That explained the small wad of low-denomination bills.
He’d sold a few then having worked up an appetite had gone into a
nearby mall for the meal he never ate.

Even the most naive pusher would only carry a
portion, so there had to be more, somewhere. Reis opened her
briefcase and went through the slips of paper from Aird’s wallet. A
chit from a parking lot on Bay Street had been stamped about two
hours before he died. The make, model, and plate number of his car
was on the ownership. Something else that she hadn’t noticed the
first time around was Aird’s security pass to Simedyne.

The size of a credit card, one side had a
black magnetic stripe and the embossed name of its owner. Reis
turned it over and smiled. A sticky note on the back of the card
held a series of dates, each with a unique set of digits. Like
employees everywhere, Aird had found it was easier to compromise
the company’s security than to memorize a new PIN code each
month.

The last was dated ten days ago so, unless
the facility’s administration was above average in efficiency, it
could be valid for another couple of weeks. Since they wouldn't yet
know of his death, Reis could consider the timing of her
notification.

It was now past midnight and her energy began
to fade. Rather than grab another beer from the grubby fridge, she
opted to go home for a change of clothes. And maybe a pinch of
magic dust. Cocaine and other samples of Aird’s trade had been a
perk that made partnering with the fat perv livable.

A few hours ago his death had appeared to be
a catastrophic event. But, the patches had been her idea, and she’d
recruited the sponsor for the seed money and the black market
supplies that Aird had needed. That he’d landed on a slab while
circumventing her, at this stage of the game, was almost poetic
justice.

Okay. Freshen up then find his car, clean it
out, and remove the plates. She looked around and wondered if the
house was worth coming back to. The rent had been paid with
post-dated cheques, the next one not due for three weeks. If she
left money in his account to cover the amount the place might come
in handy as a bolthole. Of course she’d have to sanitize it.

Yeah. No. Well, maybe a can of gas and a
match.

There would also be paperwork to process and
forms to file. Luckily, she didn’t need to be good at forgery,
which she wasn’t. She just had to be a legal secretary. Which she
was.

CHAPTER
4

Monday, October
5th

The high school parking lot was peaceful
between periods. The wind bore the discordant notes of a music
class, and the occasional whistle from a gym session mimicked a
blackbird’s call. Chas Fenn pulled a memo from his binder and
skimmed over the message. It was just another impersonal note from
Head Office reminding all instructors that, when involved in an
accident, the driving school signs must be detached immediately and
placed in the trunk of the car.
Must
was underlined.
Immediately
, typed in boldface.

No problem, thought Fenn. I’ll just pull my
bleeding carcass from the wreckage and do that.

The memo had some worth, however. The back of
it was blank. Virgin empty space. The white gold of the mobile
office.

Still in the passenger seat though his
student had left, Fenn folded the page into two columns and began
to list his assets and liabilities. On the positive side he jotted
down a full tank of gas and thirty dollars from last night’s poker
game. The apartment rent was paid for the month, and there might be
a TV dinner or two in the fridge. Plus, he was due to get paid for
last week’s lessons. Unfortunately, most of that was pegged for his
car lease and insurance, which he noted on the negative side along
with the phone bill. Adding cat food and litter for Mogg, to the
expenses, brought his net worth down to zero but at least the sheet
balanced.

A car with a roof sign matching his own
entered the lot and rolled into the adjacent parking space. A set
of white teeth, one with a gold rim, beamed at him from below a
pair of NASCAR style sunglasses. The driver released his seatbelt
and got out. Fenn did the same and shut the door quickly as the
wind whipped up a mini dust devil.

“Hey, hombre! Long time, no see,” said Joe
Posada.

Posada was another veteran of the road. Most
instructors burned out after about three years. Posada and Fenn
were both into their ninth and shared a friendship born of time and
common experience.

“Buenos dias, Amigo,” replied Fenn, smiling
back. “What’s new?”

“Not much since the Union meeting. How about
you?”

“Well, if you must know,” said Fenn, “my car
now has an ejector seat.”

Joe looked suitably impressed. “Could be
useful. What triggers it?”

“Melinda Tate, and the biggest bug you ever
saw.”

Posada weather-vaned to light a cigarette.
Fenn stationed himself upwind and watched two seagulls flapping
wildly over a bread crust by a garbage can. He figured the birds
had about six minutes to squabble before the school doors burst
open and a flood of youth came spilling out.

Squinting from the first wisps of smoke,
Posada perched himself on the hood of his car. “So, was Melinda
driving?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it driving, but we
were approaching a red light when this winged-thingy, about the
size of your thumb, buzzed past her nose and smacked into the
mirror.” Fenn gestured to simulate the flight. “It lands in her lap
and starts spinning around on its back.”

Fenn saw a grin surround Joe’s cigarette and
lowered his voice. “We're still moving, mind you, when she screams
‘Oh, fuck! A bee!’ whips off her seatbelt, and jumps out of the
car!”

Caught in mid-drag, smoke burst from Joe's
lungs.

“One second I've got a student, the next
thing I know the car is driving itself.”

More smoke followed a croupish laugh as Joe
raised yellowed fingers to his lips and diminished the
cigarette.

Half-seriously, Fenn said, “You do know those
things can stunt your growth, Joe.”

“Bees, or smokes?” Barely taller than his car
roof, Joe often ducked under that joke. He cast an appraising eye
over Fenn’s car. “Any damage?”

“No. The other drivers had already slowed for
the light, and a longer look at Melinda’s ass in tight jeans. I
just knocked the gear stick to Neutral and used the safety brake to
stop.”

“Miss Tate sounds like quite a
distraction.”

“You don't know the half of it.” Fenn scanned
the lot. “A month ago, she showed up for a lesson in a skintight,
see-through top—and no bra.”

“Did you …?”

“Did I what? Start to sweat?”

“Did you take the hint? C'mon buddy, tell me
you took the hint.”

“She's only seventeen for crying out
loud.”

“Oh, man. That is so unfair.” Joe drew
tobacco down to the knuckle mark, dropped the filter and erased it
with the sole of his shoe. When he looked up the mirth had faded
somewhat.

“So, what's your take on the proposed
Instructor's Union deal?”

Fenn cast a glance at his watch. “Here’s the
short version; Head Office claims that enrollment is down and can’t
afford to increase our pay. The flip side is that after you and I
pay expenses we barely make minimum wage.”

“And for that they get a teacher, a
psychologist, and a stuntman. They could at least give us danger
pay.”

Disparity was a hot topic among the
instructors, lately, but Fenn didn’t have time to get into the
nuances. “I’ve got to take off, Joe. My next appointment is across
town.”

Posado raised a hand in farewell, and then
called him back. “Hey, did you hear that Ron Jenner gave his notice
today?”

Fenn turned around. “I heard he was
moonlighting as a bouncer at
Toppers
.”

“He quit that, too. Said something about a
family business. Maybe an inheritance. Some guys are lucky that
way.” Joe chuckled. “If it wasn’t for charm and good looks I’d be a
poor man today.”

“That’s a different kind of wealth,” replied
Fenn, knowing Posada’s self-deprecating humour was somewhat true.
Something about Joe seemed to attract freshly licensed young
ladies. All of consenting age, mind you. Nonetheless, Joe’s brand
of luck had prompted a Head Office memo that stated the dating of
students was against company policy. Fenn had scribbled a grocery
list on the back of it.

== == ==

The name on the client card was Myrtle
Stafford and the address was that of a compact brick house. The
front garden had a flagstone path and, beside it, on the cracked
asphalt driveway was a mint-green Dodge that appeared to have spent
most of its life in the garage behind. The ten year old car gleamed
like Sunday’s silver tea service and told Fenn something of his
client.

Women tend to outlive their husbands and
Myrtle’s generation was one of widows with cars and no chauffeurs.
Fenn’s reputation for empathy, and success, brought more of this
demographic into his schedule each year. It was a mixed blessing.
Retirees were flexible for lesson times and generally good for
several sessions. Unfortunately, their advanced years often put the
goal out of reach. Not the type to nurture false hopes, Fenn had to
deliver the unwelcome verdict all too often, and such news was not
always accepted with complete grace.

Still, give the old girl a fair shake, he
reminded himself as a small elderly woman in a camelhair coat and
matching wool cap emerged from the house. He stood at the end of
the walk and ushered her into the passenger seat.

“Nice to meet you, Myrtle,” he said. She
appeared to utter something as he closed the door but the tempered
glass muted her words. Fenn slid behind the wheel and opened his
binder.

“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.