Torque (4 page)

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 qualified.
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.