Flashback: Mark's car ...

Angel was waiting for me at Broadway and Victoria when I got there just before two AM.  She had a winter coat on this time and had it zipped up right under her chin, with her hands stuffed deep in her pockets and a grey toque on her head.

I’d brought the stuff she asked for – I found a large plastic bleach bottle with just a dribble left in Bill’s laundry room and a new one sitting there, so I dumped the old one out and rinsed it.  Then I raided the work bench in his garage and found a couple feet of solid copper wire and a half roll of electrician’s tape.

I showed it all to Angel and she said it was perfect, so we started to walk toward Nanaimo.  She cut into the closed Shell station there.

“We need some gas.” she told me.

“It’s closed.” I said, “The pumps are turned off.”

“I know that.” Angela said impatiently like I was an idiot, taking the bleach bottle and twisting off the cap and setting the bottle down.

She lifted one of the pump handles off the cradle, “There’s always some gas left in the hoses.  Not a lot, but we don’t need much.”

Sure enough, when she squeezed the handle a few ounces of gas trickled into the bleach bottle.  She repeated it a few times until there was an inch of gas in the bottom of the bottle.  She screwed the top back on and we carried on walking.

I showed her where Mark lived and took her down the alley to his carport and showed her his 55 Chevy.

“It’s nice.” she whispered.

The neighbourhood was quiet except for the odd ‘shush’ of a car heading up Nanaimo, the houses all dark and sleeping.  We snuck into the carport and Angel reached around through the grill and popped the hood and lifted it just high enough to work under.

“Here.” she handed me a tool with a hexagonal end and a t-handle, “Take out the spark plug closest to the battery.”

I pulled the spark plug lead off that plug and set the tool over it and twisted it until it let loose, then screwed it out of its hole.  Angel shook the bleach bottle violently then unscrewed the cap and stuck the spark plug in the end, wrapping the metal part at the base with the copper wire then wrapping the end of the plug and the wire so it was secure in the bottle.  Then she felt around and found the negative post on the battery.

“Ground the spark plug wire to the negative terminal.” she whispered as she pointed at the negative terminal so I knew which one it was, “We don’t want this thing blowing up in our faces.”

I peeled back the boot on the plug lead and scraped it against the negative terminal — no spark.  Angel set the bleach bottle on the engine and wrapped the other end of the copper wire to the negative post, then put the lead back on the spark plug.

“Let’s get out of here.” she whispered as she eased the hood down and pressed until it clicked closed.

Angel led us up to the top of the hill on Nanaimo until we found a phone booth.  She asked for Mark’s phone number and I gave it to her.

“Where does he work?” she asked.

“He manages Pacific Xerograph up on Kingsway.” I told her.

“Vancouver or Burnaby?”

“Burnaby.” I said.

“What’s his last name?”

“Chalmers.” I told her and I did my paper clip trick to get a free call and she dialed Mark’s number and waited until he woke up and answered.

“Hello, Mister Chalmers?  Mark Chalmers?  Yes, this is Constable Yazniski of the Burnaby RCMP.  Are you connected to Pacific Xerograph on Kingsway?” I couldn’t believe she was doing this, “Yes, well I’m sorry to inform you there’s been a break-in and it’s quite a mess.  Yes, a great deal of damage.  We can stand-by until you get here and can put you in touch with a contractor who can secure the store until you can contact your glass repair place in the morning.  Yes, as soon as you can, it’s busy night for us.  Thank you so much, Mister Chalmers, we’ll be standing by.”

She hung up the phone.

“Now what?” I asked as she led me to the shadows of a couple trees on the corner.

“We wait.” she said.

We could see Mark’s house and the roof of his carport from where we were.  Lights were coming on in his house and in a couple minutes we heard the sound of Mark’s back door slamming, then the sound of him closing his car door.  The dull wind-up of his starter came faintly from his carport and suddenly his backyard lit up with a flash and a loud ‘thud’ and the clatter of the hood of his car blowing off and bouncing off the carport roof to fall onto the concrete.

We could hear Mark swearing, then heard him go back in the house.  Angel led me back to the phone booth.

“Do your thing.” she said and I shorted out the phone to get her another free call.  He answered right away.

“Have you called the cops yet?” Angel said into the phone, “Good, don’t.  You just learned what happens when you fuck with a friend of ours.  Pay Jackson what you owe him by noon tomorrow or next time we’ll blow up your fucking house.  He’ll be at Pacific Xerograph tomorrow at lunchtime.  Be there and have his cash ready.  And Mark?  Don’t ever fuck with us again.”

Angel hung up.

“Let’s go.” she said and we ran across Nanaimo and took dimly lit side streets heading toward her foster home.

“Jesus Christ, Angel.” I said quietly as we walked – sometimes she scared me.

"That Dog Don't Bark"