Kim Klaasen’s home was only six kilometres from Fenn’s apartment. In fact, from her vantage point on the escarpment she could probably see the top floors of his building with a cheap pair of binoculars. Still, with several intersections to cross, and Burlington being notorious for red lights, it took Fenn nearly fifteen minutes to negotiate the Saturday evening traffic.
On the way, he pondered whether dating the desirable Ms. K. could be construed as gold-digging. Her father, while not personally responsible for Burlington’s rapid growth, had certainly managed to cash in on it. Follow any cement truck through town and they’d likely stop at a job site overshadowed by a Godzilla-sized picture of Jack Klaasen on a billboard.
The town had a love-hate relationship with ‘Jackhammer Jack’. His work was highly visible and not always welcomed, particularly by watchdog groups. His latest humble abode in Burlington’s highlands fell a couple of million short of the most expensive dwelling in town yet, true to Klassen form, by the time the last slate tile had hit the roof, and the peat around the Weeping Nootkas was tamped down, it had become the most publicized.
A full page spread in the local rag had revealed the property’s extensive use of Italian marble and ancient Greek sculptures. It also mentioned City Council’s ‘denial of access’ that prevented Klaasen from using the aquifer to top up his Olympic-sized pool.
Even had she bothered to read the piece, Kim still preferred the tenancy of their old pile which, nestled into a cul-de-sac of wooded Highview Drive, had a more country-cottage style than the new place. And it had a nicer view. The clearing from the back terrace, out to the edge of the escarpment, not only overlooked Burlington but right across Lake Ontario to Grimsby and Beamsville on the opposite shore.
The car’s tires crunched on the gravel of the semi-circular drive. Limestone steps led to a heavy oak door with a big black knocker. It was partially open and Fenn caught a fleeting glimpse of blue skirt and white shirt disappearing down the hall.
He pushed the door to its limit then announced in a voice loud enough for nosy neighbours, “Ms. Klaasen. Your Dial-a-Date is here.”
He was answered with a deep woof followed by a skittering of nails on linoleum. Braced for impact, Fenn was saved by Kim’s call of “Down, Jess!”
The copper-coloured dog stayed ‘down’ but still wriggled and bumped and draped long silky hairs on Fenn’s jeans.
“Okay, Jess, you’ve said hello. Now, back to the kitchen.”
She waved a hand at the closet behind her as she pulled the golden retriever away.
“There’s a lint brush in there, if you need one.”
She went down the hall and Fenn quickly shook the hair from his pants. He straightened up as Kim returned. She spun around to flare her knee length skirt.
“Will this do?”
The red and white embroidery on the denim connected nicely with the stitching of her cotton blouse. Victorian style ankle-boots added a few inches to her diminutive frame.
Fenn smiled in approval. “You’ll be the Belle O’ the Bar.”
In return she ran an appraising eye over his black jeans, black leather vest over a charcoal shirt, and grey Boulet cowboy boots.
“Hmmm. Would that be a biker bar, or a saloon?”
“Might be a bit of both. Have you ever been to Dusty’s, that new Country—Rock joint across the bay? They apparently make a mean poutine.”
Her laugh went into the closet as she pulled out a coat but the grin stayed with her as they went to the car.
“It’s still a bit early for the bar,” said Fenn, turning out of the driveway. “I have something to drop off in Kilbride, if you don’t mind a small detour.”
Kim settled back against the headrest, her denim jacket draped across her lap. “Not at all. Country drives have always been high on my list. Giddy’up pardner!”
== == ==
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.”