by David Levien
Then of course there was the manure shoveling, the slopping, the calving, and the castrations — all the tasks that came along with life on a farm. Growing up, he’d gotten so used to the work and the death that it was only later, into his first ten on the force, that he realized he possessed a stolid, almost bovine endurance for the unpleasant. It was what he relied on to get him through odious, boring, and even hopeless work. It was what he’d need to draw on in order to continue with this case.
Behr, having finished his lunch, which turned out to be only the crackers that came along with the chili, got back in his car. Turning off Plainfield’s Main Street, he saw the “campus,” a cluster of low cinder-block buildings surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire. The buildings housed and attempted to rehabilitate some three hundred juvenile offenders. For most of them the place was a stopover before graduation to the nearby maximum-security institution.
Behr entered the admin building and went through a metal detector on his way to picking up the pass. Brookings was as good as his word, and it awaited him. Behr was then directed to building six, where he was wanded and patted down, then shown into an interview room. He wasn’t offered coffee or anything else. Packing boxes were stacked in the halls and administrative secretaries made repeated trips, filling them with files and adding to their number. Behr remembered that within the next few weeks the whole facility would be moved down to new quarters on Girls School Road. Ten minutes later a guard wearing a putty-colored uniform escorted in a young man with a cropped head who looked to be about seventeen years old.
“Mickey, thanks for seeing me.”
“Make it Mike,” he said quietly, extending a small hand. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about stolen goods. Bicycles.”
“I’m out of that. Obviously.” Handley gestured to his surroundings. “I’m sprung in eight more weeks and I’m crime-free from here on in.” He spoke in earnest, not trying too hard to sell it. After Cottrell’s buildup, Behr expected a street-hardened gold-tooth he would have to break down. He was surprised to see Mickey Handley, compact and well spoken. Behr had seen a first incarceration do this to a young person from time to time. The only nod to Handley’s prior reputation was the sweatshirt he wore. It was too large, fuzzy, and N.C. Tar Heel blue with ABERCROMBIE written across the chest. His pants were navy blue, institutional issue.
“How’d it used to work, then?”
“Hold up. Where’d you get my name?”
Behr daggered the kid with his eyes. “I’m doing the asking.”
The kid hung his head and spoke.
“There was a new and used bike shop over by Range Line, near Carmel, where I’m from, so reselling was easy. I got some cash together and put word out that I was buying.” Handley looked up. “The units started rolling in. Bikes are like that,” he deadpanned.
Behr’s face didn’t twitch as he showed the kid there was no audience for the wordplay stuff.
Handley nodded and went on. “Most guys I bought from were either kids or ding heads looking for drug money. These idiots used to walk around with bolt cutters, chop the padlock, jump on, and ride straight over to me. Some guys were fathers, who also had drug problems or gambling debts, and were selling off their own kids’ rides.”
“You know if you ever bought or sold a near new blue Mongoose BMX?”
Handley showed his palms. “Aw, man, I’m sorry. I did volume. Can’t remember something like that. Probably did.”
“I’m gonna ask you one big one, Mike, and I want you to think before you answer. You’re gonna give me a name and then I’m gonna go away and you’ll continue with your crime-free life and that’ll be it.” Behr leaned back and crossed his arms before speaking. “Who’s the wrongest bastard ever showed up to sell you a bike?”
Handley hardly paused before speaking. “There was one crankster who sold me about half a dozen units, sometimes two at a time. He’d drive over and take them out of his trunk.”
“How’d you know he was using?”
“He had the craters,” Handley said, pointing to his face where the telltale sores of a meth smoker showed up.
“What kind of car?”
“Different ones.”
“Lincoln?”
Handley shrugged. “Could’ve been. Anyway, there was no chance he’d be riding ‘em over on account of his size. Things’d look like a clown bike he was so big.” Handley paused a moment, realizing his audience for the size reference, then looked up at Behr to see if there’d been any offense taken. There wasn’t and he continued. “This guy put on airs, you know, like he was don criminati—” A flash of the old street talk; Handley caught himself. “I mean he acted like he had bigger things to be doing.”
“I get it. What’s his name?” Behr asked calmly, feeling the dull thunder of his heart.
“Ted. Ted Ford, I think.”
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure. Anyhow, you could check it.”
“How?”
“He was affiliated — maybe he worked there or something — at this titty bar. Ah, what was it called? He was always giving me these cards, these little promo cards offering a free drink off the minimum. Like he was a real businessman. It was … it was the Golden Lady. Ted Ford.”
FIFTEEN
THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN when Paul rolled into the driveway. Carol grabbed her keys and bag, stepped outside, and pulled the door shut behind her. They had a dinner meeting with the private investigator. Carol brought no hopes with her, assuming there would’ve been a call if any information had been found.
“Hi,” she said, climbing into the car. As Paul backed out, she considered the house. It hadn’t changed much since they’d moved in. It had been recently painted then, and it was still in good shape. She hadn’t bothered to put geraniums in the window boxes last season. All the same, she hated the place now. Hated it for all that she had once loved about it and for what it now represented — a dream of a happy safe life that had curdled. She knew, though, that she could never move. That Paul never could, either. Not until they got some final word of Jamie’s death.
“Be interesting to see Behr’s report,” Paul said, breaking into her thoughts.
“Yeah,” Carol answered, though she did not agree. Reports full of no information were insults to them and their pain, but that’s all they’d gotten from the previous investigators.
The car fell silent as Paul steered toward Curley’s, where they always met the investigators. He glanced at his wife and his stomach clenched at the turbulent feeling that hit him there. He cracked the window to let in some fresh evening air and release some of the stale stuff inside the car. Each day had become a series of tasks for him. Getting up, going to work, selling policies, eating, paying bills, keeping up conversations with Carol, checking updates on the missing children Web sites, tending to the house. The tasks were small rivets keeping a lid on what roiled inside him. Rage. Indignation. Helplessness. At different times they would seize him by the back of the neck and thrash him about, until he would force himself to take up a new task and lock things back down. Back at the beginning of his marriage and looking forward to forty, fifty years together with Carol, it didn’t seem like enough time. Now the days stretched out ahead of him, a terrifying snakelike monster he couldn’t hope to ride down. No amount of tasks could control it.
Behr sat at Curley’s, an untouched basket of bread in front of him, having arrived at the restaurant early. The place was white subway-tiled walls with green-shaded lamps hanging low over butcher-block tables. The menu was comfort food, with dessert included. Curley’s was an anomaly these days, as it wasn’t part of a chain. May as well be, Behr thought, looking around impatiently. He’d shot home after leaving Plainfield and ran addresses, phone numbers, and backgrounds on Ted Fords. There were several and he was able to quickly eliminate most of them based on age and physical descriptions. He didn’t find any with records. He had a feeling he wasn’t on to much. He knew well enough
not to put stock in what Handley had told him. Jailhouse information was like hitting major-league pitching. Even Hall of Famers only connected one out of three. Still, he would’ve liked to have gone right over to this Golden Lady joint to see if he could find Ford in person. Instead he waited.
Before long they entered. Quiet and tentative, Paul held the door for his wife and they crossed to him. Behr didn’t stand or shake hands as they sat, and he felt them glance around at the table and the empty banquette next to him, looking for something.
“Folks,” Behr said before too much time could slide by.
“Let’s order first, then talk,” Paul said, eliciting a look of pained patience but no protest from Carol. Paul ordered Salisbury steak, Carol chose a Caesar salad. Behr passed altogether.
“Where’s your report?” Carol asked before the waitress had taken two steps away. Behr showed his empty palms and then pulled out his notebook.
She was surprised but not disappointed that Behr didn’t have a typed report to ply them with, and felt the same way about him not donning a suit. This guy was either more good money after bad or maybe something better. He was different anyhow, she thought.
“Did you learn anything?” she wondered.
“Tibbs. Just as he got there. I believe he was on his route and never finished it, and that it was no accident.” Behr’s words hit them like a thunder-head. The parents didn’t move or breathe.
“I think there were two men on the scene, and they probably weren’t the only ones involved—”
“Do you know who—” Carol nearly jumped across the table.
“No.” He cut her off. “Look, the same assumptions we started with have gotta hold. That there won’t be any more information, much less good news.” She nodded at him. “I have a lead. A name I can at least ask—”
“Who is it?”
“I’ll tell you more as I find it.” A stony silence settled. Paul’s appetizer salad arrived, small and wilted, drowned in red dressing.
“How will you go about … ?” Carol’s words petered out as she realized she wasn’t about to get a primer in investigation.
“Yo u wanted this meeting, folks. I didn’t think it was called for, but it was your decision.” Behr bristled, not liking their pressure.
Carol blinked, her only movement. The sounds of Curley’s, filling up around them, hummed for a moment.
Paul’s heart had been thudding since he walked into the restaurant and saw Behr sitting there, put out at having to take the time to update them. He was too busy working to kiss their asses. That was clear from the look on his face and the way he was dressed. When Behr went on and told them what he’d learned, it confirmed the cold, slimy knowing deep within him. When Behr spoke the name of the street where he believed it had happened, Paul recognized that his life had changed — his worst fear had come to pass. There was nothing else the world could do to him.
“I …” Paul began, the word catching in his throat, “I want to be involved. To work with you on the case.” Carol, eyes wide, looked to him, truly surprised. Paul sounded so set on the idea that for a moment she actually wondered at the outcome.
“No,” Behr said. The finality of the answer stole Paul’s breath. It seemed that Behr tried to think of something to add, to soften his answer, or at least to make clear the many whys for it. “No,” he said again.
“What do you mean no?” Paul asked. “We’re the ones who—”
“You hired me to do what I do. That doesn’t include you or anyone else coming along.”
“I just want to know I’m doing everything I can to help find out what happened to Jamie,” the father went on.
“Don’t. Don’t push this course, Paul. It won’t lead you anywhere good. You can fire me if you want, but—”
“No.” It was Carol’s first word in some time.
“He was our son. My son,” Paul continued. “How would you feel?”
Behr banged his palms flat on the table, causing silverware to jump and rattle. Paul’s salad bowl capsized and the restaurant went silent for a moment. Behr felt his pulse throb in his neck. He fought for control and for air. My son. Tim’s face had flashed through Behr’s mind’s eye when he heard those words. This used to happen every minute of every day back when it was fresh. It had happened less and less over time, but rather than decreasing in power, Behr was merely left less resistant when it did come. He shook his head hoping to physically knock the image out of it. He looked across the table at Paul and saw a broken, haunted aspect in the man’s eyes. Behr knew it well. He wondered if his own eyes featured it at the moment.
Behr considered the place on the continuum of civilized behavior that Paul occupied. No matter how raw he’d lived when he was young, he’d raised his son for over a decade. He’d experienced the softening and respect for life that children bring. Such things did not afflict Behr. Since Tim had been gone he’d been moving steadily the other way. Finally he felt he could speak again.
“If this leads anywhere, it’ll be to a horrible place. And you’re not prepared for it.”
“I’m not a cop, but what I’ve been through …” Paul said, running out of whatever propellant had gotten him this far in the discussion. “And you … you’re … You seem like …” he finished, tapping out completely.
“I may seem like a regular guy,” Behr said evenly, “but it’s a mask.”
He sat and looked at the couple looking at him, appraising him anew.
“I’m gonna get back to work.” Behr stood up from the table and left them sitting there.
Behr slid behind the wheel and caught a flash of his face in the rearview. How much truth had he just told? More than he’d been prepared to, but not all of it. Tension knotted in his shoulders. He felt sweat running down his sides. It had come to this. How many cases had he been fired off by meddling employers? Most were domestics. Once he started to turn up information, they’d want to come with him on surveillance or to confront their cheating spouse. Behr was clear on that never happening right at the top when he took the cases. Every one of them agreed to the provision, then 90 percent of them reneged when the information came through. This was different. If the average client was ripped apart by a husband or wife nailing a neighbor, or having a workplace affair, or going gay, then this case would have nuclear-level fallout. What he found, no matter how vague, had the potential to destroy whatever was left of the parents. But the truth of it was that Behr didn’t work alone to keep his clients out of the line of fire — for him it was penitence. His own conscience bore a debt against him, long from being paid, for what had happened to his own son.
Behr felt worse than bad about it all; he felt like shit. He could Jack Daniel’s it away, a bottle and a half’s worth. But he didn’t do that to himself anymore. Usually he’d drive over to City Club and pound iron until his arms hung limp and lactic acid burned in his chest. Tonight he drove straight for Crawfordsville Road. The Golden Lady.
“What was that about?” Carol asked when they’d gotten in the car, the first time either had spoken since Behr had left them in the restaurant.
“Nothing,” Paul said, jerking the car into drive. He felt stupid, exposed in front of his wife. When he’d rehearsed it in his head on the way to Cur-ley’s, and then again seconds before he spoke it, things had gone differently. In Paul’s version, Behr didn’t welcome him on as a partner exactly, but he was supposed to have nodded and agreed. But the guy had been a piece of granite, unwilling to even go into detail. Paul considered calling him and leaving word that he was fired right on his answering machine. He drove, his eyes set on the road, his mind swirling with information and ideas. Could he get Pomeroy to have the cops go house to house on Tibbs, checking for suspicious behavior? Could he go himself, storm the doors one by one and search attics and basements and crawl spaces for Jamie? A shrinking feeling of limitation slowly returned. His limbs went weak and he knew he wasn’t going to fire Behr.
SIXTEEN
RENO REMSEN MOVED
ONSTAGE to the second song of her three-song set, “Round and Round” by Ratt. The blue spots caught her smooth skin. She glowed. She swung on the pole and dodged wadded-up singletons and fivers that flew at her from the rail. Her real name was Meredith. Her thighs were round and undimpled in the low light and smoky air. Her tit job was decent and she had a mane of black hair. She was everything you came to see in a place like this. But she was no Michelle Ginelle, the one Tad was in love with. That was clear even from the second-story balcony where he sat. Michelle called herself Brandi, with an i, and always hit the stage to “Cherry Pie.” Turned out Michelle had the night off tonight unexpectedly. It was just as well since he couldn’t radiate for her much right now. He liked to put on his smile and place a knowing sparkle in his eyes for her. That took energy and he was too worn out. He’d been smoking a lot and not sleeping. The cristy was fine when he was high, but it became a dragon in his head, roaring out of the darkness, when he tried to sleep. It came with its own soundtrack, too. Scary opera blaring out of a tinny loudspeaker, like those strapped to the helicopters in Apocalypse Now when they strafed the village. He had tried to quit smoking for a while, to take ‘er easy, but he still woke up in the middle of the night; he had started to suspect what it was really all about. That’s when he took up the pipe again. Heavy.
He had hurt people. He’d stolen. He’d smuggled cargo precious and illegal. He was a bad boy to be sure. And Michelle was going to like that about him one day when she truly saw it. But of all the things he’d done and done wrong, great and small, that woke him in the middle of the night and chased sleep off from there, it was a strange thing that showed up most often. It was selling those damned bikes. His dirty secret. Six of them before getting out. He’d made twelve hundred bucks from it. The last was eleven months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. He’d basically forgotten about it, then six months ago, after meeting Michelle, it had started to come into the back of his mind, almost like a tickle. He’d burned the addresses, he’d dumped the vans, he hadn’t told a soul, but the bikes were a loose end, the only damn loose one from his time working with Rooster for Mr. Riggi. In the end he couldn’t swallow the work he’d been doing, and despite it paying well enough to make him a freelance gentleman around the Golden Lady, Tad had ultimately quit and walked. He finally had to just get the fuck away from Rooster, and Mr. Riggi said he understood. He’d had a few conversations with Michelle about it all, every bit of detail cloaked, of course, and she had seemed to agree that Tad shouldn’t stay in a bad situation.