by David Levien
Knute stopped chewing a few minutes later when he heard tires on gravel outside. Then came a car horn and he exited out the front door. Terry was there by the side door behind the wheel of his Charger, a scowl knotted on his face.
“Gimme some of that,” Terry said absently as Knute climbed into the passenger seat. Knute tore the remaining half of the peanut butter sandwich in two and handed a piece over.
“I thought you live in back,” Terry said.
“I do.”
“Chalky,” Terry remarked of the sandwich.
“It’s all they had,” Knute responded. Terry gave him a quizzical glance but didn’t say anything. “Did you meet Camp?” he wondered, though based on the grimace Terry was sporting, he had a pretty good idea of the answer.
“We’ve got issues there.”
“You ready to do this thing then?” Knute asked.
Terry nodded. Knute pulled out a prepaid cell and dialed a number he had memorized. It rang several times. Knute felt Terry’s eyes scanning his face, but he kept his gaze forward. Finally, the ringing stopped.
“Who’s this?” a dry, granular voice asked.
“Knute from down south,” Knute said. He could hear the noise of plates and glasses clinking in the background, and the sound of a televised baseball game. “This Bobby B.?”
“You got me. Indy Newt?”
“Right. What’re you doing?”
“Watching the Cubbies. They were in first place, looking like they were gonna get something done post-season, but now … The fuck’re you doing?”
“Hold on,” Knute said, extending the phone, which Terry took.
“Hey man,” Terry said, “we have a complication from that other piece of work.”
“This T?” Bobby asked.
“Yes, it is.” A moment’s angry silence passed.
“What kind of fucking problem?” Brodax demanded, his voice charged and not so low that Knute couldn’t hear it bleed out of the phone.
“A cleanup problem.”
Silence reigned on the line.
“Some asshole’s been poking around,” Terry went on.
“Law enforcement?” Brodax asked.
“He has that smell.” There was a breath; Terry wasn’t happy about what came next. “He turned up—someone turned up— that… package down by the river.”
“And now you want me to make another package,” Brodax volunteered.
“Something like that,” Terry said.
She’d finally managed to stop the darned waterworks. In the end, she hadn’t been able to go inside the clinic and do what she’d planned. She got herself together and drove Lynn home, and the smile her friend had given when she’d climbed out of the car made her sure she’d done the right thing. For the moment anyway. But Susan needed to see Frank. Not just to talk to him, but to look into his eyes. They’d been apart too much lately, he on his cases, she with her situation, and whether this break was for good or not, they needed to hash things out. She’d suddenly understood with clarity what was at issue between them. She’d gotten a tiny taste of it outside of that clinic, and it was enough to make her shudder. It should’ve been pretty obvious considering what he’d had and lost in his life. Deep down she’d known it from the moment she’d told him the news and things had started crumbling between them, but she’d been unable to do anything but take it personally. She had her own baggage, she supposed. Hey, it was only fair. But now a phone call wasn’t going to do it, so she headed to his place. If she was going to have his kid, to raise it with him or without him, there was a lot to talk about.
She called on her way, just to see if he was home, and had gotten his voice mail. It didn’t dissuade her, though. She figured she’d find him there, not answering his phone, or would just wait until he arrived. She hoped it wouldn’t be long, but she had her key, so if he truly wasn’t home she’d rest until he showed up.
When she reached his place, she glanced toward the parking area in the back and didn’t see his car. She parked on the street, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. Her key was in the lock when she felt a creeping sensation and stopped. Her neck felt frozen, unable to turn her head so she could look to confirm what she knew in her bones: someone was watching her. They’re here for Frank. It echoed in her head. Her car seemed miles away back down on the street, a distance that was suddenly too great to traverse. She squeezed the doorknob, wondering what awaited her on the other side. Still, it was the only choice now. She forced herself to turn the lock and open the door. She swung the door open, entered, closed it behind her, and turned the lock.
The place felt empty. But her heart was pounding now and she didn’t know if she could trust herself.
“Frank?” she called out. There was no answer. Total stillness. Only the low hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. Should I call the police? She tried to imagine what she’d say—that she felt like someone was watching her sort of boyfriend’s house, send a SWAT team? Maybe she was just panicking. Maybe she was just hormonal. She went down to her knees and peered out the bottom of the front window between the blinds. She could see the fenders of several cars on the street, but nothing else. She sat back against the wall and looked at the locked gun cabinet. She could smash the glass and grab a shotgun, but it had been fifteen years since she’d fired one—shooting a few clays with her dad—and didn’t know if she could even do it, much less find the right ammunition and load it. Frank had offered to teach her many times, but she’d always said no. The idea of handling guns was unpleasant and ugly to her, but she wished she had taken him up on it now. There was one thing she needed to do, she realized, before she did anything else: she knew she had to check the place to make sure she was alone.
Convenience stores. It was a silly thing, but they were what Knute loved. And he loved everything about them. The fluorescent lighting, the bad music, the linoleum floors, all the choices—that was freedom to him now. Pepsi, Mountain Dew, slushies, Little Debbie Marshmallow Pies, Twizzlers, BBQ-flavored Fritos, jerky snacks, fifteen brands of beer, and porno mags—all the shit he couldn’t get when he was inside, at least without a major effort and expense, and definitely not on his own timetable. He had to take a hell of a squirt right now courtesy of the Big Gulp he was sucking on. Dr Pepper, ah the good doctor. Together with a bag of Funyuns it was a gourmet junk-food pairing. When they thought about the possibility of going back and doing another stretch, most guys who’ve been inside can’t face the prospect of no women. That was a tough one for sure, but it would be harder still living without the ability to visit a Kwik Mart or 7-Eleven whenever the hell he damn well pleased.
It wasn’t really a question anyway. “Not going back” is what all the cons say in the movies, Knute thought. But “can’t go back” is the truth. He died some in prison in Michigan City, his body just didn’t catch on. But if he went back, it surely would. And if he kept on following blindly behind Terry and those dumb-ass dreams of grandeur, that was exactly where he was headed. Back. Cold fucking cement, surrounding him like a coffin. A narrow, opaque slice of window that only hinted at the light of day. Icy-blooded evil bastards around him on every side. Terry was a badass—as bad a man as he’d seen who hadn’t been locked down—but Camp Doray not showing had rattled him. Terry tried not to show it, but Knute knew him too well. Now the man was ready to admit what Knute had already figured: it was time to cut losses. He was glad, real glad, when Terry had gotten him to bring the Chicago guys back in the mix. They were expensive, but worth it—especially for this Behr motherfucker. What Knute had learned about him—how he’d managed to run shit down and end up at their door, how he’d scrapped with Kenny and Charlie at the same time and was still walking—well, that told Knute he was serious business. And that’s what those Chicago guys were for. Knute knew plenty about hurting and killing, and about the removing when it was all done, but even he had learned volumes watching those guys work.
Now, as long as Terry was footing the bill, Knute was happy for them to
come back and make their troubles go away. He half wished they wouldn’t stop with Frank Behr, but that they’d go on and button up Fat Larry, too. Hell, maybe Knute would take care of that himself. Either way he was happy to sit on Behr for the time being, to clock his comings and goings and hand him over when Chicago came to town. Then a car rolled up and a tall blonde with a bouncy ponytail bopped out and caught his attention. He turned down the Scorpions disc that was playing in the car and hit bottom on the Big Gulp as he watched her climb the steps to Behr’s unit. He’d already decided that Behr wasn’t home by taking a good look around and had settled in to wait, but this was an added bonus. It meant Behr might be coming home soon, maybe for a little afternoon delight—that sure wouldn’t be delightful for long.
He watched the tall bitch key her way inside, and all went still again for a few minutes. Then the piss pressure hit him low and hard. He thought about letting it go into the Big Gulp cup but wasn’t in the mood to get sprinkled with the end drops, so he eased himself out of the car. He’d just unbuckled and begun when he was pretty sure he heard a door open and close. He was midstream when he crouched down a bit and thought he caught a look at the bitch’s ponytail dunking over a fence in the back and then disappearing. He tried to force out the rest of it and buckled up as he went for the car door, but he had a feeling he was going to be too late. And he was. When he got around the corner he couldn’t find the blond bitch anywhere.
She heard him before she saw him, his car anyway. The screeching sound of brakes came to her inside the quiet lobby and she looked out to his see his car parked roughly by the curb in a cloud of tire smoke. Thick greasy rubber marks tailed off behind the vehicle. When Frank jumped out, dirty and wild-eyed and crabbed low—as low as he could get, considering his size—his hand against his lower back, gaze cutting about the parking lot in all directions, she felt a warm wave of safety wash over her. She understood many things about her life in that moment. He hit the door, his eyes still intent and vigilant as they swept the bank, and then he saw her. She rushed to him from her position near the guard, where she had been waiting fitfully for five or six minutes. They embraced and he leaned back and touched her face. That’s when she felt her tears start to come.
She had dropped down beneath the window in his place, her back against the wall, and had just decided to hell with it, she was calling the cops and would deal with the embarrassment later, when her cell phone rang. She’d dug it out and gasped, “Hello,” and heard Frank’s voice.
“I’m ten minutes away,” he’d said, after she’d told him where she was. “You need to get out of there. Go out the back and meet me at the National City Bank, there’s a security guard there.” She’d never heard the kind of urgency he had in his voice.
“Should I call the police?” she’d asked. There was a pause while he weighed it.
“Call ’em, but don’t wait for ’em. I’ll explain it later. Can you make it?”
“I think so,” she said, thinking of the child she was carrying and suddenly feeling strong. She used the landline and spoke to a 911 dispatcher and said she was being followed.
“Stay on with me until you go for it,” Frank told her. She poked her head up and glanced out the bottom of the window. She thought she saw some movement at the front of a nearby car but didn’t want to raise herself up for a proper look. She saw a flash of denim, a man’s lower body clad in a pair of jeans. Her heart thundered when she thought he was heading for the building, but he stopped and relaxed into his stance and she saw he was relieving himself behind his car.
“I’m going,” she said, and headed for the rear door.
She’d made it. She ran the whole way, six long blocks, after climbing a low fence at the back of the building. She didn’t look back a single time to see if she’d been spotted or if she was being followed. She didn’t think she could possibly have run any faster no matter what was behind her. It was like a tight race in the pool: looking was only going to slow down your touch.
The worry he saw on her face made him feel sick for a moment, and then a hot bolt of anger shot through him. He knew he wasn’t walking away from anything now.
“Suze,” he said, “are you all right?”
She nodded, mute, tears spilling down her cheeks. Behr pulled her close again and met eyes with the guard across the lobby, a middle-aged black man, who turned away after a few moments.
“Is everything okay … with this?” he asked, touching her belly. She nodded again, placing her hand over his.
“What’s going on, Frank? What’s happening?” she asked.
“The guy—was he around my age, big?” he asked.
“No.”
“Young, early twenties, muscled up—”
“No. He was on the small side. Late thirties. I couldn’t see too well, but I think he had some kind of scar on the side of his face.”
Behr gritted his teeth. He had an idea who she was talking about.
“Why didn’t you want me to wait for the police?” she asked.
“Too long to tell right now.” That’s when Neil Ratay pulled up outside. Behr had called him as soon as Susan had hung up with him. From the looks of things Ratay must have run to his car and lead-footed it over.
“Frank?” Susan asked, as Behr led her out of the bank toward Ratay’s car.
“I need to put you somewhere safe and I can’t watch you right now. I figured you’d be happy to spend time with him.” Behr’s eyes searched the parking lot while they crossed to the reporter, who had gotten out of his car and waited for them.
“Neil,” Behr said.
“Frank,” the reporter answered. His eyes held questions, but he didn’t ask them.
“Thanks for coming,” Behr said.
By now Susan had calmed a bit. “Hi Neil, sorry about this,” she began, but he waved her words away with a cigarette he’d just lit.
“So I’ll work from home today, no big thing,” he said.
Behr gave him a nod. “There shouldn’t be much danger. It’s just a precaution because she walked into it. Even if they know who she is, he didn’t follow her here. Just stay off the street for a while.” Behr’s mouth shut. He looked at Susan. He couldn’t speak what he wanted to, not with the thoughts swirling in his head— thoughts of causes, violence, results, and revenge, of linkage.
“How long?” Ratay wondered.
“Not long,” Behr said. He put his hand on Susan’s back and steered her toward Ratay’s car.
“What about you?” Susan asked, her voice steady now.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“Frank—,” she started.
“Neil, would you mind?” Behr said, gesturing at the cigarette and then to Susan as Ratay moved to get in his car.
“Sure,” he answered. Ratay paused for a moment. “Oh …” A half smile of knowing came to his lips as he flicked away the cigarette.
FORTY-ONE
It was finally payday. ’Bout fucking time. After all the work: the lugging the equipment, the installing the lamps, the tending the plants, the making the connections. Yeah, it was about fucking time. Charlie Schlegel stood in an alley off Lambert Street with Kenny waiting for Peanut and Nixie to show. He had the shit in the back of his Durango and they were leaning against it when Peanut’s Neon came around the corner. He pulled up close, and he and Nixie got out of the car.
“’Supps?” were exchanged, and Peanut handed over a thick envelope of money before Charlie passed an old nylon gym bag containing the weed and oxy. It should’ve been that easy.
“Count it, bro,” Kenny said, evoking noises of displeasure from Peanut and Nixie.
“Man, it’s all there,” Peanut said.
“I know it is, ’cause if it’s not, I’m gonna take a reciprocating saw to that piece of shit ride you’re so proud of,” Charlie said, jutting a thumb over Peanut’s shoulder toward the Neon. Kenny smiled; the other two did not.
“Lemme know when you need more,” Charlie said.
�
�Uh-huh,” Peanut answered, turning back for his car.
“Yeah,” Kenny said, “don’t smoke it all in one place. We know how you folks get.”
Peanut stopped and turned.
“Yo, what fucking ‘folks’?”
“Dirty African folks,” Kenny said, smiling and squaring with Peanut. Charlie tucked the money into his pocket and smirked.
Peanut shook his head, looked down, then swung a right hand, open palmed, and bitch-slapped Kenny hard across the face. Everything froze for a moment, as if none of them could believe it had happened. Then Kenny, eyes full of rage, lunged forward, dropped his level, and laced an arm under Peanut’s and around his back. Kenny pivoted and flipped him to the concrete. Peanut landed on his shoulder and the side of his face with a slapping sound that forced the air out of him. Kenny dropped a knee on Peanut’s chest and began punching.