Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  “So you’re definitely not coming home tonight.”

  “I’m not. I’ll start the day early tomorrow—pick up fresh underwear and a shirt out here—and try to be home by dinner.”

  “That would be nice.”

  A belt fell to the floor. “How was your talk with Rubinstein?”

  “Really good. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “Great. How’re the kids?”

  There was a pause, which the detective knew was meaningful. “What happened?”

  “I don’t need to give you something else to—”

  “Alyssa … what happened? Did Gordon—”

  “It’s Karen. Those boys were teasing her again—saying racist shit and some sexual things. She walked away, but they followed her. She told them to stop, and they started throwing things at her.”

  Fury filled Bettinger, but his voice was even when he inquired, “What’d they throw?”

  “Potato chips at first. Then milk cartons and taco meat.”

  “Taco meat.” The detective pictured his beautiful little girl spattered with wet ground beef. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his vision narrowed. “And while this was happening, what were the adults doing? Heating up tar? Gathering goddamn feathers?”

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you right now.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Bettinger calmed himself. “Darling … what’s happening here in Victory is serious—as serious as it gets—but it’s my job. I like being a detective—locking up idiots, solving puzzles, helping people—it’s the most satisfying thing I could ever do … but it’s my job. You and Karen are my life. Something bad happens to either one of you, I want to know right away, no matter what. Okay?”

  “You forgot Gordon.”

  “I didn’t. I’m sure he’ll return to my top tier of loved ones when he goes to college, but right now, he’s on tier two.”

  The old man who lived inside of Alyssa’s chest chuckled. “I won’t tell him you said that.”

  “He knows.” Bettinger tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair, where it lingered for a moment before falling to the rug. “Can I talk to Karen?”

  “She’s asleep. Want me to wake her?”

  “Let her sleep. What happened to the rednecks?”

  “They’re in trouble. The main boy’s gonna get suspended. Brian Callagan.”

  “Can you get in touch with his parents?”

  After a ponderous moment of silence, Alyssa inquired, “Is that a good idea?”

  “I don’t think racism spontaneously occurs in twelve-year-olds, so I’d like to talk to the source.”

  “And say what? Your kid’s shitty?”

  “I’d like for Mr. and Mrs. Callagan to know that an unpleasant and very black policeman will be directly involved with anything that happens to Karen Bettinger.”

  “You’ll bring extra guns when you meet them?” asked Alyssa.

  “At least eight.”

  “I’ll get their number.” The oldster chuckled. “You get some sleep.”

  “I will. And I’ll try hard to be home by dinner tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Touch base in the afternoon and be careful.”

  “I will and I will.”

  “I love you,” the husband and wife said at the exact same time.

  “Good night,” added Alyssa.

  “Bye.”

  Bettinger thumbed the disconnect button and placed his cell phone upon the nightstand. Yawning enormously, he undressed, turned on the ceiling fan, and cast his body to the mattress.

  Sleep finally won the long-fought battle.

  Nightmares bubbled up from the depths of the detective’s subconscious mind, but even the worst of them were mild compared to what he would soon see.

  XXXI

  New Uses for an Old Car

  A huge palm slapped the glass, startling Bradley Janeski. The hand reconfigured, and a dark finger that could break a sternum pointed at the dirt.

  “Roll it down.”

  The cadet cranked the knob, lowering the driver’s side window of the two-seater that had once belonged to his older brother, and prior to that, his oldest brother. Standing in the parking lot of the long-closed elementary school was a big black man whose silhouette resembled the front of a warship. Steam rose from the two dark turrets that were his nostrils.

  Like most people, Bradley Janeski was intimidated by Corporal Dominic Williams.

  “Park under there—” The big fellow pointed to the partially collapsed overhang that shielded the front entrance of the school. “Stay in the shadows. When you see Slick Sam, you call me or you call Tackley. If you don’t get us, try Huan or Perry Molloy. Here—”

  A balled-up piece of paper bounced off of the cadet’s freckled face and landed in his lap. Rubbing his right eye, the young fellow retrieved the crumpled sphere of data.

  “If he bolts before we get here…” Dominic unbuttoned his black overcoat and produced a snub-nosed revolver that was covered with cellophane. “Ever shoot one?”

  “I scored in the top two percent on the range and grew up hunting with my dad and brothers.”

  “Take this out of the wrapper.” The big fellow tossed the laminated weapon onto the dashboard. “If Slick Sam tries to run off, point it at him—tell him to stop, say you’re a cop. Fire a warnin’ shot in the air if you have to.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bradley Janeski claimed the revolver from the dashboard and started to peel off the cellophane.

  Dominic threw plastic handcuffs onto the sketch of Slick Sam’s face, which was lying upon the passenger seat. “Tie him up and keep him in the trunk ’til one of us gets here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If he scampers,” the big fellow added, “I want you to hit him with your car. Run over his foot, break a leg. Don’t go too fast and don’t run over his vitals. If he gets in a car, smash into that.”

  “Shouldn’t I just shoot him?”

  “We need him alive no matter what.”

  “I know how to shoot.”

  “Maybe … but even a shot in the leg can kill a nigga. And if Slick Sam pulls a gun on you, you won’t be thinkin’ ‘I need to wound him.’ You’ll shit your pants and shoot ’til you’re empty.” Dominic slapped the hood of the car. “This’s your gun.”

  The cadet disagreed with the corporal’s insulting appraisal, but was smart enough not to verbalize his opinion. “I’ll hit him.”

  “But first thing you do when you see him is call those numbers for us to come over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Exhaling steam, the big fellow turned around and walked toward his silver luxury car.

  Bradley Janeski closed his window, put the gun on top of the sketch, and raised the binoculars that he had received last month for his twenty-second birthday. Across the street was the unremarkable concrete façade of the building that was said to contain Slick Sam’s chop shop.

  The cadet’s first stakeout had begun.

  XXXII

  E.V.K.

  The elevator door opened, and the handsome blond policeman who resembled an actor entered the empty, brightly illuminated sixth-floor hallway of his apartment building, carrying a bag of Thai food and several laundered shirts. Nine athletic strides brought Jerry Langford to his door, where he stopped, set his dinner on the carpet, and withdrew his keys. Metal jingled.

  A pale and wiry Czech fellow who wore a black jogging outfit, a ballistic vest, latex gloves, a mask, and a tattoo of the letters E.V.K. watched the officer through a peephole.

  Langford unlocked the final bolt, and as he seized his takeout bags, his observer opened the door of the unrented apartment that was across the way. The hinges and the Czech’s footfalls were quiet, but not silent, and the officer looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him and pointing a silencer-fitted gun at his face was a man who wore a black devil mask.

  “Don’t make any noise,” E.V.K. said through his fangs. “Go inside.”

  Fear shone upon Langfo
rd’s face as he complied, backing into his apartment. The officer was a bachelor, and things would be simple unless he had a visitor.

  E.V.K. kicked the bag of Thai food into the white apartment, proceeded inside, shut the door, scanned the area, and turned the bolts. Not for one millisecond did his gun point at anything other than the officer’s skull.

  Stepping over a heap of spilled noodles that looked like rat entrails, the Czech advanced until only three feet remained between the weapon and its target.

  “Don’t talk,” whispered E.V.K. “Just nod. Understand?”

  Langford nodded.

  The Czech pointed an index finger at a black leather sofa, and the wide-eyed officer seated himself, setting his laundry upon an adjacent cushion.

  “Is anybody else here?” E.V.K. quietly inquired as he taped a clear plastic baggie to the side of his gun.

  Tears sparkled in Langford’s eyes.

  It was not difficult for the Czech to interpret the officer’s reaction. “Is that person a policeman?”

  Langford shook his head, wiped the moisture from his eyes, and set his damp hand upon the laundered shirts. Paper crinkled.

  “Jerry?”

  The voice came from the adjacent room and belonged to a Southern woman. E.V.K. thought that she sounded pretty.

  The policeman lunged at the Czech.

  Bright fire emerged from the silencer, and a hollow-point bullet severed Langford’s throat, turning his cry into a squeak. The plastic bag that was taped to the side of the semiautomatic gun caught the ejected shell.

  Again, E.V.K. fired. Langford’s left eye disappeared, and his brains slapped the sofa. As the second shell clinked against its forerunner inside the plastic bag, the lobotomized body reseated itself.

  The killer believed that a proper murder should not make any more noise than would the act of putting on a winter coat, and so he was fully satisfied with the volume of his recent enterprise.

  He proceeded across the apartment and stationed himself beside the closed bedroom door. Underneath his sneakers, the floorboards creaked.

  “Jerry?” inquired the Southern woman.

  E.V.K. aimed his gun at the unseen speaker who stood on the far side of the wood.

  “Did you remember hot sauce?”

  The brass handle turned, and the door opened, revealing the soft face of a voluptuous blonde who had a cute mole on her left cheek, a pair of dimples, and sheer rose lingerie that concealed only the pinkest parts of her anatomy.

  Lightning flashed.

  A hollow-point bullet tore out a chunk of the woman’s throat and slammed her skull against the jamb. Wheezing, she stumbled back.

  E.V.K. grabbed the woman’s ponytail, yanked her sideways, and flung her onto the bed. Clear fluid that smelled like pinot grigio spewed from her esophagus, and the killer leveled his gun. White fire flashed, lancing her terrified mind.

  The fourth empty shell kissed its peers inside the plastic bag.

  Blood pooled.

  E.V.K. turned to a dresser and opened the top drawer, revealing women’s panties, which he then balled up and stuffed inside the blonde’s punctured throat and forehead until the wounds were clogged. The killer did not consider himself a perfectionist, but he was neat.

  E.V.K. rolled up the woman in the wine- and gore-stained sheets, set her on the ground, and slid her underneath the bed. He then returned to the living room, where he holstered his gun and shoved women’s underwear into Langford’s wounds. Fortunately for the killer (who did not have time to properly clean the scene), the rug and couch were black and would hide most of the officer’s blood from a casual observer.

  The Czech searched the dead man, located his police badge, and dropped it inside the baggie that contained the four spent cartridges.

  There was only one more thing that E.V.K. needed from Jerry Langford.

  The killer unzipped the policeman’s jeans and pulled down his boxer shorts, revealing a shaved pubic region, a tattoo of a heart, and a rose-hued phallus, which was wet with urine. Pinching the glans between his thumb and forefinger, he stretched the shaft like a piece of taffy.

  A disposable box cutter clicked in E.V.K.’s other hand.

  Steel cut a dark line across the taut member, and the tension ripped the outer skin, revealing the pale urethra and the dark purplish-red meat of the corpus cavernosa. A quick, sharp gesture severed these tubes, removing the phallus from its owner.

  The killer placed his dripping prize into the bag that contained the badge and spent shells. All of these things were going to the same exact place.

  E.V.K. added Langford’s bundled body to the mausoleum below the bed, turned out the lights, peered into the hallway, saw that it was empty, removed his mask, exited the apartment, and rode the elevator down to the sky blue lobby.

  At the building entrance, the killer held the door for an elderly couple who were having an argument about somebody named Gertrude. As he waited for them to pass, he glanced at his diver’s watch, which he felt was the single finest machine in existence. Its platinum hands told him that it was eleven minutes after eight.

  Langford’s unexpected visit to the launderer had wasted some time, as had the dispensation of the blond houseguest. E.V.K. did not get upset about things that were beyond his control, and he was not upset now, but he knew that he had to alter his dense itinerary.

  The killer left the apartment building and walked north, toward the charcoal-colored pickup truck that he had acquired the previous morning.

  It was the kind of vehicle that nobody would notice.

  XXXIII

  The Crushing Depths

  An aimless guitar solo leaked from the speakers of a jukebox that yielded insect noises rather than bass frequencies. Sitting under a dim blue light in a corner booth, Perry waved his hand in front of his face, dispersing Huan’s smoke. The redhead usually tolerated his partner’s filthy habit without complaint, but on overlong days such as today, he found it difficult to ignore the surfeit of carcinogens in the air.

  “If I get cancer and you don’t, I’ll put a melanoma in your rice.”

  “I might notice a lump.”

  “I’ll tell you it’s tofu.”

  The pockmarked Asian turned his head, exhaled filth, and created a flower of sparks, dashing his cigarette inside a flattened beer can. “You just had to ask.”

  “Didn’t want to be rude.”

  Perry’s left shoulder still ached from the bullet that he had taken in November, and the pain reminded him of the day when he, Huan, Dominic, and Tackley had caught up with the lying scumbag who had gotten Detective Lawrence Wilson killed. Although Sebastian had some legitimate grievances from that event (and others), his recent retaliations seemed random … if not evidence of outright madness. Gianetto and Dave Stanley were good, honest policemen (almost to the point of inefficacy), and had never even met the Hispanic, nor had Nancy Blockman and Abe Lott, whose lives had been threatened earlier this evening.

  “It’s tragic.” Perry raised a mug of dark stout. “To Gianetto and Dave.”

  Huan hoisted an iced ginger ale. “To Gianetto and Dave.”

  Glasses clinked, and the men drank.

  “I’m not looking forward to that funeral,” the redhead remarked as he wiped foam off of his upper lip. “Italians don’t hold it together.”

  “Understatement of the millennium.”

  “The food’ll be good, I guess … and plenty of it. His daughter’s sweet sixteen had enough fried ravioli to make a bivouac.” Perry sucked down another mouthful of beer. “You gonna bring Heather?”

  “Police funerals give her nightmares,” said Huan, setting down his ginger ale. “This whole situation’s got her worried enough.”

  “Makes sense.”

  As was the case whenever Perry grew morbid, he thought of his two sons in California, their mother, and her husband, the man with whom his progeny shared everything except for 50 percent of their genetic code and the first two years of their lives.

/>   “Thinking about your boys?” asked Huan.

  “Maybe.” The redhead had not seen his sons since the Christmas before the previous one, when he had flown out to visit them in San Francisco. During that trip, he had gotten into an argument that almost turned into a brawl with Dan, the Ivy League lawyer whom his wife had married. “It’s all fucked to shit.”

  “You should see your boys.”

  “You know what’s the worst thing about it? When things were getting hot between me and that prick Dan? My kids—my sons—sided with him—with their stepfather—a fucking lawyer—and I could tell if things got physical, they’d help him out.”

  “You should see your boys.”

  “That event doesn’t need a sequel. Or a retarded remake in 3-D.”

  “Don’t go to San Francisco. That’s Jill and Dan’s territory, and you don’t fit in with them. Take your sons to a fishing town or a beach resort—someplace new that can be yours together.”

  Perry considered the suggestion. “Maybe.”

  “You aren’t their father in any traditional sense, so don’t pretend like you are. You’re a good guy, a smart cop, and a great friend. Show them that guy and they’ll want to have some kind of relationship with you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “See them.”

  Perry pulled the half-used cigarette from the ashtray and stuck it in Huan’s mouth.

  A respectful silence sat between the partners who had been best friends since their first year at the police academy.

  The pockmarked Asian thumbed his lighter. Firelight shone upon the uneven surface of his face, illuminating all but the deepest pits. Hirsute tobacco glowed.

  The song with the desultory guitar solo was replaced by a cut of soul from the seventies. Black men sang in precisely harmonized falsetto about an ice-cream sundae, which Perry concluded was a metaphor for a woman or the most delicious parts of a woman.

  “Listen to these dudes,” remarked the redhead. “Black guys used to be so cool … so much cooler than a white guy could ever hope to be. Man—what the hell happened to them?”

  “They became African Americans.”