Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Winds skirled, sending a barrage of hard pellets directly at the detective. Ice crackled against his ballistic mask.

  Reaching the end of the block, Bettinger finally saw the northern horizon. His first impression was that he was looking upon the largest junkyard in the world, a place where all of the buildings had been replaced by massive piles of rubble. The size of each of these cyclopean anthills varied (depending upon the number of bulldozed structures on that block), though the smallest ones were at least a hundred feet tall and half again as wide. Between these mountains of ruin were uneven roads that had leafless trees, automobile shells, and unidentifiable lumps.

  Bettinger did not need to ask his associates if they had reached their destination.

  Together, the masked policemen proceeded up the street and entered the Heaps.

  Tackley motioned to the snow-covered ground. “Watch out for pits.”

  “And bear traps,” added Dominic.

  Two very unpleasant denouements occurred to the detective.

  A 150-foot pile of rubble loomed on the right side of the street, mirroring its sibling across the way. Cellars, garbage chute receptacles, boiler rooms, laundry areas, and branching brick passageways sat below the ground, exposed to the sky by acts of demolition and the passage of time.

  “How big’re the Heaps?” asked Bettinger.

  “Not sure.” Dominic brushed white epaulets from his shoulders. “Never been all the way.”

  Boots crunched snow as the trio neared the end of the block.

  The detective stopped, raised his mask, and withdrew his dog whistle. “Let’s try it here.”

  Pausing, the other men retrieved their instruments.

  The policemen filled their lungs, stuck the mouthpieces between their lips, and blew. Jets of steam shot through the apertures, waggling in the cold like translucent tongues.

  Bettinger ran out of air and removed the whistle from his mouth, as did Dominic and Tackley. Silently, they awaited a response.

  No sounds other than those made by the winds emerged from the Heaps. Snow drifted into a sunken laundry room, filling the gaping mouths of capsized washer and dryers.

  The trio continued north. Winds hissed, bitterly cold, and again, the detective shielded his face with the devil mask.

  The policemen strode through an intersection and up a street that lay between two more colossal heaps.

  Snow drifted into a partially exposed boiler room, and something occurred to Bettinger. “Is there any power out here?” he asked his associates. “Or would you need a generator?”

  Tackley wiped snow from his eyes as his small black shoes crushed ice. “People have tapped the grid below Shitopia—some of that still works—but Sebastian would probably bring his own supply.”

  “If visibility gets better, we should look for exhaust—jeep and generator.”

  “Fine.”

  Bettinger circumvented a tree that resembled a hunched crone.

  “Maybe we should split up,” suggested Dominic.

  “No.” The detective had already considered and dismissed this idea.

  “We’d cover more area.”

  “And greatly increase the chances of one of us getting stuck alone in a bad situation.”

  “We’re all adults.” The big fellow plucked a piece of crimson ice from underneath his ski mask and tossed it aside. “Armed ones.”

  “We stay together until we know the layout.” Tackley’s tone did not invite further discussion.

  “Whatever.”

  Footfalls crackled.

  Bettinger stopped, raised his mask, and withdrew his dog whistle. “Let’s go again.”

  All three men slotted instruments in their frowns.

  “Hard,” said the detective.

  Abdominal muscles constricted, and six lungs shot carbon dioxide through half as many whistles. The detective and his associates blew until they ran out of air, at which point, they pocketed their instruments and listened.

  No response came from the Heaps.

  Northward, the policemen trudged.

  The level of the snow climbed. Every footstep that Bettinger took was an exertion, eliciting pain in his ribs while taxing his lower back, his groin, and his quadriceps, but he did not slacken his pace.

  “Tackley arrested some cannibals up here once,” said Dominic, withdrawing a pair of binoculars from his duffel bag. “Some women.”

  “Should we get back on Ganson Street?”

  “It changes directions up here,” said Tackley. “We might be on it right now.”

  “Thought I smelled somethin’. There—” Dominic pointed a gun at the heap on the west side of the next block. “See it?”

  Bettinger eyed the indicated pile. “What?”

  “Smoke. Comin’ from that heap.”

  The mottled man took the binoculars from the big fellow, made a quick survey, and handed the instrument to the detective, who raised his mask and looked through the eyecups. A thin ribbon of greenish-gray smoke rose from the base of the rubble heap.

  “Looks like something toxic is burning,” remarked Bettinger. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Sebastian would do … unless he was trying to attract attention.”

  “It’s Heapers,” Tackley said as he walked around a pit.

  “The homeless who live up here?”

  “Yeah.” The mottled man holstered his gun. “Human garbage.”

  “Should we interrogate them?” asked Dominic.

  Bettinger lowered the binoculars and his mask and gestured to the rising snow. “We don’t have time to talk to idiots or crazy people.”

  “So we just keep blowin’ these goddamn whistles?”

  “We keep our eyes open and blow the whistles.”

  Dominic snorted a critique.

  Bettinger knew that the dog whistle strategy was a long shot (especially in this weather), but it was the itinerary until one of them came up with a better idea.

  The white blanket rose like high tide as he trudged over a hill, circumvented a lump of snow that might have contained a refrigerator, and continued onto the next block, where loomed two more colossal piles of rubble. An idea came to him, and he turned to his associates.

  “Is the whole area like this? Just heaps?”

  “There’s a part with a few buildings,” said Tackley.

  “We should go toward those.”

  “We are.”

  The mottled man was not the most forthcoming individual with whom the detective had worked.

  Trudging north, Bettinger raised the binoculars and surveyed the inhabited heap. A campfire illuminated an inverted bathroom and the outstretched hands of vagrants who wore clothing that was made out of carpet swaths, duct tape, and garbage bags. One of the individuals yawned, revealing the toothless gums of a crystal meth addict.

  The detective returned the binoculars to the big fellow and lowered his mask.

  Snow crunched underneath the policemen’s heels as they crossed an intersection, proceeded up the block, and traversed yet another.

  Bettinger could not feel his legs, but somehow, the insensate limbs continued to function. Something snapped, and he looked down to make sure that it was not a part of his anatomy. All of his extremities appeared to be intact.

  “Another Heaper,” said Tackley.

  Bettinger raised his gaze. Beside the road sat a snow-covered, six-foot-wide cube. A rusty pipe extruded from its eastern face, exhaling smoke.

  Dominic produced his semiautomatic pistol and approached the dwelling.

  The detective doubted that the Heaper who lived inside the cube would be useful, but he knew that there was no way to stop his partner from making an inquiry.

  At present, the big fellow draped his ski mask over the chimney pipe and withdrew.

  The line of smoke disappeared.

  Bettinger clasped his weapon and prostrated himself, twenty-five feet from the edifice, while Tackley kneeled, taking aim, and Dominic huddled beside a tree.

  The poli
cemen waited. Snow fell from the gray sky, growing the blanket that covered everything. The detective tried not to think about his wife’s surgery or his son’s blasted head.

  Someone coughed.

  The policemen watched the cube, awaiting its denizen.

  Something clanged. A coughing fit followed this noise, and the unseen person muttered something that sounded like a made-up word. Powder scattered when a plywood hatch atop the dwelling swung open.

  A filthy head emerged from the roof, and Bettinger was unable to tell if the Heaper was a young black man or an old white woman.

  “Put your hands in the air or we’ll shoot!” shouted Dominic and Tackley.

  The frightened individual raised his or her arms and waggled a filthy stump. “I only got one hand.”

  Bettinger removed his mask. “Have you seen a blue jeep around here?”

  “Are you gonna take my crate?”

  “If you tell us the truth, you can keep the crate.”

  “I always tell the truth. Ask anybody but Willie.” The Heaper nodded his or her head. “Now what was your question?”

  “Have you seen a blue jeep around here?”

  “Can I put my arms down?”

  “Sure.”

  The filthy individual relaxed his or her limbs. “What was your question?”

  Doubts multiplied regarding the cerebral competency of the witness. Again, Bettinger inquired, “Have you seen a blue jeep around here?”

  “I don’t see colors very good.”

  “Have you seen any jeeps around here?”

  “I don’t know especially much about automobiles.”

  “Have you seen any kind of vehicle pass through here in the last two weeks?”

  “I heard one last month.” The Heaper ruminated. “Maybe that was a dream.”

  Dominic reclaimed his ski mask.

  “Go back in your crate,” Bettinger said to the interviewee.

  The Heaper retracted, closing the flap over his head like a jack-in-the-box.

  Again, the masked policemen continued north.

  The snow was an inch above Bettinger’s knees and every step that he took was a lurch or a lunge. Dominic was taller and fared better, as did Tackley, even though the powder was not far below his waist.

  The trio reached the end of the block and was assaulted by crosswinds.

  “We should’ve taken that guy’s fire,” mumbled the big fellow. It seemed entirely possible that he was becoming a caveman.

  Bettinger stuck the whistle in his mouth and blew. Steam shot from the instrument as well as its two siblings, which sat in the mouths of his associates.

  No reply emerged from the Heaps.

  Pocketing the gloomy bulldog, the detective lunged north. His front boot shot through snow, a piece of cardboard, and into open space. He fell forward, and the ground pounded his head. Concussed, he slid toward an open manhole.

  “Hold on!” shouted Dominic, running over.

  Bettinger’s hands scored grooves across the snow as he sank into the opening. His legs kicked the open air.

  “Grab o—”

  Something clanked, and the big fellow yelled, tumbling to the ground.

  The manhole swallowed Bettinger.

  A hand seized his collar, and the detective dangled above pitch-black oblivion.

  “Find the ladder,” rasped Dominic.

  Bettinger set his foot upon a rung and grabbed the uppermost bar with his hands. “Got it.”

  The big fellow released him, groaned, and withdrew his hand.

  “Thank you,” said the detective, whose heart was still racing from his unexpected fall. Carefully, he ascended the ladder and removed himself from the manhole.

  Dominic sat in the snow nearby, gritting his teeth as he pulled at the jaws of a rusty bear trap that had bitten into his left leg.

  “Christ’s un—”

  A quiet gunshot flashed, and Bettinger looked over his shoulder.

  Tackley was pointing a silencer-fitted assault rifle at the heap that stood on the west side of the road. “A few were coming over to see what they’d caught,” he explained, looking through the weapon’s telescopic sight. “First-aid kit’s in the side pocket.”

  Bettinger went to the duffel bag and unzipped the indicated compartment.

  Dominic raised his ski mask. His lacerated face was glazed with sweat, and his respirations were labored. “Good thing I got my tetanus shot.”

  “Good thing you happen to be a bear.”

  The detective found the first-aid kit, kneeled beside his partner, and raised his snow-crusted mask to better see the injury. It looked like boot leather had stopped all but three of the trap’s teeth from penetrating flesh.

  “Tackley,” said Bettinger.

  “Yeah?”

  Gunpowder glared, and an ejected shell struck the powder.

  “I need help getting the trap off.”

  “Fine.”

  The mottled man squeezed the trigger, and the barrel of the assault rifle flashed like a strobe light. Something rumbled, and Bettinger looked toward the noise. An avalanche of concrete, glass, and toilets poured down the side of the heap.

  Somebody screamed.

  “Goddamn Heapers,” said Tackley, slinging his assault rifle and walking over.

  Bettinger pointed to the right side of the bear trap. “Press that down. Don’t let go no matter what.”

  The mottled man put his shoe on the indicated spring, and the detective set his knee atop the one on the opposite side. Carefully, each of them leaned forward, applying pressure. Snow and metal creaked, and the bear trap relaxed.

  Bettinger pulled the jaws in opposite directions, exposing three red teeth. “Take your leg out,” he said to his partner. “Carefully.”

  Dominic removed his boot from the trap, winced, and knocked Tackley’s shoe.

  Bettinger jerked his hands back as the jaws clanked shut. Stuck between the trap’s red teeth was the glove that it had pulled loose.

  “Christ.”

  A pained snicker came from the big fellow. “Close.”

  The detective reclaimed the stolen glove, pocketed it (and its mate), and opened the first-aid kit. “Take that off.”

  Dominic winced as he untied his laces and withdrew his foot from the chewed boot. His sock was red.

  “And that.”

  The big fellow removed the fabric, revealing a bloodied lower leg that had three deep, reddish-black grooves just above the ankle. Snow fell on bare toes that looked like potatoes.

  “Size eighteen and a half,” remarked Dominic.

  Bettinger located butterfly stitches, cotton swabs, and a bottle of alcohol, but did not see any saline solution. “Do you have water?”

  The mottled man motioned at the sky.

  “You know what you’re doing?” asked the big fellow.

  “Sure,” said the detective. “I have kids.” A moment later, he felt the undertow of grief. “A kid.” His words were tiny.

  “We’ll get Sebastian,” said Dominic. “For yours and ours.”

  A snowdrop landed on a deep wound and turned red.

  Bettinger squashed his despair, raised the bottle of alcohol, and unscrewed its cap. “This won’t feel great.”

  Dominic shrugged. The sweat that dripped down his face belied his nonchalance.

  Carefully, the detective poured alcohol onto the bloodied leg. A grunt came from the big fellow’s mouth, and geysers of steam shot from his nose.

  Using a cotton ball, Bettinger swabbed the wounds. Thick dark fluid was gradually replaced by clean bright blood.

  Tackley handed Dominic two blue pills.

  “No aspirin,” said the detective, unsure what was being given to his patient.

  “They aren’t aspirin.”

  The big fellow put the medication into his mouth and swallowed it with snow.

  Bettinger donned latex gloves, pinched the largest wound shut, and sealed it with three butterfly stitches. He then repeated this process on the oth
er two gashes.

  “Move your foot up and down,” advised the detective.

  Dominic waggled the extremity, and two butterfly stitches popped loose. Fresh blood colored the snow.

  The detective applied more bandages and had his patient test their resiliency. This time, the butterfly stitches held.

  “You done?” asked Dominic.

  “One more thing.”

  The detective wound gauze around his partner’s ankle until the roll was depleted.

  “Done?” asked the big fellow as he shook red crystals from his sock.

  “Yeah.”

  Bettinger stood up and grunted, ambushed by the pains that he had acquired during his car accidents and recent fall. “Are the sewers an option for us?” he asked his associates while massaging his side.

  “No.” Tackley rolled the assault rifle in a towel and returned it to the duffel bag.

  “We don’t have a lot more time up here.” The detective gestured at the rising snow. “You’re sure it’s not an option?”

  “A lot of those tunnels collapsed.” The mottled man pulled the zipper to its stop. “We don’t want to stumble around in the dark, hit a dead end, and have to backtrack.”

  “We don’t.”

  Tackley slung the duffel bag over his left shoulder, and Dominic gritted his teeth as he pulled on his left boot.

  “We just keep on goin’ ’til it’s impossible.”

  Bettinger picked ice out of the devil’s eyes.

  XLIX

  Dominic Knows Something

  Aided by his former and current partners, the big fellow rose to his feet. Snow fell on his grimacing face, and he hastily covered up his agony with his ski mask.

  “Let’s go,” announced Dominic, stumbling forward.

  “Do you need some—”

  “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

  Again, the masked policemen proceeded north.

  Bettinger discarded his latex gloves and replaced them with their woolen superiors, but the insensate pieces of meat at the ends of his arms did not apprehend any change.

  The detective lurched. His progress was slow, and every time his forward foot plunged into the snow, he anticipated it finding a bear trap or the gaping entrance of a sewer.