Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  “Okay.”

  “Love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Bettinger disconnected the line and pocketed his cell phone. Leaning back in his seat, he observed the mountains of powder that comprised the Heaps.

  Dominic eyed his partner. “You leavin’ Victory?”

  “Instantly.”

  “Ain’t curious ’bout that Elaine James case you started?”

  “Not curious enough.”

  The big fellow shrugged.

  Pressing deep furrows into the blanket, the jeep rolled toward the tank.

  “Zwolinski is alive,” announced Tackley.

  “Fuckin’ right he is!” Dominic slapped the dashboard. “Like I said when we boxed—the dude’s indestructible.”

  Bettinger was pleased to hear that the inspector was still alive. “Where’s he been?”

  “I’ll play the messages. He’s medicated and rambles for a while.” The mottled man swallowed some pills and set his cell phone upon the cup holder that divided the front seats.

  “Fifth message,” announced a female robot. “Twelve thirteen P.M.”

  “Tackley,” barked Zwolinski. “I got your messages.

  “I’m in ICU—I don’t remember gettin’ here, and things are sorta fuzzy, so I want to let you know what happened—all of it—before I go into surgery.”

  A hospital machine beeped, and somebody muttered something.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  The line clicked, and the female robot said, “Sixth message. Twelve thirty-two P.M.”

  “It’s Zwolinski. Here’s what happened.

  “I was in my apartment, waitin’ for Vanessa to come over—got the wine and everythin’—but when she buzzes, I know somethin’s wrong—that somebody’s taken her hostage. They’re all comin’ up the hall together, and as I’m gettin’ ready for ’em, these two black guys ambush me from behind. One points a scattergun at my head, and the other’s got a pistol. They tell me to drop my revolver, and I do. They relax.

  “Mistake.

  “I duck left and come in with an uppercut. It’s like round seven of that rematch of Tyler versus Billings, except when I land my punch, there’s no padded glove, and I shatter the guy’s jaw—the one who’s got the scattergun.

  “It’s beautiful.

  “He drops his weapon, and when I go for it, the other guy shoots. The bullet hits my shoulder, knocks me flat. It stings, but I’ve been shot before.

  “Plenty.

  “I grab the scattergun and shoot the guy with the pistol—right in the neck. The other guy’s on his knees, holding his face, and his jaw looks about as firm as a tit on a ninety-year-old.

  “I’m on my feet, throwin’ a hook into the ear of the one I just shotgunned. The pellets had done a number on his neck, and my punch rips his head right off his shoulders.

  “Things are lookin’ good.

  “I turn back to finish off the other one, and I hear Vanessa scream, right outside the door. A guy who’s with her says, ‘Open up or she’s dead.’

  “So this’s a shitty situation I’m in.

  “I tell ’em, ‘Hold on,’ and look to see how many guys’re out there, but it’s dark ’cause they covered up the peephole.

  “So they’re a little smarter than the idiots they sent inside.

  “I tell ’em, ‘I’ll kill both your guys unless you let my wife go right now.’ And I say it just like that—I call Vanessa my wife—and decide right then and there that we’re married again. If we both die—or if just one of us goes—I want it to be that way.

  “‘Let my wife go,’ I say—this time even louder.

  “The guy says, ‘You have ten seconds to come out.’

  “Nobody gives me the countdown. In the ring or in life—it just doesn’t happen.

  “He starts countin’, and the world goes red.

  “I gouge out the eyes of the guy with the smashed jaw—keep him alive in case I need a hostage—and while he’s screamin’, I put on that bulletproof vest that I keep on the coatrack.

  “People always make fun of me for keepin’ that there, but here’s why I did it.

  “I pick up the other guy’s head and carry it to the door, though I can’t remember exactly what I was gonna do with it.

  “Taunt ’em, maybe?

  “Throw it?

  “I’m not really sure.

  “I start to undo the chain, and the door explodes. Splinters and shotgun pellets burst everywhere, into my right hand and arm, though my vest takes most of the impact.

  “Knocks me on my ass.

  “Through the hole in the door, I hear Vanessa scream and the sound of guys runnin’. They’re gettin’ away, and I know they’ve still got her.

  “I get up, and I’ve gotta look worse than Victor did after ten rounds with Upwell. The palm of my right hand is covered with blood and looks like a chew toy, so I squirt it with superglue and make a fist.

  “Clench hard.

  “The bleeding stops, though now it’s like a club or somethin’.

  “Since I’ve only got one workin’ hand, I put the keys in my mouth—which’ll also keep ’em from jinglin’—and put the glue in a slot on my vest. I grab my gun and run aft—”

  A click precluded the rest of the inspector’s sentence, and the blue jeep rolled south, compressing powder.

  “There’s more?” asked Bettinger.

  Tackley nodded.

  Dominic steered around a crater that looked like it belonged on the surface of the moon, and the phone beeped.

  “Seventh message,” announced the female robot. “Twelve thirty-six P.M.”

  “It told me my message exceeded the time limit,” said Zwolinski.

  “I hope it saved it all.

  “So I run up the hall with my keys in my mouth and my gun in my left hand, wearin’ my bulletproof vest and boxer shorts like I’m some kinda fugitive stripper.

  “I get outside and see a brown cargo van tearin’ through the lot—they had a driver waitin’—and I know this’s the bunch that killed Gianetto and Stanley and took a shot at Nancy.

  “I get in big blue, start the engine, go after ’em.

  “Go after Vanessa.

  “It’s dark, but I keep my lights off.

  “When I get to Summer Drive, I see ’em pass through an intersection. They’ve got their lights off too, and when I see that, I feel this weird calm come over me.

  “Victory is my enemy, my archrival. I’ve spent decades studyin’ how he fights, how he moves, how he hits, where he can take a hit, and where he can’t. He beat me when he took my daughter, and he beat me when he ended my marriage, but I’ve beaten him too—hundreds of times—and I never left the ring.

  “Not once.

  “So whoever’s inside that brown cargo van has a major disadvantage. They can’t possibly know Victory like I do.

  “It’s beyond impossible.

  “So I follow ’em—two or three blocks behind—givin’ ’em plenty of air, stayin’ in the shadows. I keep my lights off, and whenever there’s a streetlamp, I weave.

  “I’m like Lightnin’ McDaniels—the Irish Phantom.

  “Victory throws some jabs at them—potholes, detours, roadkill—and after they almost lose a tire, they turn on their lights—includin’ their hazards for some reason.

  “A cadet could follow ’em now.

  “I hang back even farther—four blocks between us, sometimes five. It’s like steppin’ into the ring with a toddler.

  “They slow down, and so do I. They pull onto a side street, and I know they’re about to do somethin’.

  “I reach the corner and see ’em drivin’ toward a parkin’ garage. I go on past, speed up the next block, circle back.

  “By the time I get there, they’re gone, but I’m not worried. I know they’re in that parking garage—probably switchin’ vehicles.

  “So they’re in the corner—got the turnbuckle at their back. I park outside the garage, put the keys in my mouth
, grab my gun, go in.

  “The ground floor’s empty, so I go up the steps to the next level. They’re not there either, but I hear some voices above me and climb up to three.

  “I get there, stayin’ in the shadows, and I see the brown van and three guys walkin’ away from it, toward a white town car.

  “I don’t see Vanessa. They didn’t drop her off anywhere, so I know she’s still in that van.

  “I want to beat these assholes to death, but she’s my priority, and I just let ’em get in their white town car and drive off.

  “I run over to the van and try the door, which is locked. I break the window with the handle of my gun, unlock it, climb inside. Vanessa’s there, lyin’ on her stomach under the bench, not movin’, and there’s blood all over her. Every muscle in my body goes rigid, and I bite down on the keys in my mouth, and it’s like that day in the emergency room with my daughter all over again, and I’m just frozen.

  “Paralyzed.

  “Then she breathes.

  “I spit out the keys, put down the gun, get her on the bench. Her blouse is covered with blood, and as I’m unbuttonin’ it to see what the wounds look like, I notice somethin’ on the floor in between the front seats, and all of a sudden, I know things are about to get complicated.

  “It’s a thirty-eight that’s lyin’ there.

  “One of these morons—probably the physicist who put on the hazard lights for no reason—left his goddamn gun in the van, and I know they’ll be comin’ back to get it.

  “Let me call you back before your stupid machine cuts me—”

  The line clicked, disconnecting, and a moment later, the female robot said, “Eighth message. Twelve forty-one P.M.”

  “Your phone’s an asshole,” declared Zwolinski.

  “So we’re in the cargo van, and I know the crooks’re comin’ back soon. I put Vanessa under the bench, shut the passenger door, crouch down, though there’s nothin’ I can do ’bout that broken window.

  “I hear a car.

  “Headlights pan across the garage like it’s a stalag, throwin’ long black shadows all over the place. I look in the side-view mirror and see the white town car pullin’ up.

  “It stops.

  “The back door opens, and a black guy who looks like William Watkins Jr.—the featherweight champ from ’eighty-two—gets out, and the driver, a white guy with curly black hair, says, ‘I think I put it in the glove compartment.’

  “Obviously, this moron’s the one who put the hazards on.

  “So the guy who looks like William Watkins Jr. puts a cigarette in his mouth, lights it up, and sucks cancer as he walks toward the van. He looks pissed, which he should be, since he’s cleanin’ up after Mr. Hazard Lights and is about to get executed.

  “I’m crouchin’ down, ready to shoot, watchin’ the mirror, and the closer he gets, the more he looks like William Watkins Jr., and there’s a moment where I think, ‘Am I about to shoot the featherweight champion of ’eighty-two?

  “Obviously, I’m a little out of it—this guy looks how William Watkins Jr. looked over thirty years ago. And if it happens to be William Watkins Jr.’s son, then he picked the wrong type of work.

  “So he gets close, and when the smoke clears from his face, he sees that the glass is broken, and I shoot him in the head.

  “Twice.”

  “Zwolinski’s a good shot,” Dominic informed Bettinger. “Got a good percentage.”

  “I send two through the windshield on the driver’s side, and Mr. Hazard Lights is done. The passenger door opens up, and the last guy bolts. I fire at his legs until he drops, and when he starts crawlin’, I pick up the thirty-eight and shoot until he stops movin’.

  “So that’s it for these guys.

  “I put Vanessa on the bench, undo her shirt, find the wounds—she was stabbed twice in the stomach—and glue ’em shut. Her vitals are low, and it’s clear she’s lost a lot of blood.

  “I think.

  “The hospital’s thirty minutes from there—we’re in the fringe—and I’m not sure how long she’s got or if they even have any blood in the bank.

  “I grab the keys and a cell phone from William Watkins Jr. and drive out of the garage, takin’ Vanessa with me. I go two blocks over—into what used to be the Fountain Park area—and find a drug house.

  “Plenty of choices over there.

  “I break down the door, go up a hall, find a den. Addicts are sprawled on the couches like fungus, and they just stare at me, confused. I’m there in my boxer shorts and ballistic vest, have a glued-up club hand, and am covered with blood. They probably think I’m a hallucination, and they’re certainly hopin’ I am.

  “I slap a guy to prove I’m real, and I tell him to get me some syringes—new ones, still in the plastic, a box of ’em.

  “He gets me a box, and I take it to the van.

  “I sit next to Vanessa, who’s still alive, but weaker than before.

  “She’s on her way out.

  “I’m not a handsome man. My back isn’t great, and I don’t have all the reach a guy my size should have, but there’s one physical attribute I’m real proud of.

  “My blood’s type O negative—the universal donor.

  “I fill up a syringe—usin’ my good hand to hold the needle and my mouth to draw the plunger—find a vein in her arm, and give her my blood. Not too fast, but not too slow either.

  “I do it again, and when the blood clots up the needle, I get a new one.

  “Somewhere around the fifth or sixth, I start to get real dizzy. That’s when I call the hospital and tell ’em where we are.

  “I hang up and fill another syringe, and I keep givin’ until things go dark.

  “Then I wake up here.

  “Vanessa’s still unconscious and in ICU. I know she’s gonna make it, and the doctors think so too.

  “That’s my blood in there … and it knows how to fight.”

  Dominic dialed the wheel, circumventing a lump of powder, and the bones of a pigeon snapped underneath the tires.

  Zwolinski cleared his throat. “See you tomorrow mornin’ at Gianetto’s funeral. We go back to work right after, so bring a change of clothes.”

  The line went dead.

  Bettinger shut his eyes. Snow crackled as he relinquished pain, consciousness, and the city of Victory.

  LIII

  Excisions

  Bettinger, Alyssa, and Karen returned to Arizona. Very few people attended the short, private funeral service that they held there for Gordon.

  No speeches were made at this gathering.

  The media celebrated the detective, who was publicly credited with stopping one of the killers, saving (most of) his family, and acquiring a list that identified all of the paid gunmen, the living remainder of which were promptly arrested and returned to Victory.

  A lot of these men died in jail.

  Bettinger’s reward was an office in the exact same precinct that had expelled him approximately two months earlier. There was no small amount of resentment on either side of this reunion, which had been mandated by government officials in both Missouri and Arizona.

  Inspector Kerry Ladell rose from his wide wood desk and extended his hand. “Welcome back.”

  “If you give me your condolences, I’ll break your teeth,” warned Bettinger.

  “That’s how it’s gonna be with us?”

  “People shouldn’t live in the cold.”

  The inspector returned to his leather seat, which sighed as if it were exasperated. “Five years is a long time to be an asshole … though I suppose you’re an expert.”

  “I know upon whom to shit.”

  “It’s like you never left.”

  “My family might disagree with that. Those that can.”

  A poisonous silence hung between Bettinger and the man who had sent him north.

  Nobody apologized to anybody, and the detective returned to work, ignoring his boss and his peers. Some people were transformed by tragedy, and others
were gentled by such experiences, but the main difference between the old Bettinger and the new one was that the new one had a lot more nightmares.

  * * *

  Karen returned to the middle school that she had previously attended, but she did not socialize with the children that had once been her friends nor anybody else. Her grades were still very good, and whenever she was not studying, she did puzzle books (Sudoku and crosswords) or watched game shows or did both simultaneously, continually filling her mind with numbers, words, and trivia. The reason for this behavior was obvious to the child psychologist whom she visited as well as both of her parents, but they did not discourage her. There were far worse ways of coping with trauma.

  * * *

  In March, Alyssa Bright had her first show at the David Rubinstein Gallery of Chicago.

  Although it was a group exhibition, the monocular painter had received a lot more attention than had any of her peers, primarily because of the interviews that she had done for Bold Canvas, two national newspapers, and an assortment of periodicals throughout Arizona, Missouri, and Illinois. These articles had focused far more on the woman’s personal tragedies than her art and were not added to the family scrapbook.

  Bettinger knew that Alyssa was conflicted about the attention that she was receiving. To some degree, the media was exploiting her disfigurement, the Police Murders (as the press had dubbed the event in Victory), and worst of all, Gordon’s death. Half of the woman’s paintings sold at the exhibition, but this success was small and nearly joyless.

  The couple made love on the final night of their stay, but it was a dark and anonymous endeavor. Bettinger’s nose had healed badly, and his right ear was a lump, swollen by the abuse that it had received from Dominic. His face had changed and so had Alyssa’s ability to look at it.

  Once again, the couple returned to Arizona.

  * * *

  In April, the burned bodies of Sebastian Ramirez, Margarita Ramirez, Melissa Spring, and Slick Sam (whose real name was Reginald B. Garrison II) were discovered in a fringe sewer, and several photographs surfaced on the Internet. Bettinger and Alyssa had never discussed what had happened in Victory on the day of the blizzard, and he did not know or ask if she had seen these gruesome images.

  The detective did not sleep very well that month. Most of his nightmares were deeds that he could never discuss.