Thirteen Million Dollar Pop fb-3

by David Levien

  “That’s a name I’ve heard,” he said.

  “You know him?”

  “Nah. Never met him. Been at places he’s been at, but never met. Word is he’s one scurvy motherfucker.”

  “He runs girls? What else?” Behr wondered. He noticed the Vollrath was filling up around them.

  “Hmm,” Kid said, scratching his stubbly chin, “I don’t know about his business. But if I wanted to, I’d talk to this girl Sunshine Jane.”

  “That her real name?” Behr asked, writing it down.

  “No, Ann Marie something. Who cares? She goes by Sunny. Everyone knows her by that.”

  “Okay. What’s her deal?”

  “She’s this freaky-deaky massage girl. Smoking hot. Works on all the big business dudes and politicos in Indy.”

  “Hooker?” Behr asked. “Rub and tug?”

  “Not even,” Kid said. “She gives regular rubdowns, but she gets off. Grinds her snatch on the corner of the table while she works or something.”

  “Classy,” Behr said.

  “Whatever. She told me about it one night after a gig, but I was mad wasted, so my memory’s not too crisp … Those days are sure over, though, I’ll tell you,” Kid lamented of his liquor-soaked past.

  “Where can I find this Sunny?” Behr asked.

  “She’s got a Web presence. You could book an appointment. You look kind of tense.” Kid broke into a sniggering laugh at this, which Behr rode out. “But this time of year, long as it’s not raining, she’ll be at the Palms, no doubt.”

  “You want to take me down for an intro?” Behr chanced. Kid winced like he’d stepped on a nail.

  “No, dude, and in fact if I’m left completely out of this shit this time, it’d be much appreciated.”

  Behr just nodded and felt his BlackBerry buzzing, as a guy who seemed like the club manager walked up and tapped Kid.

  “Two minutes,” he said and moved on into what was building into a decent happy hour crowd.

  “You gonna stay and take in the future of rock and roll?”

  Behr shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” Then his BlackBerry beeped, announcing an incoming text message. It was from Susan and read: Where the heck R U? The Deckers have been here 4 half hour.

  If Susan had mentioned the dinner to him, he’d forgotten it completely.

  “Gonna have to be when you play Conseco, Kid. I’ve gotta be somewhere,” Behr said, sliding off his barstool.

  “Your loss,” Kid said. Behr took a step for the door. “Hey, man,” Kid called out. “What was it like getting shot at?”

  Behr looked at him for a moment. “You know how it is not drinking?” Kid nodded. “It’s even worse than that.”

  Behr headed for the door.

  35

  The house smelled like rack of lamb with olive oil and rosemary, Susan’s specialty, when Behr walked in the door and found them at the table.

  “This is restaurant quality, Susan,” Decker said, waving his fork over his plate.

  “You’re not drunk already, are you, Eddie?” Susan shot back.

  “Maybe just a little,” Decker said. He wore a weathered, olive drab polo shirt with sleeves that cut into his biceps, Gina a dress that was shorter than most pregnant women would’ve dared.

  Then Susan saw Behr and turned her face up to him for a kiss. “Sorry, Frank, it was ready to go so we didn’t wait.”

  “Rightly so,” Behr said, sitting. “How are you all?”

  “Jealously watching Eddie suck down all your liquor,” Gina said. Behr saw a prim glass of white wine in front of the women, while Decker had a tumbler filled with what looked like Wild Turkey on the rocks.

  “Where were you?” Susan asked. “I tried the office.”

  “I was out.”

  “I called your cell.”

  “You used the landline. It comes up ‘blocked,’ which is what happens when people from work call from their private lines, so I didn’t answer.”

  “Ah, the artful dodger,” Decker said.

  “Gotta be. Second thing they teach you in detective school,” Behr said.

  “What’s first?” Gina Decker asked.

  “How to bill,” Behr said, with Decker murmuring the line along with him. It was an old saw in law enforcement.

  “By the way,” Susan said, “I spoke to Chad and heard what happened the other night at that bar.”

  Behr and Decker looked at each other guiltily across the table.

  “Like a couple of schoolboys, the both of ’em,” Gina said, obviously having heard the story from Susan.

  “Don’t worry-you two get your merit badges,” she said, “and thank you,” and that was the end of it.

  A pleasant meal passed, filled with lots of chatter, mostly on Susan and Gina’s part, and some laughs. The men bussed the plates to the kitchen and the ladies took over from there. Behr and Decker retired to the living room for yet another drink while they waited for the blueberry cobbler to warm up. Decker had had a good three or four refills of his bourbon during the course of the dinner-not measured shots, but big, generous home pours-and Behr had stayed head-to-head with him, so neither was feeling any pain as they hit their seats.

  “Extremities almost completely numb,” Decker said, “almost where I want to be.”

  “So when are you back on active duty?”

  “Staycation’s over tomorrow,” Decker said. “Modified for a week, and back to the gerbil wheel.”

  “Is that what the job feels like?” Behr wondered. It had been a long time since he’d been on, a long time wishing he was-he couldn’t remember anymore.

  Decker stared out over the rim of his glass. “The job’s not so bad. It’s me.” Behr understood him well enough but was surprised to hear him go on. “When I was in-the time I spent training, going out with Cal-he was my spotter. We switched it up, but he was mostly the spotter. We’d set up in a position near the airport, in places I can’t mention, and lay hell down on the Ali Babas for forty-eight hours straight before they’d dope us out. Back here, I can’t sit still for half an hour. Without a drink in my hand …” He laughed. “Over there things were just … clear. Take out this target. Set a pomzie surprise on a trail-”

  “Antipersonnel mines?”

  “Yeah. Or a mud cutter-they were sort of my specialty.”

  “Mud cutter?”

  “It’s when you bury a short-fuse grenade on a heavy-use trail and remove the pin but leave the handle in place. Step, step boom. Or throw a fifty-caliber party on this group of unregistered bad guys. We’ve got wounded and you need to use your snipecraft to allow the cas evacs in. I knew exactly what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Now, being back. Living like this. Sleeping with my boots off. In a bed. Married. With a pregnant wife. Trying not to crack dipshit motorists and to act like a normal clean-cut citizen … I don’t know … It’s great. I’m lucky … But now, I’m just powered down. Like I hit the mute button or something …” Decker raised a hand in front of him and rubbed his fingers together as if he were trying to grab a hold of something slippery. “Life now’s like eating steak with a balloon on my tongue.”

  Behr just looked at him and took a big drink of his bourbon. He rattled the ice in his glass when he was done. Behr felt like another, and he could see that Decker just about needed one, but he couldn’t move. Then Decker leaned in.

  “Look, I don’t want to get too personal, but I could use some intel on what’s coming down the pike on the kid front.”

  He took the question in. Obviously Susan had mentioned to Gina that Behr had once had a son. He had to assume that they also knew the boy was no longer alive, though perhaps they didn’t know the circumstances of his death. Either way, it wasn’t what Decker was asking, and it didn’t make Behr want to revisit the terrain.

  “Well, I remember this: about six days before and six days after the birth, until when her milk comes in, your wife sure isn’t the woman you married. Hormones. Try to remember that when you think you’re living in The Exorc
ist.”

  Decker just nodded. Behr saw he wasn’t looking for jokes and something resembling sobriety descended on him. The young cop’s question deserved a real answer and he only hoped he was worthy of giving one.

  “What do you want to know?” Behr asked, doing his best to keep the iron cauldron lid in his chest sealed up tight.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure Gina’s got a handle on the basics. But I want to do things right, and the way I came up, I don’t have much of a … role model.”

  Behr turned and looked at Decker, who finished off his drink. For a minute he seemed young, actually resembling his twenty-something years. Behr wanted to help him, and cast about in his brain for a way to do it.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Behr began. “When you become a father, the-” he looked for the right words “-the slights and grudges, whatever you want to call the shortcomings of your own childhood, they get pushed aside. They’ve got to, because they’ve got nothing to do with the kid that’s coming. You don’t want to be the same father you had, and you don’t want to be a direct reaction to that either …”

  That’s when Behr saw it happen: Decker’s eyes went a flat, distant black. A palpable darkness filled the air, and Behr got the feeling Decker wasn’t really in the room with him anymore. A silence grew to an uncomfortable length, and Behr did something he didn’t often do, which was reach for a social convention and continue in a more positive vein so the whole conversation, the whole night, didn’t crumble to dust.

  “It’s a fresh start is all I’m saying. You’re gonna feel that you need to find a way to be more or better than you are, for the sake of the kid … And you will. You’ll do it. It’ll be an inspiration like you’ve never had before. So try not to worry about it.”

  Everyone knows the best salesmen believe wholly in their product, and, as such, Behr realized he wasn’t much of pitchman for the bright side.

  They both looked at their glasses and grunted and made their way to the counter where the bottle was. That’s where the ladies, bearing plates of cobbler, found them and added a soothing social balm to the proceedings. Susan and Gina talked and laughed. They all finished their desserts, and it seemed Decker came back to himself.

  “So, boys and girls, I’m fizzling out here,” Susan said after a bit.

  “Me too,” Gina said, and they all stood.

  “C’mon, Jeeves,” Decker said to his wife, throwing an arm around Gina’s neck, and then turned to Behr and Susan, “that’s her chauffeur’s name. I got me a designated driver.”

  Gina gave him a shot to the stomach. “You get a driver, and I get to carry a bowling ball around for nine months,” she said.

  Decker just laughed. “That’s the price for twenty minutes of glory,” he said, then stuck a hand out to Behr. “Sorry to leave you hanging, buddy. Nothing worse than an incomplete bender.”

  “Nah, it was good enough, and I’m up plenty early tomorrow, too,” Behr said.

  “Work?” Gina asked.

  “After I push some pavement,” he said, thinking ruefully of his morning run after countless drinks.

  “What time?” Decker asked as they reached the door.

  “Six o’clock, Saddle Hill,” Behr said.

  “See you there,” Decker said with a cockeyed, drunken grin. He weaved off toward the car in a way that told Behr just how unlikely that was going to be.

  The company was gone, the dishes washed, the lights off, and Susan was asleep, when Behr crossed a line he didn’t ordinarily with someone he’d met socially. He went ahead and ran Decker’s background, starting with his military record. What he saw there was impressive and vivid. Decker had been a Recon Marine, which was an elite branch, and his Military Occupational Specialty was Scout-Sniper, as stated. Behr saw that Decker had entered the service when he was seventeen, and also had seventeen confirmed kills logged per his service record. It was a big number when one considered what it meant. And Behr knew that the CKs on the record only represented a percentage of kills, and that most snipers had many more unconfirmed. That meant that the big kid sitting in his living room trying to figure out his life had dropped the hammer on twenty, two-dozen, thirty, or maybe more human beings.

  He’d been awarded two Bronze Stars, a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart for his work. He’d been to recon school and demolition school and jump school at Benning, home of the Army Rangers. Then Behr saw something that really caught his eye. Family: none. That got him off the Department of Defense site and out into the world of civilian information. He discovered that after his discharge, Decker had served a nine-month stint with a defense contractor called K-Bar USA, and then Behr continued into the regular news and municipal record bases for Franklin, Indiana, and then Missouri, where Decker said he’d grown up. Once he was searching Missouri, the story wasn’t hard to find.

  The Springfield News-Leader reported the basics:

  An area man snapped at his home outside Springfield yesterday, killing his wife, daughter and infant son with a deer rifle. The man, identified as William Lawrence Decker, also fired at his thirteen-year-old son, hitting the boy, who ran and escaped, before turning the gun on himself. Decker, a teacher, had been unemployed since moving to the area a few months earlier. Neighbors said the family kept to themselves, but seemed normal, and saw no signs of the outburst. The boy was admitted to Cox South Hospital in serious but stable condition and will survive the incident.

  Behr sat there, his blood running cold, a headache pounding at his temples as the liquor left his system. He imagined Decker as a boy, as a young man, and even now, wrestling with why he had survived, why he had failed to save his family, and whether he would’ve been better off stopping and letting another bullet from his father’s gun rip through him and take him to a place beyond doubt. A lone follow-up story mentioned that “the boy” had been sent to live with his dead mothers’ parents once he’d recovered. After that kind of childhood, the military was probably about the only thing that made sense.

  Behr shut the computer, sorry he had checked, sorry he knew, and even sorrier that it had happened in the first place. It seemed like a world of sorry out there that got deeper and darker the later the night grew. Not knowing what else to do, he peeled off his clothes and crawled into bed.

  36

  Dwyer had invested his entire day in his stakeout and was completely knackered after nearly thirty-six hours straight awake and on the job. He also found himself someplace he didn’t often visit, which was at the limits of his patience. With the telephone number he’d gotten from the La Pasion boys, Dwyer had been able to use a reverse directory program on the laptop back in his room. It was a bit sloppy of Banco to have ended up trackable by landline, but he must’ve figured he needed comms in his hide, and he’d know that a mobile would have to be turned off and the battery removed to make sure he wasn’t traceable by that. In the end, it had taken him a hell of a good deal of work to uncover the address, 1701 Wilmette Avenue, and find the building. This told him that Banco hadn’t completely abandoned his fieldcraft. He was still being careful. The lime green stucco apartment house wasn’t a half bad hidey-hole either, out of the way and nondescript as it was. Now though, sitting outside wasn’t yielding any more answers for Dwyer, and he didn’t expect he’d be lucky ducky enough to catch Banco leaving or coming. It was time to go in.

  The building was poorly secured, and earlier in the day, he’d found a way inside. As far as he could tell, there were no security cameras on the doors, nor was there a video feed on the front door buzzer that might have been run through a backup recording system. The ground floor of the building had a long front-to-back hallway with a steel door in the rear that had been wedged open, probably to allow for a cross breeze, and the only thing stopping entry was a locked wire mesh gate. Dwyer had gripped the cheap knob and given it a good yank, and it had popped right open.

  He’d gone upstairs to the second floor and looked at the door to 2G but couldn’t figure a way through without blasting it off its h
inges, and that wasn’t going to be conducive to a conversation once he was inside. So he’d retired to the rented car to give it a think. After a few hours, once darkness had descended, Dwyer had finally picked up his mobile and dialed.

  “Si?” Banco answered, as if he’d been woken.

  “I’m here. Outside,” Dwyer said. “Let’s talk.”

  “The door will be open,” Banco said after a long pause, and rang off.

  Dwyer didn’t bother with getting buzzed in but instead popped the cheap gate once again, this time with a handkerchief in his hand, which he also used to turn the knob to Banco’s door.

  He entered the small, sparsely furnished apartment and saw Banco, sick and pale, propped in a bed with soiled coverings, backed up against the wall in a corner away from the windows; and one whiff told him Banco was suffering gunshot sepsis. The cheap curtains allowed enough streetlight in for Dwyer to see there was an assault rifle pointed at him. Banco’s gaze seemed firm and his grip steady enough that it discouraged Dwyer from rushing him and grabbing the barrel and ripping the gun away.

  “Que pasa, ’migo?” Dwyer said.

  “You found me,” Banco said, shifting a bit, in apparent great pain.

  “Sure.”

  “How are Benito and Boli?” Banco asked.

  Dwyer understood he meant the men from La Pasion.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “They told you where I was?” Banco asked. Dwyer didn’t respond, just shrugged. “Because they didn’t know …”

  “The number was enough. I paid them for it,” Dwyer said.

  “I called them back a few times, couldn’t reach them,” Banco said.

  “Probably out partyin’,” Dwyer tossed. He moved closer and noticed piles of gauze bandages and white cotton undershirts and rags stained red and yellow with blood and pus on the floor at the foot of the bed.