by David Levien
There was Charlie, the strong one, and smart, the most like him. Oftentimes Terry wondered what was going on behind the boy’s eyes, so cryptic already despite his being twenty-two years old. Then there was Kenny. The kids considered him the crazy one. And it was true; consequences didn’t seem to occur, much less stick, to the boy. Where’d the attitude come from? Maybe it was shades of the young Vicky. The boy was a real wild card. Terry wanted to look upon them all, his three sons, together in the bright sun. But he kept on waiting until finally Charlie and Kenny closed up the car and headed into the day’s doings.
Sleeping it off, Terry supposed of Dean. Dean. He was just muddled up right now. He thought too much and got lost because of it. That’s what got him into trouble with the Latin chick. It was a long shot turning out one winner kid these days. When it came to three, the odds just plain sucked. At least one had to be a numbnut, so he was ahead of the game, he figured. He didn’t know whether Charlie and Kenny saw him or not, or whether they were focused on registering the dogs for whatever competitions were being held that day, but one way or another, they didn’t come over to him.
Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t there to see his sons, or the dog show, but to meet. He had a sit scheduled with Campbell Do-ray. It was a little soon. He’d hoped to get a dozen or more locations up and running and turning a profit, and they’d only done that at a fraction of the locations. But they’d sure as hell put a major pinch in the shake business across town, that was for shit sure, and any businessman could see the opportunity to fill that void. So while they hadn’t done as much as he’d hoped as far as revenue yet, with all the recent attention it seemed like a good time to get out, to monetize their efforts, and to move on. He assumed Doray would be happy to complete the deal now.
But he’s late, Terry thought to himself, more than half an hour. That was when he saw Larry Bustamante, dressed in civilian clothes, trundling toward him across the parking lot.
Fuck me, Terry thought, this isn’t good. He could see by the way Bustamante’s shirt was fitting, tight around his belly, but smooth, with no telltale bulge at the hip, that his brother-in-law wasn’t wearing his gun. He didn’t have one in an ankle holster either, because the big slob was wearing khaki cargo shorts and those rubber sandals over white tube socks. After a moment, Bustamante spotted him in the bleachers and headed over.
“Vicky tell you I was here?” Terry asked.
Bustamante nodded. “Who’re you meeting?”
Terry couldn’t see the harm in telling him. “Camp Doray.”
“Yeah?” Bustamante asked. He sounded skeptical, like he knew something. “He still wants to do it, even after all the press and shit?”
Despite the stifling weather, Terry felt gooseflesh rise on his arms at Bustamante’s words. It confirmed what he suspected: Doray wasn’t coming. Terry felt his face clench into a grim mask. Things had gotten too hot.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s not supposed to get here for a while.” The day’s temperature, the pork smell and exhaust and smoke in the air, and the sun-warmed odor of dog shit wafting over him conspired to make Terry queasy. He swallowed down on it hard and forced himself to meet Bustamante’s eyes.
“And you? What do you want?” Terry asked. Bustamante fidgeted and looked around but didn’t speak.
“Out with it. What’s up? I know it’s something. It’s all over your face.”
“They found the … package down by the river.”
Fuck! Terry was sure his heart ceased pumping and his blood stopped flowing for three seconds. Already? How’d they find it? Who found it for ’em? He wanted to shout the questions into Bustamante’s stupid, fat face. But he sipped air and spoke in what he hoped was a calm voice. “Well… we figured they might, eventually. How come I didn’t see it on the news?”
“Just happened. And they’re keeping it clamped down. When I heard, I knew you’d want to know,” Bustamante said, and settled into loud nasal breathing.
“Anything else, Lar?”
“I think I … I need a lawyer, Terry.”
THIRTY-NINE
Are these from the box at Aurelio Santos’s house?” It was Behr’s first question to Flavia when she’d entered, closed the door behind her, and turned to see him sitting there. He watched her struggle with the impulse to run, think better of it, and then walk to a chair across from him, where she sat. There was a slight tremor to her hand as she brushed a piece of hair back behind her ear, but she was doing a fairly impressive job of controlling her nerves considering someone had broken into her apartment. She looked at the Trojan Twist condoms that rested on the coffee table like she’d never seen them, or any other, before in her life.
“No—,” she began.
“Don’t say ‘no,’” Behr said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
She fell silent and it allowed him to take her in for a moment, her tanned legs, shining under a layer of moisturizer, or perhaps their own natural shimmer that spilled out from beneath a brief skirt. She wore a tight tank top that highlighted her toned arms and her breasts. She’d lost a bit of weight since the last time he’d seen her, and it suited her, though he remembered the prior fullness had suited her, too. It looked like she’d been missing some sleep, because she had slight dark circles under her eyes, which made her appear vulnerable and oddly young. He saw her glance at her $3,800 sitting there in a folded pile next to the condoms.
“Whose money—,” she started to ask.
“Come on,” Behr cut her off. “He put you here, Aurelio did, in this apartment, didn’t he?” When she didn’t respond he continued. “Juan Aybar and Max Sanchez moved you in when you split from your old place.”
Something about the details got to her. She looked up at him. He met her gaze and she nodded once.
“Yes, Maxie,” she smiled briefly. “They were so nice.”
“Come on, time to tell,” he urged.
“I used to see Auri at El Coquí,” she began.
“The restaurant?” Behr had heard of the place, which specialized in Latin-prepared seafood.
“Yes. And I recognized him from the shake house.”
“You’re a shake girl,” Behr said, appreciating how much business she must have rung up as hostess at the betting parlors.
“Yes. I served drinks, made conversation, drew the numbers—”
“You got the players to spend more.”
“Okay, yes,” she sighed, “I was working and making nice money for a year, year and a half, but then things changed. There was some kind of fight over the business, and some new owners took over. We were closed for a few days, but then they reopened and they kept me on. Things seemed cool, but then I made a big mistake.”
“You stole?”
She shrugged. “I always took a little, they made so much they never noticed. But it wasn’t that. I started seeing one of the bosses.” Behr looked at her, but checked his questions because she was starting to roll. “He seemed so nice at first. He was the quiet one. He was sweet to me, and handsome. Then things turned to shit and I wanted to leave it, but I couldn’t go.”
“Couldn’t leave the guy or the shake house?”
“Neither.”
“This was the same guy that put the beat-down on old Ezra,” Behr said. She didn’t answer. “Which one of the Schlegels was it?” he asked. He saw blank fear whiten her face.
“Dean,” she said in voice that sounded tiny and far away. “They put him in charge of the house, and I didn’t see the others in the family much for a while, so it wasn’t so bad. I had to keep dating Dean a little to keep everything quiet. After another few months I would’ve had enough to disappear. But then this new asshole with a briefcase, Gary, started coming and checking the books all the time. He was some kind of an accountant, and he wanted to check on how the location was doing. I knew he knew when he started looking at me.”
“Looking at you?”
“He would come out of the back office and just look at me. Not like he wanted to fuck me,
but like he knew. It made me cold, like he could count everything I had taken.”
“And then Aurelio started coming in?”
“Yeah, he started coming in. He started asking me out. I really liked him …” She paused and looked into Behr’s eyes. “I did, I really did.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, “go on.”
“Then I found out he was the fighter. Kenny, the youngest brother, used to stay ten feet away from him. He treated Auri like a god, but he was afraid of him. I saw it right away. Even Charlie kept his distance. I figured they couldn’t fuck with Auri, he was so tough, so we started dating.”
Behr nodded, starting to understand the exit plan she’d developed for herself.
“He didn’t know or he never would have done it,” she said quietly.
“Done what?”
“I rigged him for a win. A big one. When he hit he was so excited. We went out to celebrate, and that’s when I told him about the Schlegels and my problem.”
“How’d he react?”
“He was mad. So mad. At first. He wanted to go bust them up. Especially Dean. But I calmed him down … and he gave me the money. The way it worked out, I didn’t have to skim anymore— paying Aurelio on a win was like paying myself, and no one would know it… not even him.”
“So you did it again,” Behr said, now asking questions the way an investigator should the first time: basically knowing the answer already.
“Yes.”
“He was in love with you.”
“I think so. He said he was.”
“And you?”
“It was still early.”
“So you were just playing him.”
“No. He was special. We had good times together.”
Behr stared at her, trying his best to read what was going on behind her eyes. They might as well have been the Dead Sea Scrolls for all he could make of them. “Then what? He moved you here so they couldn’t find you?”
“Yes.”
“And what, the Schlegels figured it out, caught up with him, and killed him?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What do you mean you don’t know!” Behr shouted, jumping up from the couch and causing her to cower back.
“I don’t, I swear it. I wasn’t there!” she said.
“What did you think when you found out what happened to him?”
“I was afraid. I thought… I knew.” She put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. If she was crying, Behr couldn’t hear it.
“You’re going to be a witness,” Behr stated.
“I can’t be a witness,” she said into her palms.
“You can. You’ll see.”
“No,” she said, pointing her chin up at him in defiance, her eyes dry.
“Don’t go anywhere. I have to go take care of some things. I’ll be briefing the police. But I’ll be back and I don’t want to have to go looking for you. But you know I will, and you know I’ll find you.”
She nodded. “Can’t you … let me out of it? I’d do anything to stay out of it.”
Behr looked at her. “Is that right?”
“Yes. I know … how to do things … Give me a chance.”
Behr took her in, sitting there. He found himself feeling for her. She’d gotten herself all jammed up. She only had herself to blame, but she couldn’t have known the kind of animals she was dealing with.
“Like I said, stick around.” This time he said it with less conviction.
She nodded, sadly, and then quietly began to weep. She tried to hold it back, but the tears welled up in those black eyes of hers and spilled down her cheeks. “If it wasn’t for me, Auri wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
Behr felt his throat thicken. They’d both lost Aurelio, they were bonded in that, and he knew how she felt. He had an impulse to reach out for her, to give her some comfort and tell her it would be all right.
He was about to, when he suddenly felt like he was watching the moment from above the room, and in that instant he saw it for what it was. She was gaming him. She’d laid out the sexual suggestion, and when that hadn’t worked, came over the top with the tears. And dupe that he was, he’d almost gone for it.
“Stick around,” Behr said, his voice cold. “I’m not your mark.”
She looked up at him, pushed a strand of hair back, and wiped a cheek. The tears were done.
“I see that,” she said. Her voice was low and quiet, but colder than his nonetheless.
FORTY
Charlie Schlegel didn’t give two loose shits about the Bully B-B-Q or whether their dogs took any honors. No, he was here for business, not for fun this time. He and Kenny stood by a table gnawing on the half-dozen corn dogs they’d bought, dropping pieces for their brindles, Mr. Blonde and Clarence. As always, Kenny couldn’t let it go at that. He got down on his knees and started feeding Clarence a corn dog out of his mouth.
“Come on, boy,” Kenny said, “grrr.” The dog took the meat, lapping saliva all over Kenny’s face. But Kenny kept the stick clenched between his teeth, and the dog clamped down on the other end. Then Kenny and Clarence commenced a vicious tug-of-war. “Let’s go, Clarence,” Kenny urged between gritted teeth. The dog’s muscles rippled under his shining coat as he hunched his shoulders and pulled.
“Get up, you dipshit,” Charlie said. He didn’t listen, and Charlie gave Kenny a kick to the ribs. “Come on, knock it off.” Kenny transferred the stick from his mouth to his hand, then pushed Clarence’s nose back until he let up on the stick.
“What, man?” Kenny said.
“The point’s gonna hurt his mouth,” Charlie answered.
“Nah. His mouth is like leather.”
“Nah. His mouth is soft.”
“Whatever,” Kenny said, dusting himself off.
“There they are.” Charlie pointed. Coming across the tented area, with a measly blue bull pup on a thick leash, were Peanut and Nixie.
Charlie handed off the leashes to Kenny and walked toward them, Kenny following. When the two groups came together, the dogs greeted each other with friendly curiosity, sniffing and circling. The men weren’t so civil.
“What is that thing, a squirrel on a leash?” Kenny asked, for the moment able to keep the smirk off his face.
“Man, shut the fuck up. That’s a pedigree dog,” Peanut said, taking the bait. Nixie’s narrowed eyes just went deader than they’d been in the first place.
Kenny shook his head. “If you bought that, you got took. Hope you used food stamps.”
“What about your mangy-ass mutts?”
“No, these beauties are pure class,” Kenny said. And now the smirk followed. Nixie stepped forward and squared with Kenny, who stuck his chest out and went eye to eye. He also let the leashes drop from his hand and Clarence and Mr. Blonde took the opportunity to light out across the tent.
Charlie shoved Kenny in the shoulder, breaking the stare-down. “Get the fucking dogs, would you?” Kenny shook his head and walked off after them.
“You pricks finally ready to do this?” Charlie asked. Peanut nodded and slid a wad of money up from his pants pocket so it was just visible.
A lot of barking and an angry “Tend your damn dogs!” reached Charlie from the owners’ pens. In another few minutes he’d be dealing with a chewed-up dog thanks to Mr. Blonde or Clarence, or Kenny beating the shit out of some owner or enthusiast.
“Good,” Charlie said, “let’s put the dogs up and figure a place to meet.”
Knute Bohgen hated being right. And that was the thing of it—he usually was. He thought Terry’s pea-shake play sounded nuts when he’d first heard it, but then he thought maybe shit had changed while he was inside and he was out of step, and then he had gotten swept up in the ambition, so he went with it. Now they had a nice mess on their laps. Knute lived in the back unit of a two-family house, but he was currently in the front kitchen fixing a peanut butter sandwich. The couple that usually lived in the unit had gone away for the rest of the summer after the
Brickyard 400, so Knute had let himself in and had the run of the place. He preferred it to his own, which was an under-furnished rathole, and wondered what he was going to do when the couple got back. He crossed to a recliner that was in front of a thirty-six-inch flat-screen. He supposed he could get some of his own stuff, but he wasn’t particularly flush at the moment—especially after last night. That little pecker Kenny had busted him out in the poker game. Knute thought he’d caught the kid with his hand in the cookie jar raising from the small blind, and went all in pre-flop with a wired pair of fours, but Kenny called and showed a pair of Kokomos that stood up when no one improved. The rest of them had howled when he lost his three hundred. He would have paid double that to skip the ribbing. He shouldn’t have even been playing, drunk and distracted as he was with today’s task—booking the Chicago guys as soon as Terry got his ass here.
