Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Clenching his jaw so that his teeth did not chatter, the detective ratcheted the heater to its maximum setting, passed the edge of the frozen grass, cut the wheel, and drove along dark suburban streets until he arrived at the interstate, which he employed. The lavender night sky glowered as he sped north.

  Bettinger surveyed the local radio stations and learned some stuff about Jesus Christ, who seemed to have an especially wrathful disposition in Missouri. A preacher spoke of omnipotence, and the detective cut him off mid-sentence so that he could drive through the cold without being browbeaten. The stereo that came with the car accepted only audiocassettes, and he needed to purchase a few for his daily commute. (Gordon seemed to think that tapes—like records—were making a comeback, but Karen had been completely oblivious of the format.)

  Bettinger drove north. The few cars that he saw on the road were being driven by hunched creatures that had no faces.

  An hour passed.

  Golden light was shining on the hem of the eastern horizon when the detective saw a bent and gunshot sign that read EXIT 58: VICTORY. He nudged his car toward the off-ramp and looked out beyond the safety rail. There lay a vast gray metropolis that resembled a capsized sewer.

  Something growled deep within Bettinger’s guts.

  The lane veered sharply, and he dialed the wheel counterclockwise, matching the deviation. Loose stones rattled in his wake.

  Ahead of the detective and down a steep decline stood a yawning mouth that was an underpass. The hatchback’s headlights stabbed into the darkened enclosure, and a moment later, the vehicle was swallowed.

  Muscles tightened along Bettinger’s shoulders as he drove through the passage. Standing at the far end of the tunnel was a silhouetted figure who had an unnaturally long right arm. The detective slowed down, and it soon became clear to him that the asymmetrical fellow was holding a baseball bat.

  Stopping the car, Bettinger glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a second man—a black fellow in an overcoat who stood seventy feet behind the hatchback. A metal pipe slid out of his right sleeve and clanked against the stone.

  The trolls approached the purring vehicle. Red taillights and white high beams turned their eyes into glowing gems.

  “Step out your car,” said the fellow with the baseball bat.

  Bettinger withdrew his gun from the holster that lay on the passenger seat and then rolled down his window. “I’m a policeman.”

  “No cop drives a vehicle like that,” remarked the troll who carried the pipe. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve got some proof I can give you.” Bettinger displayed his semiautomatic. “Nine pieces.”

  The trolls paused.

  “They’re kinda hard to see,” the detective added, “but I’m pretty sure you’ll feel them.”

  “Don’t,” said the one who carried the baseball bat. “We just messin’ wit you.”

  “Drop your weapons and step aside.”

  The trolls bolted into the shadows.

  “Don’t be here the next time I am.” Bettinger’s imperative echoed throughout the tunnel like the voice of a deity.

  “We remember that car for sure,” replied one of the trolls.

  The detective rested his gun upon the passenger seat and accelerated. Cold poured through the open window, burning his skin as he traversed the remainder of the tunnel.

  Bettinger cleared the enclosure and continued underneath the lavender sky until he arrived at a red light, where he stopped, rolled up the window, and looked for signs.

  Affixed to a pole on the right side of the road was a wooden plank that read WELCOME TO VICTORY. Human excrement had been smeared across the greeting.

  “Classy.”

  A glance at the bent sign on the opposite corner told him that he had come to a street named “Fuck Y’all”—a road that he did not at all recall from his map. The light turned green, and he accelerated, continuing down the decline. Scores of dilapidated charcoal-hued tenements drifted past, as did several nameless streets.

  Lost, the detective parked the hatchback alongside the curb, reached into his glove compartment, and retrieved the wrinkled map of Victory that he and Alyssa had found online. The document had been printed on paper rather than papyrus, confounding their expectations.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye.

  Seizing his gun, Bettinger looked south. A big man in a hooded parka that shadowed his face was emerging from the front door of a nearby tenement building.

  The detective rolled down his window and eyed the stranger. “Good morning.”

  “Is it?”

  Bettinger pointed at a signpost that had been decapitated. “What street is that?”

  “You lost or somethin’?”

  “I’m trying to get to Darren Avenue.”

  A shrug curved the shoulders of the hooded wraith. “So?”

  “Is that Darren Avenue?”

  Somebody yelled something, and the stranger ducked his head as if a bullet were on its way. “Be considerate!” he shouted across the street. “People tryin’ to sleep!”

  Bettinger looked over. On the distant stoop stood a curved elderly person who wore kitchen mittens and no less than three bathrobes. The oldster scooped up a hideous cat (which clawed the layers of fabric to no avail) and yelled back, “I was just lookin’ for my little—”

  “Shut up, all of you!” advised an unseen third person. “Or I’ll come down and make you quiet!”

  The unwilling feline was carried into a dark opening, and the detective returned his attention to the hooded wraith.

  A pale hand that was covered with lesions gestured at the hatchback. “You get that for sweet sixteen?”

  “My Bar Mitzvah.”

  A steamy chuckle emerged from the hood, and a moment later, the wraith pointed at the intersection. “That’s Leonora. Darren’s the one after. At least that’s how it was back when.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bettinger rolled up the window, shifted gears, and continued his tour of the decrepit fringe area, avoiding most of the dead pigeons that lay in the road. A fifteen-minute drive across Darren brought him to the major four-lane street, which some ironic ghoul had named Summer Drive.

  Oriented, the detective drove north. The road was nearly empty, but what traffic there was consisted of run-down vehicles that resembled barges and flashy cars that looked like toys. As he progressed deeper into Victory, abandoned buildings were replaced by inhabited ones that were covered with iron. A billboard on the east side of Summer Drive had an advertisement in which a smiling white woman talked into her cell phone, oblivious of the spray-painted genitalia that threatened her anatomy. The hatchback had transcended the wasteland of the outer fringe and entered a region of sustained poverty.

  Bettinger glanced at the map and a street sign, confirming his location, and then snapped the turn signal. Spinning the wheel counterclockwise, he drove his car onto Fifty-sixth Street.

  The hatchback passed by Lonnie’s Pawnshop, Checks Cashed, a grocery store named Big Shop, a somber place that looked like a funeral parlor, Baptist Bingo, and Claude’s Hash House. Standing at the end of the block on the north side was a tall concrete building with an American flag and an etched sign that read POLICE PRECINCT OF GREATER VICTORY. This edifice was bright and clean.

  Bettinger thought that it resembled a pillbox from World War II.

  Dialing the wheel, he entered the parking lot and slotted the small car into a big space. A glance at the dashboard clock told him that he was twenty minutes early, a fact that did not surprise him since he had given himself plenty of extra time to reach his destination.

  The detective killed the ignition, clipped the holster to his belt, and tucked the gun in its home. Bracing himself, the man from the southwest exited the hatchback. The cold cut through his clothes and attacked his skin.

  Cursing the feeble sun, Bettinger shut the door, turned the lock, and walked toward the precinct entrance, which was made of mirrored glass like t
he kind that was used to cover the eyes of motorcycle cops.

  He reached for the handle, and his reflection swung away from him, revealing two middle-aged men who were on their way out of the building. One was a doughy redhead in blue who had his left arm in a sling, and the other was a gaunt, pockmarked Asian in a charcoal suit.

  The white fellow pointed at the hatchback as he walked outside. “Visitor parking’s in the rear.”

  “I’ve got a badge.”

  A subtle look passed between the pair that the detective could not read. These guys knew each other well.

  “Jules Bettinger,” the man from Arizona said as he extended his hand. “I’ve been reassigned here.”

  “Bet you’re happy about that.” The redhead clasped the proffered appendage and gave it a pump. “I’m Perry.”

  Bettinger traded the fair-skinned hand for the one that belonged to the Asian.

  “Huan.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The pockmarked fellow shrugged. His eyes were remote.

  A few tacit nods were offered, and as the duo walked into the parking lot, Bettinger continued toward the mirrored entrance. In the reflection, he saw Perry point at the yellow hatchback.

  “You still might want to park this in the rear.”

  “Or near a precipice,” suggested Huan.

  Flinging the door, Bettinger walked into the precinct. Steam continued to emerge from his face.

  “May I help you?” inquired a young black woman who sat at a big desk in the middle of the receiving room, wearing a white hat, an orange parka, and a pair of mittens. Standing beside the lone interior door was an armed officer who was dressed in a woolen overcoat and scarf.

  “Is the heat broken?” inquired the detective.

  “No. May I help you?”

  Exhaling a plume of steam, Bettinger approached the receptionist. The sentry took very little notice of his progress.

  “I’m Detective Jules Bettinger. I was reassigned to this precinct.”

  “Inspector Zwolinski isn’t here yet, but you can wait right there—” The young woman motioned to a cold steel chair as if it were a thing upon which a human being could sit.

  “I’ll stand.”

  The receptionist wrinkled her face.

  “Is the heat on?” asked Bettinger.

  “A little.”

  “Why only a little?”

  “The inspector told me to set it to forty-five.”

  The detective was confused. “Fahrenheit?”

  “He doesn’t think a police precinct should be a comfortable place.” The young woman rubbed her mittens. “Really keeps people moving during winter.”

  The frozen sentry flapped his arms like a penguin.

  Bettinger thought of Arizona.

  “My name’s Sharon,” announced the receptionist. “What should I call you?”

  The detective knew that his mind needed to be clear when he worked, not clogged with pointless anecdotes about somebody’s boyfriend or pet hamster.

  “‘Detective Bettinger’ gets my attention.”

  A cartoonish frown wrinkled Sharon’s face. “Okay.”

  The detective thrust his gloved hands inside his pockets and proceeded to a one-way window that admitted a view of the parking lot, Baptist Bingo, and the building that looked like a funeral parlor. Steam rose from his mouth, fogging the glass.

  “Detective Bettinger?” inquired the receptionist, overenunciating every syllable in his name. “Would you like a coffee?”

  A dark and shivering reflection nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Sharon rose, circumvented the desk, and disappeared inside the inner door. Her disembodied voice inquired, “Want any milk? Sweetener?”

  “No, thank you.”

  A moment later, the receptionist returned, carrying a cup that generated more steam than did a witch’s cauldron. “You have the darkest skin I’ve ever seen,” she remarked as she extended the coffee. “Dark as this.”

  Bettinger accepted the beverage, which smelled flavorful and radiated warmth.

  “It’s like … outer space,” Sharon added as she returned to her desk, “without the stars.”

  VI

  Inspector Zwolinski

  Bettinger watched Victory through the front window as he drank his coffee. At three minutes before nine, a blue town car that looked like an aircraft carrier pulled into the lot and engulfed two parking spaces. The driver’s side opened, and a huge, broad-shouldered white fellow whose arms were as thick as a soccer player’s thighs snatched a checkered blazer from the passenger seat and climbed outside. A hard elbow slammed the door, and the sound flew across Fifty-sixth Street and returned, echoing off of the funeral parlor. Striding toward the precinct, the man scratched his hair, which was a thick silver pelt, and wiped sweat off of a lumpy surface that housed a couple of eyes, a bunch of freckles, and a nose that looked like a root vegetable.

  Bettinger suspected that the titan ate raw bricks.

  “That’s the inspector,” said Sharon.

  Upon hearing this information, the sentry stopped flapping his arms.

  Inspector Zwolinski flicked his free hand, and the door fled as if it were both living and afraid. Entering the precinct, the big fellow appraised Bettinger. “When they said you were black, they weren’t kiddin’.”

  “It’s nice to—”

  “You’re almost purple.” The inspector hurtled like a meteor toward the inner door. “Follow.”

  Bettinger followed.

  Zwolinski tossed a candy bar onto the front desk, where it slid until it bumped against a big white phone. “That garbage will rot your teeth.”

  Sharon smiled as she reached for the treat. “Thank you.”

  “I warned you.”

  The sentry opened the door. “Good morning.”

  “Not today.”

  “You’ll get him next time.”

  Bettinger noticed marks on Zwolinski’s big hands as he followed him into the next room. There, buzzing fluorescent lights hung on long cords, illuminating a large and white open space where clerks and officers worked, typing, murmuring, and sifting data at mismatched desks. A narrow window sat atop each wall, framing a piece of lavender sky.

  “I box before work,” the inspector explained as he led the detective through the central pool. “Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays. Fridays if there’s a worthwhile opponent.”

  “You favor a left uppercut.”

  Striding inexorably toward the far wall, Zwolinski grinned. “Lookin’ for clues already.”

  “I haven’t found an off switch.”

  “I like what’s fallin’ out of your mouth.”

  Bettinger surveyed the gathering, which was a variegated group of just over twenty people. Everybody was working.

  “Watch your step.”

  The pair walked onto a dais that supported a very large desk and a cast-iron watercooler that looked like it belonged in a silent movie.

  “Ever since I put that up here, people drink less.” Using a curled index finger, the inspector picked up a steel chair and set it in front of his desk. “Saves time on both ends—comin’ in, goin’ out.”

  Zwolinski landed in a wooden chair, and Bettinger flattened his buttocks against the proffered square of cold metal.

  “Take off that jacket if you want.”

  “No, thank you.” The detective’s reply was visible.

  “How do you like Missouri?” The inspector flashed a palm that could stop a truck. “Don’t go into detail—you’ve already got nine cases.”

  “Feel free to proceed to your next question.”

  “Okay.” Zwolinski clapped his huge hands. “There’s somethin’ you need to understand—somethin’ that sets the parameters and defines how we operate here.”

  Bettinger nodded.

  “Most cities in this country have one law enforcement officer for every five hundred civilians,” continued the inspector. “That’s the average … though a big, rich city like New York is cl
oser to one cop for every two hundred and fifty civilians.” He gestured around the room. “We’ve got twenty-four guys with badges, includin’ you and whoever’s got a day off.

  “Accordin’ to the most recent census, the population of Victory is twenty-six thousand. So we’re a little below what’s considered the lowest acceptable ratio in this country—one cop for every thousand people.”

  The detective had seen this sobering statistic in the file that he had received from his previous boss.

  “Looks like you knew that,” remarked Zwolinski. “But that isn’t quite accurate either, since there’s an estimated six to ten thousand people who live in the abandoned areas—includin’ the sewers—who aren’t in that tally.”

  The detective imagined life inside of a Victory sewer.

  “So,” the inspector continued, “that gives each officer in this precinct about fourteen hundred people, though that’s not even the bad part.

  “About seventy percent of the males in Victory aged eighteen to forty-five have criminal records. And it’s a good bet that the ones who live in the abandoned areas and sewers elevate that number to eighty percent—

  “That’s an eight followed by a zero.”

  Bettinger grimaced.

  “So here’s some ugly math.” Zwolinski cracked his knuckles. “Each officer in this precinct is responsible for a minimum of seven hundred criminals, four to five hundred of whom have committed violent acts.”

  The detective wondered if his family should be more than eighty-two miles away from Victory.

  “That’s the overview,” the inspector said, “and you need to keep that in mind when decidin’ which cases to throw your time into. Savin’ the lives of innocent people is more important than stoppin’ gangs from shootin’ each other. Stoppin’ gangs from shootin’ each other is more important than jailin’ a drug dealer. Jailin’ a drug dealer is more important than catchin’ a car thief. Don’t swat flies when there’s a goddamn hornet in the room.”

  “Understood.” Bettinger was heartened by the idea of having a boss who was a sensible policeman rather than a bureaucrat.

  “There are three things that close cases: work, luck, and bad-guy stupidity. You can only control the first thing, and lots of times, it isn’t enough. And since you’ll always—always—have more cases than you can handle, your most important decision becomes which cases you go after.”