Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Bettinger and Dominic hammered fists directly below the number 1610 and shouted, “Police!”

  “Get away from that kid!” yelled the detective.

  “Open up right fuckin’ now!” added the big fellow.

  “Don’t interfere with my family!” The woman inside the apartment had a wheeze and a twang, and Bettinger surmised that she was an obese redneck. “I know you ain’t real cops anyways.”

  A child began to sob.

  “Ma’am,” Bettinger said, “you need to open thi—”

  “Leave me alone—this ain’t your business.”

  “It is our business,” declared the detective. “Come to the door or we’ll force our way in.”

  The woman whispered something, and suddenly, the child stopped crying.

  Dominic pounded the door. “Five seconds or we break this down.”

  “I’m comin’.”

  Footfalls echoed within the apartment. The policemen raised their badges, and several neighbors poked their heads into the hallway so that they could better view the tableau. One white oldster appeared to be eating gumdrops.

  A shadow darkened the space underneath the door, and the peephole turned black. Inside the apartment, the woman muttered, “Oh shit.”

  Bettinger pocketed his badge. “Open the door.”

  “Sorry about the noise. I’ll keep it down in here.” The woman sounded anxious.

  “Let us in or this conversation happens at the station.”

  A bolt snapped, and a chain rattled. Latches clicked, and the door swung inward. Standing in a pink hallway was a morbidly obese white female who wore a tight baby blue nightgown that revealed more bare skin than was possessed by two nude women of average size.

  Bettinger looked deeper into the apartment, but did not see the child. “Where’s the kid?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “Take us there.”

  The woman led the police up the hallway, which smelled like a sour combination of flatulence and cheddar cheese. Soon, they reached a closed door.

  “His name?”

  “Peter.”

  The detective knocked on the door. “Peter?”

  “What?” The boy’s voice was dim and wet.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Bettinger faced the woman. “Your name?”

  “Liz.”

  “Liz what?”

  The woman ruminated for a moment. “Smith.”

  “Get your driver’s license and put—”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Then your birth certificate or social security card.”

  “I don’t have those either.”

  “Get something with your name on it—a credit card or a bill—anything—and put on some clothes.”

  “I’m dressed.” Liz tugged at her nightgown, disturbing breasts that resembled the eyes of an alcoholic. “Lots of women wear this around the house.”

  “Yours needs an addition,” said Dominic.

  “I’m not ashamed of how God made me.”

  “Don’t let Him take all the credit.”

  “Muzzle that.” Bettinger waved his hand and eyed Liz. “Please, Miss Smith. Find some identification and put on a robe.”

  The woman turned around, paused, and looked over her shoulder. “My last name’s Waleski.”

  “Okay.”

  “Used to be Smith.”

  “Of course it was.” Bettinger’s reply was hard.

  Dominic followed the pale wall that was Liz’s back into a garbage-strewn living room.

  Alone in the hallway, the detective turned to the bathroom door and knocked. “Peter?”

  The boy offered no response.

  “I’m a policeman, and I need to talk to you. I’m going to come in, okay?”

  No reply issued from the bathroom.

  Bettinger gently opened the door. Sitting inside a teal bathtub and obscured by a mildewed shower curtain was a small, blurry boy.

  “Peter?”

  A pale oval that was the child’s face stretched across the fabric.

  “My name’s Detective Bettinger—you can call me Jules—and I need to talk to you.” The detective entered the teal room, which smelled strongly of feces. “It’s important that you tell the truth when I ask you things. Do you understand?”

  The blurry oval shook. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know. I want to talk about what your mother did.”

  “Go away.”

  “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

  Bettinger reached for the shower curtain, and Peter slapped his hand.

  “It’s against the law to hit a police officer.”

  “I don’t have to listen to niggers.”

  The detective recalled the skinheads who had been lingering on the nearby street corner and extrapolated the boy’s destiny.

  “Peter, I need to look at you and make sure you’re all right. If you hit me again, you’ll get in trouble.”

  The blurry oval was silent.

  Bettinger pulled the curtain back, revealing a fearful blond six-year-old boy who wore red shorts and purple bruises. Lumps of feces sat on his face and chest.

  “Dominic!” the detective shouted through the doorway. “Call for an ambulance!”

  “On it.”

  Bettinger snatched a washcloth from the wall, turned on the faucet, and dampened the fabric. Kneeling beside the bathtub, he wiped the brown matter from the boy’s lips and chin.

  “I forgot to flush,” admitted Peter.

  The detective folded the washcloth over and continued to clean the boy. “That’s why your mother made you eat it? Because you didn’t flush?”

  Peter nodded his head. His lower lip trembled, and tears shone in his eyes.

  Bettinger wiped ochre-brown excrement from the boy’s chest and threw the soiled cloth across the room. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Peter. Your mom was bad—what she did was wrong. Do you understand that?”

  Peter started to cry. A shadow darkened the bathroom, and Bettinger turned his head. In the doorway stood Liz Waleski, holding an envelope and wearing a red robe that looked like a tent.

  “Get out,” barked the detective.

  The woman retreated.

  Bettinger followed her into the pink hallway, shut the door, and looked at Dominic. “She doesn’t see the kid again.”

  “Peter’s lying.” Liz began to shake. “Whatever he said, he’s lying.”

  “The kid doesn’t need to hear this,” remarked the detective.

  The big fellow shoved the woman up the hallway. “Make like an avalanche.”

  Bettinger followed the duo into a room that was more mess than kitchen. “How long for the ambulance?”

  “They said fifteen.”

  The detective withdrew his cell phone. “I’m gonna call child services and l—”

  “No!” screamed Liz. “You can’t do—”

  “Quiet.” Dominic motioned to the bright pieces of hard cereal that covered the floor. “Yell again and it’s breakfast.”

  The woman clenched her jaw. Fury and fear were at war within her mean head.

  The big fellow looked at his partner. “What’d she do to the kid?”

  “Beat him. Made him eat his own shit because he didn’t flush the toilet.”

  Dominic’s face darkened.

  “My son’s lying!” protested Liz. “He—he makes things up all the time. You can’t—”

  “He has bruises all over him,” Bettinger said, “and a mouth full of excrement … some of which is still underneath your fingernails.”

  The woman looked at her dirty hands.

  Dominic sighed as he walked toward the far side of the kitchen. “It’s hard raisin’ a kid these days. ’Specially for a single parent like you.”

  Liz wiped her sparkling eyes. “It is.”

  “Real difficult.” The bandaged, bull-nosed corporal lowered the blinds and tore a paper towel from a roll. “A real challenge.”
Using the white sheet, he picked up a butter knife by its rounded blade.

  Bettinger’s stomach sank. “Corporal.”

  Dominic extended the weapon. “Hold this.”

  Liz clasped the handle.

  Shouting “Drop the knife!” the big fellow threw a fist into the woman’s throat.

  Liz slammed against the wall, gasped, and dropped onto her buttocks. An open hand slapped her face, knocking her over.

  Bettinger grabbed Dominic’s right arm. “Enough.”

  The big fellow shoved his partner away and turned back to the prone child-abuser.

  “Stop,” said the detective, interposing himself between his partner and the woman. “Go downstairs and wait for the ambulance.” He set his feet in a fighting stance and knotted his fists.

  The bandages on Dominic’s face rippled, evincing some type of thought process.

  “Go downstairs,” repeated Bettinger.

  The big fellow growled like a tiger, shook his head, and left the kitchen.

  Liz picked a piece of bloody cereal from her face and started to sob.

  “Shut up,” said the detective.

  * * *

  The paramedics gave Peter two dosages of activated charcoal, put him in the ambulance, and took him to the John the Baptist Hospital of Greater Victory, where he would have his stomach pumped and then meet the agent from Child Protective Services who would see to his housing needs.

  Bettinger carried bagged evidence into the magenta hallway and shut the door. Several wide-eyed oldsters stood nearby, discussing the events.

  “The police department wants to thank all of the people who reported this crime.”

  A delighted oldster who looked like he had just witnessed the resurrection of vaudeville swallowed a gumdrop. “You’re welcome.”

  “Because of you, Peter Waleski is going to a safe place.” Bettinger said this with conviction, even though he had doubts about the foster care system in a place like Victory. Once the child had been relocated, he would visit him and make an appraisal.

  The detective descended the stairs, strode across the lobby, and entered the courtyard. As he walked toward the silver car, he waved at Crabhead, who was currently zooming across the concrete on his skateboard.

  The youth nodded in reply.

  Bettinger climbed into the silver car, closed the door, and looked at Dominic. The big fellow’s thoughts were on Jupiter.

  “Sichuan Dragon,” the detective said as he stretched his seat belt and slotted the buckle.

  Dominic twisted the ignition, shifted gears, and dialed the wheel. Purring, the luxury car floated away from the curb.

  Neither man spoke as they passed through the projects and entered the central downtown area. There, the big fellow avoided a dead pigeon and then skirted its niece and nephew on the next block.

  “Zwolinski’s gonna hear ’bout that?” asked Dominic. His voice was distant and subdued.

  “Crabhead seemed fine.”

  “Crabhead?”

  “His arm seemed okay—the one you twisted.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that.”

  Bettinger continued to play dumb. “Then what’re you talking about?”

  “What I did to that woman.” Dominic sighed through his nose. “Is Zwolinski gonna hear ’bout that?”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Of course he is,” repeated the big fellow, who looked as if he had just bitten into something that was filled with bugs.

  “She came at you with a knife. Tried to stab you.”

  Surprised, Dominic glanced over. “Is that what you saw?”

  “Yellow.” Bettinger pointed at the traffic light.

  The big fellow stomped the gas, accelerating through the intersection. “She came at me with a knife? Tried to stab me?”

  “That’s what happened.” The detective shrugged. “You had no choice.”

  The big fellow grinned, nodding his head. “Sichuan’s on me.”

  “No thanks.” Bettinger reached into the backseat of the car, grabbed the two-way radio, and set it on the dashboard. “And this stays up front.”

  “You’re somethin’.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  XV

  Sichuanese Bones

  A quiet ding indicated the arrival of a text message. Driving the vehicle with some small fraction of his attention, Dominic withdrew his cell phone and read the display. Concern shone upon his bandaged face, and a moment later, he pocketed the device. A second ding emerged from his jacket as he turned off of Twentieth Street, and a third one sounded as he accelerated through an area that had six pawnshops.

  “You’re popular,” remarked Bettinger.

  “Ex-wife’s pissed about somethin’.”

  The detective suspected that this reply was a lie, since the big fellow rarely offered any information about himself and was not the kind of guy who would tolerate a nag.

  “When’d you split?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Amicable?”

  “Nobody got knifed.”

  Dominic dialed the wheel clockwise, and the red façade of Sichuan Dragon scrolled across the windshield. Surrounding the restaurant was a large parking lot, which had five crummy cars and a hundred empty spaces. The delivery bicycles that sat near the front door looked like they had carried egg rolls to Antarctica.

  “Kids?” asked Bettinger.

  “No. You?”

  “Boy and a girl.”

  “Lucky.”

  Dominic slotted the silver vehicle near the entrance, and again, his phone dinged.

  Bettinger pointed at the restaurant. “I’ll be inside.”

  “A’ight.”

  Carrying the Elaine James file, the detective exited the car, closed the door, and walked into the Sichuan restaurant, which was a green and red place that smelled like sesame oil, garlic, and fish tanks.

  A balding Asian man who wore a faded tuxedo and chin hair approached the new arrival. “One?”

  “Two. Something by the front window.”

  “Your car won’t get stolen.”

  “I’d like something by the front window.”

  “Right this way, sir.”

  Bettinger pocketed his gloves and followed the fellow across the carpet to a table that was covered by a red cloth. There, he sat upon a shiny cushion that hissed.

  “I’d like tea.”

  The host nodded and departed.

  Bettinger looked through the window at Dominic, who was in the silver car, talking on his cell phone. Even from a distance, it was clear that he was discussing something far more important than an alimony check.

  A white cup materialized beside the detective’s left elbow, placed there by the waiter, who was, in fact, the host transformed.

  “Hot,” warned the Asian fellow as he tilted his teapot. Amber fluid arced into the porcelain vessel.

  “Thanks.”

  The waiter set menus upon the table and turned one of them over, revealing the crinkled pink notice that adorned its back cover. “The lunch special stops at three.”

  A glance at the gilded wall clock told Bettinger that only two minutes sat between him and the deadline. “I’ll wait for my associate.”

  “Then no lunch special.”

  “We’re extravagant.”

  “Cash only.”

  The waiter departed, and the detective opened the menu. Underneath the rugose lamination were photographs of shining, vibrant delicacies that could not possibly exist in Victory, Missouri. Sipping tea, he perused fabrications until his partner entered the restaurant and sat on the opposite side of the table. The big fellow’s troubles were remarkably well concealed.

  “How’s that angry ex-wife of yours?” asked the thing that lived inside of Bettinger’s mouth.

  Dominic claimed the other menu. “She’s whatever.”

  “Did she hang up on you?”

  “Huh?” The big fellow looked over, wiping condensation from his nose.

/>   “First time I looked outside, you were talking on the phone. Next time I looked, you were dialing a new number. So I figured—”

  “Stop figuring.”

  Something deadly shone in Dominic’s eyes, and Bettinger put his needles away.

  Decided upon what he would order, the detective folded his menu and reached for the Elaine James file.

  “Don’t show that ’til our food’s on the table.” The big fellow took the folder and set it on an empty chair, which he then slid under the table. “You didn’t tell them we were cops, did you?”

  “I didn’t.” Bettinger tilted his head. “Why?”

  “If he’s got any kind of operation goin’—gamblin’, immigrants, hookers—he’ll tell the cook to give us the shits. Discourage us from comin’ back.”

  The detective’s eyes flashed with disbelief. “They poison policemen in Victory?”

  “Not everywhere. Claude’s welcomes cops.”

  “Their food tastes law-abiding.”

  The waiter returned to the table and surveyed his customers. “Would you like to start off with some chicken wings?”

  Bettinger laughed for the first time since the previous night, when he had bumped his elbow on the nightstand during a vigorous carnal engagement with Alyssa. “I’d like the dandan noodles, the wontons with chili oil, and the braised snow pea shoots.”

  Dominic closed his menu. “Spare ribs.”

  “Half order or full order? Half is five ribs.”

  “I want twenty.”

  “Two orders,” the waiter said as he scratched an ideogram that looked like a map.

  “Twenty ribs.” The big fellow wanted no mistakes.

  “You get two orders of fried rice with that.”

  “You ever see any stray dogs ’round here?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Give it to them.”

  “Okay.”

  “For real. And bring some ginger ales with my ribs.”

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  The waiter departed, and ten minutes later, the food landed upon the table. Dominic seized a dripping, odiferous rib as the Asian departed.

  “Excuse me,” said Bettinger.

  The waiter paused.

  “Is the manager in?”

  The Asian fellow adjusted his flap of silver hair and turned around, transformed into his own superior. “Want to complain about the service?”

  “No complaints. And the food smells great.” The detective set his badge upon the corner of the table, where it turned into a chunk of sunlight.