Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Kimmy gestured at Bettinger. “Right?”

  The detective nodded his head.

  “But then he was like, ‘Is there a chance that her mother will call her in the next forty minutes?’ and I was like, ‘Not much.’ So then he was like, ‘You’d better hope not’ and points at the razor blade in case I’d forgotten about it. In case it’d fucking slipped my mind.

  “Asshole.

  “So I text Melissa and tell her that her mother came over, wants to see her about something private—and the guy takes my phone and tells me to sit in the bathtub. I almost scream when my fruit touches the water—it’s fucking hot.

  “My skin’s still red from that.

  “The phone beeps, and he shows it to me. Melissa had texted back, ‘I’ll be there soon,’ and he’s like, ‘Should I reply, “See you?”’ and I nod, and he asks, ‘You do it with two letters—C and U?’ and I’m like, ‘How else?’

  “So he sends her the text, and I know Melissa’s on her way here—where a giant scary African-American guy in a ski mask and gloves has got me naked in the bathtub, and who knows what he’s gonna do.

  “So I start to feel guilty.

  “I tell myself all of what’s happening—all this crazy fucking shit—has to do with her boyfriend Sebastian, and I don’t have anything to do with him except sometimes watching cable when he’s over … but still, I feel like shit. ’Cause who knows what he’s gonna do to her if she doesn’t know what he wants her to know.

  “And I’m right here too—a witness—and maybe he’s gonna kill us both.

  “I was thinking this kind of stuff for a while—it felt like a week, but was probably like twenty minutes—when the phone beeps. He reads it and doesn’t look happy.

  “I ask if it’s Melissa, and he says it isn’t, so I ask who it is, and he’s like, ‘Says anonymous.’ He’s tells me to get out of the tub and walk into the living room, and I do. I’m shaking and have no idea what the fuck’s going on, and I ask him, but he just tells me to go to the door.

  “So I go to the door and he gets over there—” Kimmy pointed at the closet beside the entrance. “And he aims his gun at me and’s like, ‘Put the chain on the door,’ and I’m like, ‘How’s Melissa gonna get in if I put the chain on?’ and he tells me, ‘Ask another question and we’re going back to the bathroom,’ and I knew what he meant.

  “So I put the chain on the door.

  “And then he tells me to look through the peephole, and I do. He’s like ‘Anybody out there?’ and I’m like, ‘No, there isn’t,’ and there isn’t.

  “So then he says, ‘Leave the chain on, but undo the other locks and open it—see if there’s something on the ground,’ and I figure this is what that anonymous text was about.

  “I’m soaking wet and shaking, and the places where he hit me feel like they’re filled with fire ants, but I do the locks and crack the door and look in the hall and there’s a pile of clothes laying there. Sweatpants and a sweatshirt, underwear and some socks. There’s a ski mask too—like his. And I tell him what’s there, and he’s like, ‘Get it.’

  “My arm’s real skinny so I can without undoing the chain. After I get it all in, he has me close the door and lock it.

  “He takes the sweatshirt out of the pile, and there’s blood on it, and when he picks up the ski mask, he feels something inside. He puts his fingers in the eyeholes and pulls out some dark things that look like cat turds.

  “They’re toes—from an African American.”

  Bettinger guessed that the young woman employed the cumbersome (and often erroneous) politically correct term for his benefit … and possibly whenever she was in the company of other people whose toes resembled cat turds.

  “My cell phone dings, and he pulls it out and looks at it. I know better than to ask who it’s from.

  “The guy looks at me and’s like, ‘Get a trash bag and a baggie with ice,’ and I go to the kitchen and get them. He puts the toes in the ice, shoves the baggie in the sweatshirt, and stuffs that and all his partner’s clothes in the trash bag.

  “He looks at me and’s like, ‘You have one minute to get dressed.’

  “We go to my bedroom, where I pull on some jeans and a sweater and boots, and he hands me the trash bag and slides his gun in his pocket, but keeps holding it tight. He grabs my arm with his other hand and’s like, ‘We’re going to the lobby.’

  “So then he asks me to look outside and make sure nobody’s there. I don’t see anybody, and we go to the elevator. It comes and has this old woman who’s on her way down, but the guy’s standing off to the side so he won’t be seen or anything. And he’s still got the mask on.

  “So we get in the next time it comes, and he presses the lobby, and I tell him I want my phone back. For a second, I think he’s gonna punch me like the good old days, but instead, he just gives it over and’s like, ‘I wasn’t gonna kill you. I just had to scare you.’

  “I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth.

  “Then the elevator stops, and he’s like, ‘Sorry.’

  “I say ‘Fuck you,’ to him ’cause … well … I’m still pissed, and he killed that cat for real, which was fucking hateful.

  “The door opens, and I can’t see much. The lobby’s dark—somebody turned off the lights—and there’re four guys standing there. Waiting for us.”

  “Did you know any of these men?” the detective inquired as he rubbed a cramp in his right hand.

  “I don’t think so—but it was dark, and they were wearing hoodies and had scarves over their faces like old-fashioned bank robbers or something. Seemed like white guys or Hispanics.” Kimmy wrinkled her face. “Maybe some of both.”

  “So one of them points a long knife at the African American and’s like, ‘The keys are in the ignition and your friend’s in the trunk. Take him to the hospital.’

  “So the African American gets the trash bag from me and walks out of the building. Three guys follow him, and they’ve got their hands in their pockets, just like him, but the one with the knife stays behind. I ask him if he’s with Sebastian, and he’s like, ‘Who’s he?’ and I’m like, ‘Sebastian Ramirez,’ and he’s like, ‘Who’s he?’ playing dumb, since everybody in Victory knows the name—but I get that he’s not gonna say anything incriminating or whatever.

  “So then he’s like, ‘Come with me,’ and I’m like, ‘No,’ and he’s like, ‘You shouldn’t stay here,’ and I tell him, ‘I’m fucking staying.’ I wasn’t really scared of the African American anymore, and I was sick of guys telling me what to do. Right?

  “So then he opens our mailbox—Melissa must’ve gave him the key—and puts the gun in and some bullets.” Kimmy motioned to the large firearm that lay upon the couch. “And he’s like, ‘You know how to use one?” and I’m like, ‘Theoretically?’ and he’s like, ‘Have you ever fired a gun before?’ and I’m like, ‘I can learn.’ So he’s like, ‘How?’ and I’m like, ‘Watch a video online.’ So the guy’s then, ‘Okay. Go online,’ and walks away.

  “So I bring the gun here, lock everything, drink some whiskey, and watch some gun videos.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” said the detective. “A lot of people don’t survive an experience like that.”

  “It fucking sucked. Want a beer?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well I’m having some.”

  XXIV

  Diminished by Small Sips

  Bettinger massaged his overtaxed right hand as Kimmy returned from the kitchen, drinking from a can of light beer.

  “I want to ask you a question,” the detective said, “and I promise that your answer will remain off the record.”

  “Okay.” The young woman sat on the couch, adjusted her robe, and pressed the cylinder of cold aluminum to her bruised right eye.

  “Have you taken any controlled substances today? Pills? Some weed?”

  “What’s weed?” Curvature appeared on the young woman’s chin.

  The detective closed his notepad
. “Something that would discredit your testimony if this ever became a court case.”

  “I didn’t call the police,” defended Kimmy.

  “I know you didn’t. And thanks for telling me what happened.”

  Although the young woman’s story might not result in an arrest, it had confirmed that Sebastian Ramirez was in hiding.

  “You done?” asked Kimmy. It was clear that she wanted to proceed to her itinerary of weed, alcohol, and gunplay.

  “You’re gonna need to give me that—” Bettinger pointed at the revolver.

  “But what if the African American comes back?”

  “First off, you shouldn’t stay here. Is there someplace else where you can—”

  “Unless you put me in cuffs and drag me out of here, I’m fucking staying.”

  “I’m not going to put you in cuffs.”

  “Then I’m fucking staying.”

  “Okay. I understand. And I have a pretty good idea what’ll happen after I leave—” Bettinger motioned to the bottle of whiskey that was on the counter and the bong that lay underneath the recliner. “It’s normal after what you’ve been through. And I think you’re right: It’s not very likely that this guy will return. You didn’t see his face, you’re an unreliable witness, and you don’t know where Melissa Spring and Sebastian Ramirez are.

  “But we might be wrong.

  “He—or an associate of his—might come back. If that happens, what’re the chances that a drunk girl firing a gun for the first time in her life will beat an armed professional?”

  “One out of three?” Kimmy looked hopeful.

  “Change that first number to a zero.”

  The young woman wrinkled her face. “You don’t know that.”

  “I absolutely do know that. Yet the chances that you shoot yourself in the leg or blow off some fingers or kill a neighbor while playing around with it are good. Something I’d put money on.”

  “You’re kind of an asshole.”

  “There’s been talk.”

  “Fine.” Kimmy finished off her light beer and reached for the revolver.

  “Wait.”

  The young woman paused. “Yeah?”

  “Can you get me a baggie for that?”

  “If you go.”

  “Deal.”

  * * *

  Afternoon had begun while Bettinger was inside of Kimmy’s apartment. Walking along the stone path, he shivered, exhaled steam, and adjusted the handle of the bagged revolver that jutted out of his parka like a threat.

  The detective soon reached the parking lot within which he had deposited his yellow hatchback.

  “Christ’s uncle.”

  Upon the windshield of the car was a splatter of broken eggs that resembled iced phlegm.

  Bettinger entered his vehicle, slammed the door, and twisted the ignition, containing his irritation over the prank, which was at least less hazardous than a bear trap. Irked, he thumbed a preset number on his cell phone and put the receiver to his ear.

  The big fellow’s prerecorded voice said, “Dominic Williams,” and a binary entity beeped.

  “It’s Bettinger. I’m leaving Melissa Spring’s apartment right now—after a fairly interesting conversation with her roommate—and heading back to the precinct.”

  The detective disconnected the call, adjusted the heating vents (which currently blew cool air), and yawned for no fewer than ten seconds. Sunlight shone into the car through the prismatic splatter of frozen eggs and became a dismal rainbow.

  Upon his left thigh, the cell phone buzzed.

  Bettinger stretched his arms, opened the device, and put the receiver to his right ear. “Yeah?”

  “I got your message.” Dominic did not sound happy.

  “I really appreciate you getting back to me.”

  “You’ve got somethin’ you wanna say?”

  “Do you? I’m starting to think you might have a whole lot on your mind. A heap of preoccupations.”

  Silence sat between their ears for a slice of a minute.

  “You wanna talk?” asked Dominic.

  “I want to listen. I want to hear the story of some miserable pricks who keep secrets that get good cops killed. Know any stories like that?”

  There was a period of silence during which the big fellow either managed his anger or consulted another person.

  Eventually, Dominic said, “I might.”

  “So it’s not just oatmeal in that skull.”

  “You gonna keep givin’ me elbows?”

  “Until the day I buy a pair of boots that’re made out of rock.”

  The big fellow snorted into the phone. “We should sit down—do this in person.”

  “Yeah. You and your short blotchy pal.”

  “He’ll be there.”

  “I don’t mean your dick.”

  “I fuckin’ know who you mean.” Dominic was unable to keep the venom out of his reply. “So … where?”

  “Sichuan Dragon. Be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Give us thirty.”

  “You have twenty.”

  Bettinger killed the connection and pocketed his cell phone. Sometimes he wondered if the real reason that he had become a policeman was so that he could berate idiots.

  Soon, he was on the road, driving east. People, cars, and buildings shattered and reassembled as they slid through the icy egg lacquer, but the weary driver could see well enough to safely navigate the terrain. Halfway through his journey, a yawn exploded on his face and lasted for the duration of a red light.

  Battling the fatigue that sought to close his eyes, the detective accelerated through the intersection. The street lengthened and grew dark, and a corpse fell from the clouds. It was female and nude and looked like Alyssa.

  Startled, Bettinger woke up, sitting inside his hatchback while stopped at a red light. His heart pounded inside his skull, throat, and chest.

  “Christ’s uncle.”

  The detective rolled down the windows, inserted an earplug, and called his wife, hoping that the cold air and pleasant conversation would keep him awake for the remainder of his short drive. As he accelerated through the intersection, Alyssa’s voice appeared inside of his head.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  Bettinger grunted an affirmation. “Any news on the show in Chicago?”

  “I’m talking to Rubinstein at two thirty.”

  “Great. I hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks.”

  “As soon as you have a date for the opening, let me know so I can put in for a couple of days off.”

  “I will. I think it’ll be late March.”

  “Good. The weather should be better by then.”

  “Should be. How’s work?”

  “Busy. I may not be able to come home tonight.” Unless the detective took a long nap in the near future, he would be too tired to endeavor the drive back to Stonesburg.

  “Something serious is going on?”

  “There’s something.” Bettinger hoped that whenever Alyssa first learned about Stanley and Gianetto, the news item she saw would also contain photographs of the apprehended murderers.

  “Be safe.” The painter knew better than to ask after details that were not freely offered. “Please don’t make this a habit—not coming home.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re getting congested.”

  The detective inhaled through his nose and felt the presence of phlegm. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Pick something up—one of those vitamin supplements. Maybe a decongestant.”

  “I’ll get a decongestant.” Bettinger guided his hatchback onto a four-lane street. “Those supplements don’t do anything except put vitamins in the sewer.”

  “There’s no harm in extra vitamins.”

  “The vermin in Victory are healthy enough.”

  “Be sure to get non-drowsy.”

  “Okay.” The sign for Sichuan Dragon appeared on the right side of the road, and the detective t
oggled his turn signal. “I’m about to meet some idiots.”

  “If they don’t tell you what you want to know, you have my permission to get rough.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Same thing if I’m asleep when you get home…” A dirty chuckle emerged from the old man who lived inside of Alyssa’s chest. “You have my permission to get rough.”

  “Expect it.”

  “For orgasmic purposes,” clarified the woman.

  “Assignment accepted.”

  The oldster cackled.

  Bettinger secreted Kimmy’s gun underneath the passenger seat and changed lanes. “I love you.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Braking, the detective dialed the wheel and entered the lot of the restaurant, where he saw his partner, dressed in gray, leaning against his silver luxury car while drinking from a cup. The big fellow looked up, noticed the hatchback, and tossed his beverage into the trash. Hot coffee splashed upon a cube of frozen lo mein, cracking it in half.

  The rear door of the silver vehicle opened, and Tackley stepped outside, buttoning the jacket of his sharp blue suit. As he and his former partner entered the restaurant, the hatchback landed in a parking space.

  Thinking about dead policemen and roasted duck, Bettinger left his car and entered Sichuan Dragon. Warm air that smelled like garlic, vinegar, and peanuts enveloped him as he looked around the establishment, which had fewer than a dozen diners. Sitting beside each other at the corner table in which Elaine James had eaten her final meal were Dominic and Tackley.

  Harold Zhang materialized. “You’re with them?”

  “Sort of.”

  Bettinger strode to the seated duo and dragged the chair that opposed them from the table. Calmly, he sat down and reached for the teapot.

  “We don’t need to turn this into a meal,” said Dominic.

  “I’m eating.” The detective filled a cup, raised it to his lips, and blew vapors across the table.

  Tackley stared. Vitiligo had turned his face into a map of pink oceans and milk-white islands. Lying in the middle of this porous geography were two cold blue pools.

  “While I’m eating,” Bettinger said, “you guys are talking. Keeping me entertained.”

  The mottled man gestured with his left hand. Shadows stretched across the table as Perry and Huan materialized.