Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Bettinger looked at the new arrivals. “Glad you could make it.”

  “It’s New Year’s in China.” The doughy redhead claimed a chair and looked at his partner. “Right?”

  The pockmarked Asian took a seat. “Year of the monkey.”

  Tackley took the teapot, filled his cup, and eyed Bettinger. “You shouldn’t fuck with us.” His voice was soft and betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  “I’m looking for cop killers, and I’m fucking with everyone.” The detective from Arizona sipped his tea. “If you have good posture, you won’t fall over.”

  Perry looked at Huan. “This guy’s like that dog I read about.”

  “Which?”

  “The one that could smell things from real far away—ten miles, maybe even more. Was a show dog, actually.”

  “Did tricks?”

  “When he was a kid. Anyways, the feds were doing a manhunt in West Virginia, looking for one of those crazy survivalist types, and they read about this dog and put him on a plane.”

  “First class?”

  “I’ll have to look that up. Remind me. But they get him out there, let him sniff the fugitive’s socks, and right away, he bolts into the woods, running after the guy so fast nobody can keep up.”

  “He’s determined.”

  “Even by canine standards. Next day, they catch up with the dog. He’s got one of the fugitive’s fingers in his mouth, and he’s got a stick in his neck, going all the way through.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah.” Perry shook his head. “And people like dogs.”

  “Even more than black detectives who know everything?”

  “There’s just no comparison.”

  “Hmmm.” Huan contemplated his chopsticks.

  Bettinger refilled his teacup and looked at Tackley. “Start with your pal Sebastian Ramirez.”

  The mottled man’s blue eyes betrayed nothing. “What’re you trying to do here?”

  “Get the cop killers before they strike again.”

  Tackley contemplated his tea. “What do you think we’re doing?”

  “Keeping secrets and covering your asses.” Bettinger decided to go all the way. “Terrorizing Melissa Spring’s roommate.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The mottled man’s face was stone. None of the other cops said or did anything.

  “Bullshit. Start with what you said to Sebastian in ICU so he’d drop the charges. I’m gonna wager it wasn’t ‘Gosh, we’re sorry,’ or ‘Your next wheelchair’s on us.’”

  A heavy silence descended upon the table. Steam rose from the placid surfaces of teacups, but nothing else moved.

  “You have history with Sebastian,” Bettinger continued, “and I’m guessing it precedes crippling him. If you share data with me, we can work together to find him.”

  “You’re looking for him?” asked Tackley.

  “Yes. So tell me a story where you and he are the protagonists. Maybe it’s called ‘The Crooks.’”

  “Fuck you,” said Dominic.

  Bettinger drank from his teacup and set it down. “I’m not here to make friends.”

  Huan exhaled smoke. “Understatement of the century.”

  A shadow that belonged to Harold Zhang slid across the table. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes,” said the detective from Arizona. “I’d like dandan noodles, roast duck, and braised snow pea shoots.”

  Scratching ideograms upon his notepad, the proprietor looked at the mottled man. “And for you, sir?”

  “Nobody else’s eating.”

  “Are you sure? Our food is very, very good.”

  “Nobody else’s eating.”

  Irked, Harold Zhang departed.

  Tackley rose from the table and donned his sunglasses. “Good luck with that investigation, Detective Bettinger.”

  Dominic, Huan, and Perry rose from the table and followed the mottled man toward the exit. As they departed, one of them said, “Don’t get a stick in the neck.”

  Sitting alone at the corner table where Elaine James had eaten her final meal, the tired, fifty-year-old detective raised his porcelain cup to his lips and discovered that it was empty.

  XXV

  Moving Fulcrums

  The roasted duck had more fat than was desirable, but the noodle and vegetable dishes were quite flavorful. Under most circumstances, this array would have provided Bettinger with a very satisfying meal, but today, as he chewed, weary and confused, an emptiness sat in his belly.

  He had believed that he could manipulate Tackley and his crew, but whatever concerns had compelled them to converge at Sichuan Dragon had been dispelled by their conversation with him.

  As the detective picked at the pickled remnants of his dandan noodles, he contemplated his brief phone conversation with Dominic, the one that had precipitated the meeting. In it, he had mentioned his interview with Kimmy, but not its outcome or much else.

  Suddenly, the answer was obvious.

  Prior to the meeting, Tackley and his associates had suspected that Bettinger knew the whereabouts of Sebastian Ramirez. This motivation for the quartet agreed with how the mottled man had concluded the conversation only moments after the detective had stated that he wanted to locate the disabled drug dealer. The crew’s concerns had been allayed: Bettinger had not found the enemy.

  Defeated, the man from Arizona sipped tea. He currently had no leverage and did not even know the location of the fulcrum.

  “How was it today?” asked Harold Zhang.

  “The noodles and pea shoots were good, but your ducks should go on a diet.”

  * * *

  After putting a few bills on the table, Bettinger soaked a urinal cake, washed his hands, and exited the restaurant. The cold attacked.

  “Christ’s uncle.”

  As he proceeded toward his yellow hatchback, he noticed something peculiar. The car seemed to be leaning to its right.

  A few more strides brought the detective to the driver’s side of his automobile, and there, he saw two swollen puddles that were the front and rear tires.

  “Fuck.”

  Upon each sidewall was a five-inch incision through which the air had escaped, and coating the rubber and the asphalt was an icy varnish that Bettinger recognized as urine. He looked around for witnesses who might have seen the crime take place, but saw nobody.

  The detective knew who had vandalized his car, and he knew that he was supposed to know. This affront was a postcard that had four signatures.

  * * *

  Carrying teapots that were filled with hot water, Bettinger and Harold Zhang exited Sichuan Dragon and walked toward the lopsided egg- and urine-stained hatchback.

  “People like you,” remarked the proprietor.

  “I’m charismatic.”

  Harold Zhang frowned as he examined the frozen yolks. “These chickens died for nothing.”

  The two men removed the frozen eggs and urine from the hatchback and soon returned to the restaurant. There, Bettinger and Harold Zhang washed their hands, the former thanking and ordering a bowl of hot-and-sour soup from the latter.

  The detective claimed a table by the window (where he could watch for the tow truck), called the pillbox, and asked Sharon to put him through to Zwolinski.

  “You’ve got me for ten seconds,” said the inspector.

  “I think Sebastian Ramirez is behind this.”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  “He isn’t.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You just earned yourself two minutes. When’d he leave?”

  “Yesterday morning. When I saw that—”

  “How come you’re not sayin’ ‘we’? Where’s Williams?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “That’ll change,” promised Zwolinski. “Keep talkin’.”

  “When I saw that Sebastian was gone, I went to his home.”

  “He’s not home.”

  “He isn’t,” said Bettinger. �
�Nor is his sister, who’s his only family in Missouri. I go to his girlfriend’s place after, and she’s gone too. But her roommate’s there, and she’s got a story.”

  “Give it to me in pill form.”

  “A guy wearing a ski mask comes looking for Sebastian’s girlfriend—her name’s Melissa Spring—but only finds her roommate. He does some dinner theater with her, makes her send a text message to Melissa, asking her to come home so he can ambush her.”

  “It’s not a physicist under that mask.”

  “It isn’t,” agreed the detective. “So four guys turn up—Sebastian’s men, I’m assuming—and send the guy in the mask and his buddy somewhere else.”

  “Heaven?”

  “No. But one of them lost some toes.”

  “Nobody got killed?” asked Zwolinski, surprised.

  “A cat did.”

  “I’m more of a dog person.”

  The proprietor set a dark bowl of hot-and-sour soup upon the table, and the detective mouthed his gratitude.

  “So you think it’s Sebastian?” asked the inspector. “The executions?”

  “I do … though the evidence right now is circumstantial at best.”

  “I wouldn’t call what you’ve got evidence.”

  “It surpasses coincidence.”

  “It does … though if Sebastian’s behind these executions, Stanley and Gianetto might just be the beginnin’.” A sound that was either firecrackers or the inspector cracking his knuckles overloaded the connection. “A preview.”

  “Any ideas where he’d hide?”

  “Not specific—Sebastian’s spread out all over the city—but I’ll detain his associates. Remove ’em from the street so he’s just a cripple in a wheelchair in some shitty room somewhere.”

  “Be sure to get pictures of him to the airport, bus depots, and train stations. State patrol as well.”

  “I did all that fifteen seconds ago.”

  “Have somebody find Sebastian’s car and see if Melissa Spring or Margarita Ramirez bought new wheels in the last two months.”

  “I’ll put Miss Bell on that,” said Zwolinski. “Where’re you now?”

  “Leonard and Fourth.”

  “Sichuan Dragon?”

  Bettinger swallowed soup. “Yeah.”

  “Like it spicy?”

  “Keeps me awake.”

  “I ate there once. Tasted real good, but my ass said, ‘Never again.’”

  The detective tried not to imagine the bathroom tableau as he raised another spoonful of dark, clumpy broth to his mouth.

  “I’m calling Dominic now,” announced the inspector. “If he’s not there by one, he’s suspended. If he’s not there by quarter after, he’s fired.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  The tow truck departed, pulling the yellow hatchback, and at 12:54, the big fellow’s silver car drifted into the lot. It was hard for Bettinger to see his partner through the vehicle’s tinted windows, but it was easy for him to imagine what sort of expression sat upon the man’s bandaged face.

  The detective put down a bill that was three times the cost of the soup, thanked the proprietor, and met his adversary, the pernicious cold. A dozen quick strides brought him to the silver automobile.

  Bettinger seated himself, and Dominic silently accelerated toward the adjoining four-lane road.

  “My hatchback’s in the garage.”

  The big fellow said nothing.

  “You aren’t curious what happened?”

  No reply emerged from Dominic’s mouth.

  “Okay.” Bettinger buckled his seat belt. “But when this whole thing’s over, you’ll reimburse me for what you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, and I certainly ain’t payin’ for anythin’ that happened to that piece of shit.”

  “You will … though you may not be conscious when you remit payment.”

  “You threatenin’ me?” Dialing the wheel clockwise, the big fellow glanced at his partner. “I got eighty pounds on you.”

  “Eighty pounds of stupid.”

  “We’ll see just what it is I got.”

  The detective adjusted his seat. “I just want you to know it’s coming.”

  “Whatever.”

  Bettinger was uncertain whether or not his fighting skills would give him enough of an advantage to whip the brute, who was younger and far bigger, but he was certain that he could hurt him badly, which would serve the same purpose. The physical line had been crossed, and the detective had no choice but to respond in kind.

  Dominic turned off of Fourth.

  “Where’re we going?” asked Bettinger.

  “You don’t know? I thought you knew everythin’ since the day you was born.”

  The car sped past a female vagrant who was yelling at a dog that had usurped her cardboard box.

  Again, the detective inquired, “Where’re we going?”

  “To the fringe. Sebastian’s got some buildings down there and we’re rounding up his guys.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  Dominic snorted. “None of these guys’re gonna know where he’s at.”

  “Make that one hundred pounds of stupid.”

  “Keep that up, and we can go right now.”

  “Do you think that a guy fresh out of ICU—an incontinent cripple in a wheelchair with one lung—do you think a guy like that executed Stanley and Gianetto himself? Or was even at the scene?”

  “I doubt it,” said the big fellow, rolling over a dead pigeon that resembled a women’s hat from the 1930s.

  “So when we detain his associates, we might get the gunmen or some information about Sebastian or both.”

  “Whatever.” The facial muscles that were a part of Dominic’s thought process relaxed.

  “You’ve got a better plan, then share it.”

  The big fellow shouted at a pedestrian (who had the right of way), braked, and turned onto Summer Drive. “There’re some things you should know before we get to the fringe.”

  “Divulge.”

  Dominic withdrew his cell phone, scrolled down the menu, and handed the device to Bettinger. An unidentified number had been highlighted.

  “Call that,” said the big fellow. “Let him tell you.”

  XXVI

  The Story of Fuckface

  The detective thumbed the connect button and pressed the receiver to his ear. After two rings, a person picked up and said, “Don’t say my name and don’t say yours.”

  Bettinger recognized Tackley’s crisp voice. “Understood.”

  “I’m easy to imitate, so there’s always a chance I’m not who you think I am.”

  “There’s always a chance.” It was now clear to the detective why the mottled man wanted to talk on the phone rather than meet in person.

  “There’s stuff you need to know, and there’s other stuff—irrelevancies I’ll omit. Don’t get nosy.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you say my name or the names of my associates, I’ll hang up. If you get churlish, I’ll hang up. You have the wrong idea about certain individuals, and I need to give you some history.”

  “Did somebody compel you to make this call?” inquired Bettinger. “A guy who eats kielbasa with his eggs and likes to box?”

  “I’ll classify that as an irrelevancy.”

  “Fine.”

  Dominic cut off a lime green vehicle and gave his victim the finger.

  Tackley cleared his throat. “There’s a certain individual who you and I and many other people are looking for right now. For the sake of this conversation, I’ll refer to him as Fuckface.

  “The story with him starts a little over four years ago. I’ll use fun names for everyone, so you won’t get mixed up.”

  “Thanks. I’m pretty thick.”

  “We agree on something,” Dominic muttered as he changed lanes.

  “A bad batch of skag lands in Victory,” began the mottled man. “An addict turns up dead, and
a few days later, another one croaks. Black bums, so it’s not in the papers or anything, and nobody cares. The dealer—I’ll call him Lethal—realizes what he’s got, and instead of flushing his deadly stash or returning it to his source, he sells it at a discount to some high school kids.”

  “Christ’s uncle,” said Bettinger.

  “I’ll call these young entrepreneurs Turd and Dung.”

  “Sounds accurate.”

  “So Turd and Dung do what any bright-eyed young drug dealers would do: They step on their skag with quinine. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to understand the difference between a gram and a milligram, and soon, their tainted skag has a deadly amount of quinine in every single dose.”

  “God bless the Internet,” said the detective.

  “So it’s graduation day. Only about one in four Victory kids completes high school, so graduation is a big deal for them. Each year, the police put extra guys out to deal with disturbances and DUIs, but in general, it’s just good kids getting rambunctious.

  “Turd and Dung are looking to establish their clientele, so they hand out their skag as party favors to their friends—honor roll students who have scholarships and futures.”

  Bettinger felt ill.

  “The first one arrives at St. John’s at about one in the morning—an eighteen-year-old girl who’s never done drugs before that night. Her lips and fingernails are blue, and her dress is covered with diarrhea. She doesn’t even make it to the operating room.

  “In the next hour, five more kids turn up in the same condition. Three die, and two are stabilized. One of their friends tells somebody what happened, and as the police hunt down Turd and Dung, eight more kids land in the emergency room.

  “Eleven kids die that night.

  “Next day, the newspapers go out, and they have the ugliest headlines ever printed in the history of this country.

  “The police department isn’t complimented.

  “A big guy in the precinct who likes to box confers with five detectives—you might’ve met four of them—and tells them to do whatever’s necessary to prevent something like this from ever happening again.

  “The big guy is realistic, and so are these five detectives. They’re not going to solve the drug problem in Victory. The drug problem can’t be solved anywhere in this country, even in cities that have low crime rates, lots of money, and Jewish mayors. As long as there are unhappy people, there will be drug users, and as long as there are drug users, there will be drug dealers.