“The police decide that they need somebody on the other side who can monitor things—an established criminal who can make sure nobody’s selling drugs to children or dealing poison. One of the detectives mentions a guy he knows—
“Fuckface.”
Bettinger suddenly understood several things about Sebastian Ramirez.
“Fuckface is a capitalist who specializes in ventures such as prostitution and gambling—the kinds of things that Victory police rarely have time to focus on—but also drugs, which he handles through a complex relay system that the cops have never been able to stop. He’s ambitious, opportunistic, and morally flexible.
“So he’s perfect for what the cops need.”
The detective recalled a photograph of the hospitalized drug dealer in which the man resembled an exsanguinated corpse.
“The police offer Fuckface a deal, and he accepts it. It takes him four minutes to find out where Lethal lives, and he gives the address to the detectives, who go right over. The idiot sees the cops at his door and goes through the window, even though there’s no fire escape, and he’s on the fourth floor.”
Bettinger assumed that Lethal had been given some assistance by the police in his act of defenestration.
“For some reason,” the mottled man said, “it takes the ambulance more than an hour to show up. By the time it does, Lethal’s a cold red pile, and the detectives are all eating sandwiches.
“I heard that those sandwiches tasted great.
“That’s the beginning of the relationship between Fuckface and the five detectives.
“Several times a month, he gives them information about his competitors, and in exchange, the police leave him alone. He doesn’t go straight, but he makes sure whatever illicit shit he has going on is as safe as can be. He knows that he’ll lose his deal with the police if people die from his skag or get robbed in his casinos or get AIDS from his girls.”
Bettinger surmised that Tackley and his crew had purchased their luxury cars and tailored suits with a hunk of Sebastian’s profits.
“As soon as the next quarter,” the mottled man continued, “the statistics show fewer overdoses and drug-related homicides in Victory. Things go from abysmal to just plain terrible.
“The big guy in the police precinct is intuitive and vaguely suspects the nature of the deal between the five detectives and Fuckface, but he doesn’t ask for details, and so none are provided.
“The arrangement is condoned, but off the record.
“It works for years.
“Unfortunately, Fuckface is a morally flexible capitalist, and eventually, he gets some new ideas. He does the math and decides to play both sides, even though he makes more money than all five detectives put together.
“It’s disappointing, though it’s not a big surprise:
“Your hopes aren’t very high when you count on a guy named Fuckface.
“For a while, it’s small offenses. Fuckface feeds the detectives some bad information—tip-offs with the wrong times or locations—and he apologizes. Fuckface says that mistakes happen, and the detectives tell him not to worry about it, they trust him.
“They say this, but they don’t mean it. They know that he’s playing both sides, wasting their time, and this makes them frown.
“So there’s one more character who’s important to this story. His name’s Fat Asshole.
“Fuckface wants to make a deal with Fat Asshole, but Fat Asshole has heard some worrisome talk. He’s heard that Fuckface is a part-time confidential informant, and it’s an established fact that a starving dog in heat on the streets of war-torn El Salvador is more trustworthy than a goddamn CI.
“So Fuckface says he’ll prove where his loyalties lie. He knows that Fat Asshole was shot and put in jail a couple of years earlier by a certain detective, and he will deliver this detective to Fat Asshole as a token of goodwill.
“This detective is the fifth one—the guy you didn’t meet.”
Everything clicked into place for Bettinger, and he felt the weight of the story’s imminent conclusion.
“The fifth detective has been looking for a serial rapist, and Fuckface gives him a lead. The location is deep in Shitopia, and when the detective gets there, some guys grab him, take him to a room, and tie him up so that Fat Asshole can have some fun with him.
“Fat Asshole is a sociopath.
“A week later, the four detectives find their missing peer. He’s naked. His eyes are gouged out, and his larynx is crushed. His liver is inside his stomach, cut into hunks, chewed up, partially digested. It’s been there since he was forced to eat it for his final meal.
“There aren’t any words in the English language that can convey what the four detectives felt when they saw their peer—their friend—like that.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bettinger.
Tackley cleared his throat. “The detectives know that Fuckface was the one who set up their friend. Fuckface is terrified, and he should be.
“He goes into hiding, calls one of the detectives, and gives up Fat Asshole, claiming that Fat Asshole promised not to kill the detective, only give him a beating.
“The four detectives go after Fat Asshole, who pulls out a gun and receives so many bullets that his head looks like tomato puree by the time the smoke clears.
“But there’s still Fuckface, the lying fuck who handed the detective over to the sociopath. The piece of rat shit who sold a good man’s life like it was a whore’s pussy.
“The airports and highways are monitored, and the four detectives search Victory for three days. On the third night, they find a bum named Doggie, ask him some questions, feed him a pigeon or two, and all of a sudden, Fuckface’s crew ambushes them. One detective gets a bullet in the arm, and another gets some buckshot across the face.”
Bettinger knew that these two men were Perry and Dominic.
“The detectives catch a member of Fuckface’s crew and ask him questions in the least gentle way you could ever imagine. So he tells them where Fuckface is hiding.
“The detectives descend upon that location, which is a second-floor apartment in an area that’s far nicer than where any of the detectives live.
“As soon as Fuckface hears the thunder, he escapes, runs into a crowded supermarket, and surrenders.
“The detectives put the cuffs on him and are inspired by the various jars and heavy cans and frozen foods that they see. With a great amount of zeal, they use these hard things to crush and reorganize Fuckface’s insides.
“The rest is in the papers.”
The line went dead.
Bettinger gave the cell phone to Dominic, who then replaced it on his hip.
“Lawrence Wilson was a great detective and the best fuckin’ guy I ever knew,” said the big fellow, dialing the wheel clockwise. “I don’t know what you would’ve done after seein’ your friend like that, but that’s what we did.”
“How come Perry and Huan weren’t demoted?”
“Me and Tackley went a little more overboard.”
Bettinger did not find that difficult to imagine. “I understand what you guys did. It’s not right … but I might’ve done the same.”
Dominic nodded his head. It was clear that his thoughts were with a person who no longer existed.
XXVII
Collecting Idiots
Silence returned to the silver vehicle as it sped south.
Shortly after it traversed a phalanx of tenement buildings that were either partially demolished or partially constructed, Bettinger asked, “How long ’til we get there?”
“Ten minutes.”
“You know who we’re looking for?”
Dominic snorted. “I know ’em.”
“Okay.”
The detective reclined his seat and shut his eyes. Although he had heard a skewed history of the events, he believed that all of the essential facts were true, especially since most of them could be verified with one call to the inspector. Tackley, Dominic, Perry, Huan, and La
wrence Wilson had probably skimmed from their contact—money or pills or favors from prostitutes—but their agreement with Sebastian had been sanctioned by Zwolinski and resulted in years of solid busts. It seemed as if the bandaged, buckshot thug behind the steering wheel was a little dirty, but not entirely rotten.
“If you didn’t fuck up my car,” Bettinger said, “I’d apologize for saying that you and your pals were crooks.”
“Whatever.”
“But you did fuck it up.” The reclining detective yawned. “So it’s still coming. You and me.”
“Make sure you have some vacation days for your recovery.”
“You too.” Another yawn exploded across Bettinger’s face. “Wake me when we get there.”
“I’ll fire a gun next to your ear.”
“Be sure to take off the silencer.”
Something replaced reality.
In that thing, Bettinger was sitting next to Alyssa on an airplane in which people smoked crooked cigarettes. The cabin shuddered, and a weird, cold shadow rippled across the seats. Concerned, the detective looked out through his window. Bright fire consumed an aileron, two engines, and the wing.
He wondered if he should tell his wife what was happening.
The airplane rumbled, and a voice in the sky said, “We’re here.”
Bettinger opened his eyes, and saw the chipped, gray façade of the five-story building that was expanding across the windshield of the silver car. Dominic applied the brakes, and the moving image became a photograph.
The silver car expelled two policemen into the cold. Together, they hastened across the street and up the stone stoop.
The big fellow kicked the front door like it was a broken lawnmower. “Police! Open up!”
“Open up!” echoed the bleary-eyed detective. Scanning the windows of the opposite building, he saw a few curious onlookers. None of them were childhood friends, dead relatives, or giant insects, and thus, he concluded that he was no longer dreaming.
Again, the big fellow kicked the door. “Open this now!”
“Who is it?” asked a man on the far side of the wood.
“The police. Open right now, L-Dog, and don’t have no fuckin’ gun in your hand neither.”
“Dominic?”
“Detective Williams to you.” Dominic pounded a fist against the door, and wood cracked.
“Hold up, hold up,” implored the fellow inside.
“Now!”
“I’m gettin’ it, nigga.”
A couple of footfalls echoed, and two bolts snapped. The door withdrew, revealing a tall white guy who had blond dreadlocks, gold teeth, and a black denim suit. “What you—”
The big fellow shoved the sentry aside and entered the pink front hall, trailing the detective.
“Wait a sec,” pleaded L-Dog.
The door shut, and Dominic eyed Bettinger. “Get the wigger.”
The detective withdrew plastic handcuffs, said “Turn around,” and fastened the white man’s wrists behind his back. “Face the wall and drop to your knees.”
L-Dog sank.
Dominic walked to a paisley recliner chair that had five Chinese food containers upon its armrests. Leaning over, he reached underneath the seat cushion and withdrew a semiautomatic pistol, which he then pressed against an intercom button.
The speaker crackled, and a woman inquired, “Yes?”
“This is Detective Williams.”
“Dominic?”
“Send down Izzy, Lester, and Kitty. Right fuckin’ now.”
The speaker crackled. “What do you want them for?” The woman’s voice had an anxious quaver.
“Send them down or me and my partner’ll come up there, open a window, and toss them in the invisible elevator.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“They got two minutes.” Dominic stole an egg roll, ate it in two bites, and frowned at L-Dog. “How old’s this shit?”
“When’s today?”
“Fuckin’ nasty.”
Bettinger cracked the door, looked outside, and saw that the street was empty. “Clear,” he said, resealing the entrance.
Dominic put three plastic handcuffs on the recliner and eyed his partner. “The bald white guy’s the one to watch—name’s Lester. Izzy and the girl ain’t stupid enough to get feisty.”
“Got it.”
The big fellow thumbed the intercom button and said, “Got ninety seconds.” Leaning back, he surveyed the Chinese food containers that sat upon the armrest and poked one with his gun. “The hell’s this?”
“Spicy tuna roll,” said L-Dog. “Probably still good.”
“You got sushi from a Chinese place?” Dominic was disgusted. “Musta been high when you ordered.”
The wigger shrugged.
Footfalls sounded inside the stairwell at the far end of the hall, and the policemen exchanged a glance that meant “Get ready.”
Bettinger cracked the front door again and looked outside. Feigning nonchalance on the far side of the street was a skinny white man who wore sunglasses, work boots, and a giant overcoat.
“The police are conducting an investigation in this area,” announced the detective, displaying his badge. “If you stay here, the best thing that’ll happen to you is a full-body search.” An assortment of soft and hard shoes tattooed the indoor steps, growing louder as they neared the ground floor. “So either put your hands on your head or leave.”
The skinny fellow bolted, his overcoat ruffling like a cape.
Bettinger shut the door, turned around, and raised his gun.
Emerging from the stairwell were an austere biracial madam who wore a heavy overcoat, a bald white guy in a green jogging outfit who had wild eyes, and a light-skinned black man in a blue suit who had intricate facial hair and precise three-sixty waves.
“Hands up and kiss the fuckin’ wall,” barked Dominic.
“Why’re you here?” inquired Izzy, the stylish black man.
“Shut up.”
The trio raised their hands, and a blond Asian woman who was holding a cell phone as if it were a gun appeared on the stairwell and announced, “I’m recording this.”
Bettinger wondered if the Victory police should join an actors’ union.
The suspects faced the wall, and Dominic snatched the plastic handcuffs from the recliner.
“You gonna take us to the grocery store?” asked Lester, the bald white guy. “The one by Sebastian’s place? Show us some groceries?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The big fellow yanked the white guy’s arms behind his back and bound his hairy wrists with a zip tie.
“Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”
“Nah.”
Lester turned to the Asian videographer. “Detective Williams is violating the law.”
“He isn’t,” Bettinger said as he cracked the door. “You’ll hear your rights before you’re questioned.” Outside, the street was empty.
“That’s at the station.” Dominic handcuffed Izzy. “When we’ve separated you.”
“What’re we being charged with?” Kitty inquired as her wrists were bound.
“Somethin’ or other.”
“You have to tell us,” stated Lester. “You’re required to.”
Bettinger glanced at Dominic. “He watches a lot of movies.”
“Black-and-whites.” The big fellow motioned to the pile of blond dreadlocks. “Grab the wigger.”
The detective helped the prone man to his feet, looked outside, and saw the families that had emerged from the opposite building. To this gathering, he announced, “Anybody who steps within twenty-five feet of us or the silver car will be arrested for interfering with police business.” As his words ricocheted, he nodded at his partner.
Dominic thumbed the intercom. “Izzy, Kitty, Lester, and the wigger are goin’ to jail—this place is now closed. The police’ll be back in a hour and grab any retards who’re still here.”
Gun in hand, Bettinger led the shackled quar
tet from the building. His partner trailed behind the prisoners, followed by the Asian videographer and the eyes of the group that stood on the opposite side of the street. Several of the spectators were smiling.
The criminals were stuffed into the back of Dominic’s car, and an old woman yelled, “Put them in the incinerator!”
Her recommendation received a smattering of applause.
“Felons!” decried her husband, shaking a fist that looked like a crumpled grocery bag. “Racketeers!”
* * *
Bettinger was sporadically conscious during the cramped thirty-five-minute drive back to the pillbox. Inside the holding area, the big fellow and the detective read the prisoners their rights, charged them with a vast assortment of crimes, and installed them in two unconnected jail cells, the drunk tank, and an interrogation room.
The partners soon returned to the main area, where they saw Perry and Huan arrive, escorting five handcuffed and unhappy Hispanics who were somehow connected to Sebastian.
“Somebody open up the goddamn windows!” Zwolinski bellowed from behind his desk. “Goddamn crooks smell like possum.”
Two hasty cadets retrieved a stepladder that would enable them to perform the task.
“Get some coffee,” Dominic said to Bettinger, “I’m gonna talk to Izzy.”
“I want to be in that room.”
“I ain’t arguing with you in front of him.”
“We won’t argue.”
Doubt played across the big fellow’s bandaged face. “I say, ‘Leave,’ you heed me. This ain’t time for regulations.”
“I’ll give you room.” The detective would not allow his partner to physically coerce the prisoner, but he understood that there were already illicit connections in place and that any deal offered would remain off the record. “I know there’s a relationship here.”
“Good.”
The door that led to the receiving room opened, and in walked five bloodied toughs who looked like they had just finished playing the version of dodgeball that used a cinder block rather than a rubber projectile. Succeeding the line of prisoners and drinking coffee from his antiaircraft shell was Tackley. As he traversed the main area, he lowered his beverage, looked at Bettinger, and nodded.
Mean Business on North Ganson Street Page 15
