Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  The detective returned the mottled man’s salutation, aware that their tacit exchange was as meaningful as a handshake.

  XXVIII

  Poof

  “Sebastian owns that buildin’, but the girls, the casinos, the furniture, the dope—all that’s Izzy’s,” said Dominic, leading Bettinger into the rear hall of the pillbox. “He pays Sebastian rent—legal, on the books—and a percentage of his take off the books. That’s how a lot of Sebastian’s operations go.”

  The policemen neared the gray door of the interrogation room in which they had earlier deposited the racketeer.

  “Did Izzy continue to pay while Sebastian was in the hospital?” asked the detective.

  “The rent, probably. But it’d be hard for Sebastian to know if he’s gettin’ his fair share of the rest.”

  “That might be something to exploit.”

  “Yeah. And he doesn’t like bein’ called ‘faggot,’ which he is.”

  A few more strides brought the policemen to the door. There, the big fellow said, “Don’t give me elbows.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I got a direct way to do this if he’s churlish.”

  Bettinger motioned for Dominic to precede him, and in tandem, they entered the interrogation room—a windowless enclosure that had cinder-block walls, four overhead lights, and two wooden chairs, one of which upheld Izzy. The racketeer’s wrinkled blue jacket and unbound hands rested upon the only table, which was metal and bolted to the floor.

  “If your ass comes one millimeter outta that seat,” the big fellow stated, “you get cuffs.”

  The prisoner fingered his elaborate facial hair, which resembled filigree. “Why am I here?”

  “Should I repeat the list?”

  “Why am I here now? Today?”

  Bettinger slid a red file across the table until it touched the prisoner’s manicured fingers. “Peruse.”

  Izzy lowered his gaze and lifted the cover. Inside was a photograph of Officer Dave Stanley, lying dead and mutilated on the pavement beside the blackened remains of his partner. “I heard about these guys,” said the racketeer, grimacing as he examined the picture. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

  Dominic shrugged. “Their dicks were stolen.”

  “I don’t know anything about this.” Izzy closed the file and surveyed the hard faces that loomed on the opposite side of the table. “I’ll call my lawyer if you try to push this on me.”

  “If you call your lawyer, I’ll go back to where you work, get five floors of evidence, and turn your charges into a real court case.”

  “You’re not so clean yourself.”

  “I ain’t worried. You want a lawyer or you want to talk to us?”

  “You know I didn’t have anything to do with last night.”

  “Your landlord did.” The big fellow put his hands on the table. “And we’re lookin’ for him.”

  “He’s in the hospital. Where you put him.”

  “He checked out.”

  Izzy seemed to be genuinely surprised by the news. “I saw him Sunday.”

  “He left yesterday.” Dominic reopened the file and tapped the image of the executed officers. “Same day as this.”

  A chuckle emerged from the racketeer.

  The big fellow closed his fists, and the bandages on his face drew together. “You don’t want to laugh anywhere near this picture.”

  The threat hung in the air, and Bettinger prepared to interpose himself.

  “You think Sebastian did this?” asked Izzy. “He’s a cripple.”

  “He had it done, and we’re lookin’ for him.”

  “Try ringing his doorbell.”

  “Ain’t home. Vanished with his sister and his girlfriend.”

  “Is that what innocent people usually do?” inquired Bettinger. “Hide?”

  “What does that mean?” Izzy shook his head. “He probably thinks you guys want to finish what you started in that grocery. Throw another frozen turkey.”

  The big fellow shrugged.

  “I’d hide too,” said the racketeer.

  “Is he in your building somewhere?”

  “No. It’s a walk-up.”

  “Where else would he go? The place on Darren Street? Eve’s? A flophouse in the perimeter? The Toilet? Out of town?”

  “Follow the tracks of his wheelchair.”

  Dominic straightened his jacket. “I know you’re a entrepreneur—”

  “An.”

  “I know you’re a entrepreneur,” the big fellow resumed, uncorrected, “so I gotta wonder why you’re standin’ up for a guy who charges you too much rent, takes a slice of your bank, and makes you lick his asshole. Seems like you’d benefit if Sebastian wheelchaired off a cliff.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I swear to God—on my mother’s life—on that. I thought he was still in the hospital until you said he wasn’t. But if I did know where he was, I wouldn’t turn him over. I’m loyal.” Izzy tented his manicured fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Though I realize that the concept of loyalty might be hard for you to understand.”

  “You got it backward, poof—who turned on who. That cockroach Sebastian earned his wheelchair and the bag he shits in.” Dominic spun the free chair around and sat on it so that he was at eye level with the prisoner. “But never mind what you think, ’cause here’s the deal—here’s reality:

  “Help me find Sebastian or I’ll burn down your operations.”

  The racketeer was stunned.

  “The building’s already evacuated,” the big fellow continued, “and I got a pickup truck with oily rags and ten gas cans parked a few blocks away. All your casinos. All your herbs. All your beds and fancy linens.” He flashed his palms. “Poof.”

  Izzy looked at Bettinger. “You hear this fucking maniac? You hear—”

  “What was that?” asked the detective.

  “Did you hear what he said to me? How he—”

  “Sorry.” Bettinger jogged the side of his head as if it were a jukebox. “My ears are sporadic.”

  “Goddamn Victory police.” Izzy massaged his temples with shaking hands. “Isn’t somebody here supposed to be the good cop?”

  “He was fired in the seventies.”

  “Make me happy,” said Dominic. “I don’t burn down buildings when I’m happy.”

  Fearful tears glimmered in the racketeer’s eyes. “You wouldn’t really do it, would you?”

  “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. And I’ve got a ex-wife who asked, ‘Will we still be friends?’”

  “I don’t know where he is. I told you.”

  Bettinger placed the plastic bag that contained Izzy’s cell phone upon the table. “Send him a text message.”

  “He won’t answer if he’s hiding.”

  “Maybe not.” The detective circled the table and landed beside the racketeer’s left shoulder. “But plan B comes after plan A.”

  Izzy withdrew his cell phone from the baggie. “What should I put?”

  “He probably knows you got picked up,” Bettinger said, “so tell him that we let you go, but confiscated all of your cash. Tell him you won’t be able to pay him for a while.”

  “Type that.” Dominic pointed at the cell phone and rose from his chair. “Just like he told you.”

  “And let me see it before you press send,” added the detective.

  “Fine.”

  Izzy typed out a text message and showed it to his editor.

  Bettinger read.

  Hey. Fucking pigs raided my plce and took evryting, so there’ll be a delay w the rent.

  “Add the word ‘Sorry’ at the end,” said the detective. “So it seems like you’re trying to keep things friendly.”

  With shaking thumbs, the racketeer typed the letters S-o-r-r-y and a period.

  “Send.”

  Izzy pressed a tiny arrow. A moment later, he said, “It went through.”

  “Put that thing down,” ordered Dom
inic.

  The racketeer set the cell phone upon the table. “The number he gives people doesn’t even go to him directly. And even if he gets it, I don’t know why he’d bother to respond.”

  “If he thinks you’re trying to use the situation to your advantage—to cheat him of his percentage—he might reach out,” replied Bettinger.

  Izzy looked uncomfortable.

  The detective withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket. “We got a list of the meds he’s on from the hospital. Painkillers, mostly.”

  “That’s surprising.” The racketeer’s sarcasm was as dry as a Nevada road.

  Bettinger set the document upon the table. “Who can he get this stuff from when his supply runs out?”

  “Prescription painkillers?” Izzy smirked. “Get me a phone book, and I’ll cross off the names of the ten people who can’t get him that.”

  The prisoner’s reply was what Bettinger had expected, and his real question was already on its way to his mouth. “Where would Melissa Spring or Margarita Ramirez get a clean vehicle on short notice?”

  Something flickered in the racketeer’s eyes.

  The detective said, “Margarita’s car is still in the parking lot of her building, Melissa doesn’t own a vehicle, and Sebastian’s is impounded. Neither of the women bought one from an authorized dealer, but obviously, they need something—a truck, a van, a big car—to drive Sebastian around in. Who would they get it from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Disbelief shone upon Bettinger’s face. “You don’t know who Sebastian would go to for clean wheels?”

  “I don’t.”

  Dominic kicked the empty chair across the floor. Wood smacked Izzy’s right kneecap, and he howled.

  “Oops.”

  Bettinger looked at his partner. “Watch where you step.”

  “I forget to look sometimes.”

  This bit of violence might prove useful, but the detective would not tolerate any more such infractions. He mouthed the word “Don’t” to the big fellow as the racketeer massaged his hurt knee.

  “You fucking broke it,” said Izzy, looking up at Dominic.

  “Nah—there would’ve been a snap. Even soft faggot bones.”

  “It’s real hard to imagine why your wife left you.”

  Bettinger withdrew the unoccupied chair, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down. “Who would Melissa and Margarita get a clean vehicle from? The purchase was probably made this month.”

  Sniffing, Izzy wiped his eyes. “I’ll give you this if you let me go.”

  “Nah,” replied Dominic. “You give us this and your place won’t get torched at midnight. Nobody goes anywhere ’til we have Sebastian.”

  “What if you can’t find him?”

  “We’ll find him,” Bettinger stated as he withdrew his notepad and mechanical pencil. “Who would Melissa Spring and Margarita Ramirez get a clean automobile from?”

  Izzy wiped his sweat-glazed face. “Slick Sam.”

  “Know his last name?”

  “No.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Dominic, shaking his head.

  “Right,” replied Izzy. “That’s why people go to him.”

  “Where’s his shop?” asked the detective.

  “Shitopia.”

  “What street?”

  “You know that elementary school where those kids were killed in the eighties?”

  “I know it,” replied the big fellow.

  “Across the street from there.”

  Bettinger asked, “You’ve got his cell?”

  “No.” Izzy looked like he was about to vomit.

  “Do you know when he’s in?”

  “You’re asking me for his itinerary? I met the guy once.”

  “Then you shouldn’t feel so bad—he’s practically a stranger.”

  Ashamed, the racketeer looked away.

  The big fellow placed the cell phone in the baggie, buttoned his jacket, and handed the red file to his partner. “Poofs feel bad about everything. It’s just how they are.”

  “We’ll send in a sketch guy,” the detective told the prisoner, “and you two can make some art.”

  No response emerged from Izzy, who sat slumped in his seat, looking at his hands. The policemen exchanged a nod and strode toward the exit.

  “Don’t get executed,” advised the racketeer.

  Unkind laughter resonated within Dominic.

  A yawn swallowed Bettinger’s face as he and his partner returned to the frigid main area and climbed onto the dais.

  “You look terrible,” Zwolinski said from behind his desk. “Was it the Chinese food? I warned you about that place.”

  “I’m just tired.” The shivering detective zipped up his parka.

  “What did Isaac Johnson give you?”

  “The address of a chop shop that might’ve sold a vehicle to Melissa Spring or Margarita Ramirez.”

  The inspector scratched the thick silver pelt that was atop his skull. “Izzy gave you that?”

  “Bettinger pulled it from the ether,” remarked Dominic. “Nigga’s a asshole, but he’s got ideas.”

  “I theorize.”

  “Looks that way,” observed Zwolinski.

  Bettinger motioned to the door. “We need to get to the chop shop bef—”

  “Williams will take care of that. I want you to go rest that brain before it has a heart attack.”

  “I’m capable of—”

  “Quiet. The Sunflower Motel gives us a deal.” The inspector aimed his mouth at the ceiling and bellowed, “Molloy! Crater Face!”

  Perry and Huan looked over from the far side of the pillbox.

  “When you leave in twenty minutes,” the pugilist commanded, “drop Bettinger off at the Sunflower.”

  The redheaded fellow and the pockmarked Asian gave thumbs-up signs and returned their attention to the phlegmatic printer.

  Zwolinski looked at Dominic. “Go to that chop shop. If it’s quiet, get a cadet to do surveillance.”

  “Okay.”

  The big fellow walked off of the dais.

  “Don’t cripple anybody,” said the inspector.

  Dominic shrugged.

  “You do,” Zwolinski warned, “and we’re in the ring.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You didn’t do too good last time,” added the inspector. “By round six, you were beyond uncomfortable.”

  Again, the big fellow shrugged.

  “Is something wrong with his neck?” Zwolinski asked Bettinger.

  “It doesn’t seem to let oxygen into the top floor.”

  “I’ve suspected that. Tackley gave you some history?”

  “He gave me some.”

  “So that’s it. It was an ugly situation, and I was just barely able to keep ’em on. Somethin’ like that happens again, they’ll be fired—probably go to jail.” The inspector rubbed a lump that had an eyebrow. “Make sure it doesn’t go that far.”

  “I’ve had experience handling pit bulls … though usually I put them in the back of the cruiser.”

  “In Victory, pit bulls ride up front.”

  XXIX

  Officer Nancy Blockman Observes Other People

  Officer Nancy Blockman frowned as she located another piece of eggshell in her hair. The stocky, bulldog-faced, thirty-eight-year-old brunette had showered twice since the embryonic bombs had fallen, but a group of tenacious white flecks still clung to ground zero. Lowering the driver’s side window of the stopped patrol car, she jettisoned the shard onto a twilit Victory street, where it skipped twice and disappeared inside a crack that looked like a mouth.

  “Did you use cream rinse?” Officer Abe Lott inquired from the passenger seat.

  “Cream rinse? You sure you’re not gay?”

  “Cream rinse’s gay?”

  Accelerating through the intersection, the policewoman observed her pudgy partner.

  “What?” asked Abe, defensively. “Lots of people use it. I use it.”

  Nan
cy’s former husband, Steven, was a homosexual (regardless of the fact that he had been in a sexually fulfilling marriage with a woman for five years), and ever since he had revealed himself, the policewoman looked for the warning signs in all men. There was no real reason for her to suspect that Abe was gay—he was married, went to strip clubs, and had dirty fingernails—but it was her duty to let him know if he exhibited any of the most common gay traits or affinities.

  “I don’t want to offend you,” the pudgy officer said, “but I think you’re a little paranoid about that stuff.”

  “I’m vigilant, not paranoid. And there’s a reason.”

  “Your husband?”

  “No—it’s because of scientists,” said Nancy, turning off of Summer Drive. “They say that the body is rebuilt from scratch every seven years. Completely. Down to the cellular level. All of it.”

  “All of it?”

  “According to scientists.”

  “Then what about tattoos? How come they last more than seven years?”

  “Because it’s ink. It doesn’t do anything but just sit there while the cells all around it are having kids and dying. A tattoo’s just subcutaneous jewelry.”

  “Hmmm.” Abe played with his revolver as if it were an action figure.

  “But my point is,” Nancy resumed, “you never know how all this cellular activity might affect you … how you might change as the body—and the brain and everything—rebuilds itself. The man you were seven years ago no longer exists.”

  The pudgy officer looked at his hands. “Seems the same.”

  “On the outside. But maybe some of your brain cells are different. Mutated. Maybe the next time you go to a strip club, some—”

  “Gentlemen’s lounge,” corrected Abe.

  “Maybe the next time you go to a gentleman’s lounge, some girl will take off her top, show you her double Ds, and you’ll be like, ‘So what?’”

  “Never.” The pudgy officer was steadfast. “Tits are the greatest.”

  “But why do you think that?”

  “’Cause I’m a man, and because they are.”

  “It’s because you’re a man who has a certain biological reaction to tits, and that reaction is because of your programming—your cells. All of that can change when you’re being rebuilt. And you’re always being rebuilt.”