Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  “No.”

  One of the most helpful misconceptions held by criminals was their belief that this question had to be answered truthfully.

  “You still got your jacket on,” observed the Latina. “You in a rush or something?”

  “I’m not a fan of cold weather.”

  The woman adjusted the hem of her lavender dress. “Where’re you from?”

  “Georgia.”

  “A businessman?” This was said hopefully.

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I sell airplanes.”

  “That’s a good business, no?” Excitement had thickened the woman’s accent, which sounded like it was Venezuelan.

  “It is. Though you need a lot of storage space.”

  “For the airplanes?”

  “For the airplanes.”

  “My name is Daniela.”

  “Nice to meet you, Daniela. I’m Jacques.”

  “Are you looking for a little company tonight?”

  Something crept into the parking lot and slid behind one of the trucks. Bettinger could not see what kind of vehicle had landed, but he knew that its headlights had been off when it pulled in. Within his parka, he gripped his gun.

  “You waiting for somebody?” inquired Daniela.

  The kitchen door opened, and Buford emerged, carrying a plate, a cup of coffee, and a pitcher of water.

  Bettinger rose from the booth. “Go back to your table.”

  Confusion and irritation shone upon the Latina’s face. “Why’d you invite me over?”

  The detective turned around, passed the cook, and walked to the back of the restaurant, where he entered the bathroom and cracked the door. Putting his eye to the opening, he observed.

  Daniela returned to her table, and Buford set down his burden. Outside in the parking lot, a dark reflection spilled like oil across the steel grille of a truck.

  Bettinger strongly doubted that he would be approached by a killer in such a public place, but he was cautious by nature and felt an obligation to isolate himself from civilians … even if it meant that he had to eat room-temperature eggs. His phone buzzed, but he did not answer it or remove his eye from the front windows.

  Outside, the moving thing entered the light and became two blurry figures.

  The detective clasped his gun, and again, his cell phone buzzed.

  He waited.

  The front door opened, and into the diner walked a good-looking young black couple who wore formal attire. The woman carried a swaddled and cooing infant, and the fellow rolled a plush stroller. They seemed happy, and thus, Bettinger concluded that they were from out of town.

  The detective’s cell phone buzzed for the third time. A glance at its display told him that the caller was his partner.

  Bettinger placed the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?” asked Dominic.

  “Claude’s.”

  “Make sure nobody’s watching you and get away from the windows.”

  “What’s—”

  “More cops are dead—executed, had their dicks cut off—and most of the others are missing. It’s cop genocide, and you need to get yourself hid.”

  Bettinger suddenly felt like a ghost. “What do you know?”

  “Looks like a coordinated effort all over town. Some niggas in a SUV took a shot at me and Tackley, but blew it, and then we started checkin’ up on everyone. Perry’s missing, and Huan never got home. We’re at Zwolinski’s place now and there’s blood fuckin’ everywhere.”

  Needles climbed up the detective’s nape. “They went to the inspector’s home?”

  “Yeah.”

  A terrible thought occurred to Bettinger. He bolted from the bathroom and slammed into the young black father.

  “Excuse you!” chastised the staggered man.

  Running across the linoleum, the detective pocketed his cell phone and withdrew his semiautomatic, ready to knock down or shoot anybody who got in his way.

  The Latina screamed, “He’s got a gun!” as he stormed past her.

  Thinking of his family in Stonesburg, Bettinger careened toward the front door. His mind was a hard and narrow place.

  XXXIX

  Vehicular Abuse

  Bettinger exited Claude’s Hash House, flung himself into his hatchback, and started the engine. Tossing his gun onto the passenger seat, he stomped the accelerator.

  The car flew backward and thudded over the curb. On Fifty-sixth Street, the detective cut the wheel, shifted gears, and dropped his boot. Tires shrieked like dying eagles.

  Speeding toward Summer Drive, Bettinger clapped his cell phone to his skull. “Still there?”

  “Yeah,” said Dominic. “You goin’ home?”

  “Yes.” The detective tried not to imagine terrible things.

  “Why don’t you call—see if they’re okay?”

  “If somebody’s with them—holding them—I don’t want him to know I’m coming. And if they’re already…” This was not a sentence that Bettinger could complete. “If something bad’s already happened, I want to surprise whoever’s waiting for me.”

  Tires screeched as the hatchback seized Summer Drive.

  “A’ight. Me and Tackley’re gonna get Nancy out of the hospital, put her someplace safe, and go look for Perry and Huan. Call when you know the situation with your family. You need backup, we’re there instantly.”

  “Thanks.”

  The hatchback overrode its headlights, and Bettinger clicked on the high beams.

  “Watch yourself,” cautioned Dominic. “We just became a endangered species.”

  “You be careful too.”

  The detective disconnected the call and flew past a motorcycle that was driven by a hunched biker who wore a petite woman as if she were a backpack. Monitoring his rearview mirror, he watched the interwoven duo diminish until they resembled mating insects.

  The engine roared.

  Bettinger sped past a flashing yellow orb and glanced at the dashboard, where a white needle wavered fearfully on the right side of the dial, indicating a speed of ninety-three miles an hour. If a vagrant stepped into the road or a significant pothole appeared or a car ran an opposing light, the detective knew that he would have a serious or fatal accident.

  He raised his boot, slowing down the hatchback. It was not easy for him to drive at a safer pace, but he had to be sure that he made it home to his family.

  Bettinger honked as he approached every major intersection, and in fifteen minutes, he reached the southern fringe of Victory, where the roads were in even worse shape. The hatchback rumbled like an earthquake, and yet again, the detective was forced to retard his progress.

  Rolling toward the black tunnel mouth at a speed of fifty-five miles per hour, he leaned on his horn. A troll waggled appendages and disappeared into a crevice.

  The hatchback zipped through the passageway and back outside, where its tires crushed a pigeon, struck the ramp, pulled the vehicle up an incline, grabbed the interstate, and shrieked.

  Leaning on the accelerator, the detective sped south. His headlights inhaled the lines in the road as if they were illicit substances. The engine roared.

  At a speed of ninety-five miles an hour, Bettinger flew toward the three people who were his entire world. Rocks turned into a wake of red hail in the glow of the hatchback’s taillights.

  The detective checked to see if someone was trailing him, even though it would be impossible for another car to match his speed in an inconspicuous manner. At present, he saw no followers.

  The distance between the two cities was rapidly devoured.

  Traffic was thin, and whenever he saw another vehicle, he overtook it. No automobiles remained in his rearview mirror for more than fifteen seconds during his roaring, thirty-minute tear down the interstate, and it was not until he saw the sign for Stonesburg that he remembered to turn on the heater. Vents blasted exhaust onto the stones that were fists.

  Dialing the
wheel clockwise and applying the brakes, the detective caught the off-ramp and entered the suburbs, where he proceeded at a moderate speed until he was five blocks from his house. There, he slowed the vehicle to a quiet speed and killed the headlights.

  Darkness fell.

  Bettinger’s eyes dilated, adjusting to the night.

  Thick clouds diffused the lunar chunk that hung in the sky, and the weak light that the cataract emanated varnished small houses and a variety of four-wheeled pets. Surrounding these man-made artifacts were carpets of dead grass that looked like sandpaper.

  Quietly, the hatchback drifted through the suburbs. A glance at the clock on the dashboard informed the detective that it was seventeen minutes after four in the morning. Passing through an intersection, he checked the side streets and saw only darkness and incomplete gray shapes.

  Bettinger continued west, crossing lifeless roads at a speed of less than fifteen miles an hour. His journey was almost over.

  Moonlight illuminated the sign for Douglas Avenue, the street upon which he and his family lived, and his chest constricted, smothering his ugly little heart. Although the detective had been in numerous physical altercations and three gunfights, a direct threat to his family frightened him far more than anything that he had ever before experienced.

  Dialing the wheel clockwise, Bettinger turned the hatchback.

  He lowered his window, seized his gun, and fixed his gaze on the tall wooden fence that hid the major part of his little salmon house from its northern neighbor.

  The hatchback crept down the street. Freezing winter flooded through the open window, stinging the detective’s eyes as the distance between the front of his car and the edge of his property diminished to ten feet.

  Gripping his pistol, Bettinger passed the wooden fence and saw his house. Its salmon-colored paint was gray in the moonlight, and all of its windows were dark. The garage door was closed, and there were no cars in the driveway.

  Everything looked normal.

  Relief tingled the detective’s skull, nape, and shoulders, but he was cautious by nature and suspicious by trade and thus did not apply the brakes.

  The yellow hatchback continued south, and behind the wheel, Bettinger ruminated. It was conceivable that a killer’s vehicle was hidden inside of the garage, though unlikely, since any reasonably intelligent bad guy would avoid using a noisy, unreliable device like an automatic door. A smarter way for the gunman to accomplish an ambush was for him to leave his vehicle someplace nearby and walk over.

  Rolling south, Bettinger surveyed the area. All of the cars that he saw were familiar, and every single home was dark.

  The detective reached the end of the block, turned east, and drove along the intersecting street, which was the one that he used whenever he went to downtown Stonesburg. Most of the vehicles that he saw were recognizable, and nothing seemed out of place to him.

  Dialing the wheel counterclockwise, Bettinger landed on the avenue that ran parallel to the one upon which he lived. He had not been on this street very often, and he doubted that he would notice any anomalies.

  The hatchback rolled north. Something caught the detective’s eye, and a moment later, his stomach sank.

  Parked in the driveway of an unlighted house was a charcoal gray pickup truck.

  Bettinger was certain that this was the vehicle that had entered the parking lot of the Sunflower Motel just as he had been leaving.

  A murderer was in Stonesburg with his family.

  XL

  Things Fall

  The detective drove across the lot of dead grass until his car blocked off the driveway. Two inches separated his door from the back bumper of the charcoal gray pickup truck, which appeared to be uninhabited.

  Bettinger silenced his cell phone, slid it into his parka, and clambered out of the passenger’s door. Moonlit mist rose from his mouth as he stalked toward the suspect vehicle, his gun pointing at the driver’s side window. A thin, balding black man who was three shades darker than the night sky appeared on the glass, but nothing of note lay beyond this reflection.

  The killer was somewhere else.

  Exhaling steam, Bettinger proceeded toward the east side of the house. His body functioned mechanically as he considered the situation.

  The detective knew that he had to approach this tableau as he would any other. He was a professional law enforcer, a decorated bloodhound, and he could not abandon his intellect and observational skills because of his deep emotional investment in the situation. The hostages were not his beloved wife Alyssa, and his two children, Gordon and Karen, but three dead people whom he was trying to bring back to life.

  Bettinger reached the side of the house and saw a square hole in the dirt that had probably held a For Sale sign up until very recently, when the vacant home was chosen as a parking space by the killer.

  The detective crept toward the fence that divided the front and back portions of the half-acre lot. Cautiously, he opened the gate, passed through, and surveyed the backyard.

  A tire hung from a nearby tree, and a mat covered an aboveground swimming pool that was attended by a score of pale lawn chairs. Nothing moved.

  Bettinger hastened across the grass toward the familiar copse that divided the block. Cold winds blew as he proceeded, and somewhere, a dog barked.

  The detective soon entered the wooded area. Bobbing and weaving like a boxer, he navigated leafless branches until he reached the far side of the copse, where he stopped and looked east. Lighted by the veiled moon were a swing set, a covered grill, and a hitch trailer, all of which Bettinger recognized. This was the backyard of the house that was just south of his own home.

  Staying within the trees, he proceeded north. His footfalls were quiet but not silent.

  An anomaly garnered his attention as he walked, and he paused. Amidst the dark limbs and four feet off of the ground was a pale swath—the raw wood of a broken tree branch. Somebody had recently passed through the copse.

  The crumb of hope that was in the detective’s back pocket disappeared. A killer was with his family.

  Bettinger continued through the wooded area until he was hidden behind his own backyard. Carefully, he approached the edge of the shadows and appraised his property.

  Dull moonlight shone upon dead grass, a bench, a cylindrical grill, nine pine trees, and a hammock, which was stretched between two bald oaks. Behind all of this was the small, salmon-colored house that the night had turned gray. All of the windows were dark.

  The tableau told Bettinger nothing, but he knew that he had to act quickly. A passive approach would ensure the deaths of all three captives.

  For three seconds, the detective considered the layout of the little salmon house. The bedroom that he shared with Alyssa was the only place that had windows facing the front and back halves of the property, and so it was the most likely spot for a bad guy to position himself. (This conclusion followed his presumptions that the killer was both alone and intelligent.)

  Staying within the copse, Bettinger walked north until the larger of the two distant oak trees blocked his view of the rear bedroom window. Concealed by its knobby trunk, he hastened onto the lot, holding his breath as he ran so that no drifting steam would betray his movements. (There were a lot of reasons to hate the cold.)

  Bettinger reached the tree, pressed his shoulder to the wood, and glanced at the bedroom window, which was just over thirty feet away. Its curtains were completely closed—an anomaly that all but confirmed the location of the killer.

  The detective exhaled steam into his parka, painfully aware that at any moment, a gunshot might ring out and ruin his life.

  Every second mattered.

  Bettinger crawled toward a pine tree that stood less than ten feet from the back of his house. Blades of gray grass whispered underneath his hands and knees as he progressed, and he hoped that the quiet susurrations were not audible through the pane of glass.

  The detective reached his destination, collected a few white st
ones, and rose to his feet, keeping the pine tree between him and the three-by-four bedroom window that was now less than eight feet away.

  His heart pounded inside his temples and fingertips. The worst gamble that any loving husband or father could ever be asked to make was immediately before him, and he had to roll the dice. Hesitation or passivity would yield one dead wife and two dead children.

  Bettinger brushed pine needles from his gun, exhaled into his jacket, and drew a deep breath. Pressing his chest against the tree, he tilted his head sideways.

  The floral curtains that covered the bedroom window were dark and still. Everything was quiet.

  The detective slid his left hand into his parka and withdrew one of the small white stones. A second later, he flung it into the air.

  The pebble was inhaled by the dark sky, and for a moment, the world was the same.

  Bettinger pointed his gun at the window.

  The stone reappeared, falling, and cracked against the roof.

  Something thudded against a wall inside of the dark bedroom. A deep voice that belonged to an adult man muttered a couple of unintelligible words.

  The curtains wavered. A shadow appeared on the fabric, and the detective tilted the barrel of his firearm down a fraction of an inch to center his target.

  Two yards from the nose of his gun was a battered, bloody face that belonged to Alyssa. Panties filled her gory mouth and dangled out of a swollen hole that had once contained her left eyeball.

  Horrified, Bettinger surveyed the room. Floating behind his wife’s right shoulder was the face of the devil.

  It took the detective a second to realize that he was not dreaming or insane, but looking at a mask.

  Neither Alyssa nor the killer had seen him, and he knew that he had to act now. Even though the window would shatter in his wife’s face—and possibly pierce her remaining eye—he had to shoot. This might be the only chance that he ever got to save the people whom he loved.

  Aiming at the space between the devil’s horns, Bettinger steadied his hand and squeezed the trigger.