Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  “I can do it.” Dominic put the heel of his enormous boot over Slick Sam’s shaved testicles.

  “Don’t,” said Tackley. “This needs to be gentle.” The mottled man elbowed the captive’s larynx.

  Slick Sam yelped, and urine arced into the air.

  “Watch it.” Dominic pointed at the activated phallus. “He isn’t empty.”

  The captive opened his eyes, which were red and dilated. “Where the fuck…?” Confused by the narcotic, he appraised the boiler room, its masked occupants, and finally himself. The color drained from his face when he saw his own legs. “Get me to a hospital. I need—”

  “Shut up.” Tackley withdrew a photograph of Melissa Spring, the attractive young woman who was Sebastian’s girlfriend. Holding up the image, the mottled man said, “You sold a vehicle to—”

  “Take me to the hospital right now.”

  “You sold a vehicle to this woman.” Tackley shook the photograph. “What kind—”

  “I won’t say anything until I get some medical—”

  An open hand slapped the captive’s face, and again, the mottled man shook the picture.

  “What kind of—”

  “Until you get me a doctor, ‘Fuck you’ is my all-purpose answer.”

  Tackley pounded Slick Sam’s nose, snapping the cartilage.

  “Fuck!”

  Bettinger drew closer. “If you want some medical attention, you’d better answer him.”

  The captive spat blood. “Not until I see a doctor.”

  “That’s not the order of things,” replied the detective.

  “My legs look like fucking headcheese!”

  “How about lasagna?”

  Tackley motioned to Dominic, who claimed a cinder block from the stack, balanced it on the palm of his right hand, and held it out. Pieces of grit fell upon the cellophane that wrapped Slick Sam’s broken legs.

  The captive was terrified. “Don’t,” he said, “I j—”

  “What kind of car did you sell her?” The mottled man raised the photograph.

  “You’ll—you’ll kill me once I tell you.”

  “Why do you think we’re wearing masks?” asked Bettinger.

  Slick Sam had no answer to this question.

  “It’s so we can let you go after you help us,” stated the detective. “You’re not who we’re after—so don’t get in the way.”

  “Get me a doctor, and we’ll—”

  Dominic heaved the cinder block at the ceiling. The slab hung in the air for a moment and then plummeted toward Slick Sam’s legs. Terrified, he shut his eyes.

  The big fellow caught the block in his left hand, and loose grit bounced off of the cellophane.

  “He’s a below-average juggler,” remarked Tackley.

  “But I hope to improve.”

  Slick Sam opened his eyes. His entire body was shaking.

  The mottled man raised the photograph of Melissa Spring. “What kind of vehicle did you sell her?”

  “A blue jeep.”

  Bettinger took out his mechanical pencil and leaned forward. “Manufacturer?”

  “Stallion Star.”

  “What hue?”

  “Cobalt.”

  “You give her a license plate?”

  “No.”

  “She had her own?”

  “Probably, but I never saw it.”

  “V-six?”

  “Eight.”

  The detective scratched the information onto his notepad as quickly as it was uttered. “What kind of tires?”

  “Mud terrain.”

  “For off-road?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tackley and Dominic exchanged a meaningful glance, and Bettinger motioned for them to take the reins.

  The mottled man leaned forward. “Did she mention the Heaps?”

  “We didn’t hang out.” Slick Sam spat bloody mucus. “She just told me what she needed. Paid cash.”

  “When was that?” asked Bettinger.

  “Five, six weeks ago.”

  “Anything else customized?”

  The car dealer ruminated for a moment. “She had me put straps in the back.”

  “For what? A wheelchair?”

  “Dogs.”

  “You see these dogs?”

  “When she came over.”

  “What kind are they?”

  “Dobermans.”

  “The best,” remarked Dominic. “How many she got?”

  “Four.”

  “Anything else?” asked Bettinger.

  “No. Nothing.”

  Dominic hurled the cinder block across the room, and Slick Sam flinched when it shattered against the wall.

  “Now g-get me to a doctor.”

  Tackley rose to his feet. “You’ll go when everything’s resolved.”

  “But what if something happens to you?”

  “Pray that it doesn’t.”

  “You can’t just—”

  The mottled man kicked the captive’s jaw, knocking him unconscious. He then rolled the man onto his stomach, withdrew a half-filled syringe, and stuck it in an exposed buttock so that its plunger was within reach of the fellow’s bound hands.

  “How much morphine’s that?” asked Bettinger, pocketing his notepad.

  Dominic frowned. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. Especially if he gave us bad info.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “In case.”

  “There’s not enough to kill him,” said Tackley.

  “Okay.”

  The policemen departed from the boiler room, and the mottled man switched off the light, closed the door, and turned the lock.

  “What’re the Heaps?” asked Bettinger, pocketing his ski mask.

  Dominic peeled the fabric from his face and removed his gold teeth. “What’s north of Shitopia.”

  “Didn’t know there was more city past that.”

  “It’s not city.” Tackley wiped sweat from his white-and-pink face with his mask. “It’s decades of disaster piled on top of itself—a wasteland.”

  “You think Sebastian’s there?” inquired the detective.

  “It’s the only place in Victory that requires off-road tires.” The mottled man seized a cardboard box that was labeled KITCHEN and carried it toward the stairwell.

  “Ain’t those tires good for the snow?” posited Dominic. “Maybe he knew ’bout the blizzard?”

  “Not five or six weeks ago,” said Bettinger.

  “All this shit sounds like guesses.”

  “It’s what we have.”

  “Wait here.”

  Dominic climbed the steps, undid the bolt, and opened the cellar door. For the better part of a minute, he scanned the outside area for assassins. “It’s clear.”

  Bettinger walked toward the stairwell and the falling snow. Tackley followed, carrying his cardboard box, the contents of which clanked with his footfalls.

  XLVI

  Canine Itinerary

  Ice crunched underneath the falling boots of the policemen as they strode toward their vehicles. Held in Bettinger’s right hand was one of the killer’s silencer-equipped semiautomatic guns. Its safety was off.

  “Sorry ’bout your wife and son,” said Dominic, dusting snow from his shoulders. “I can’t even imagine how that must feel.” He exhaled steam through his nostrils as he walked. “My ex had a miscarriage when we was together, and that was rough. Pretty much the beginnin’ of the end for us.”

  “I’m sorry about Perry and Huan,” said the detective. “They seemed like good guys.”

  “They were.”

  “Better than us,” remarked Tackley. His little blue eyes were hard.

  Bettinger reached the charcoal gray truck, withdrew the note from his pocket, and held it out. “Wanna go over it?”

  The mottled man set the cardboard box on the hood of the silver car and took the letter. His eyes flickered left to right for the duration of a minute.

  “Seems like the killers aren’t loca
l,” said Tackley, handing the note to Dominic.

  “I inferred that as well.”

  “We’ll need to get their names from Sebastian before we kill him.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll know who they are,” said Bettinger. “It looks like he used a couple of middlemen to keep things anonymous.”

  “That’s fiction. Too many variables could go wrong in a setup like that. And if he really doesn’t know, we’ll make him find out.”

  The detective thought of the box of kitchen supplies. “Okay.”

  Dominic looked up from the letter. “Gianetto and Stanley got killed the day before it was supposed to happen.”

  “It was after midnight,” Bettinger said, “so technically it was the right day.”

  “I guess.” The big fellow took an ice scraper from his car. “We better find that fuckin’ Sebastian.”

  The detective considered the situation. “How big are the Heaps?”

  “Big.”

  “Do we have some kind of canine division?”

  Dominic scraped chunks from his windshield. “A dude named Wendell works freelance with the department.”

  “Dogs won’t help us,” said Tackley, putting his cardboard box into the car. “They make too much noise for something like this, and the blizzard’s almost here.”

  Bettinger shook his head. “I don’t want dogs—I want their whistles.”

  “Why?” asked Dominic.

  “The Dobermans.”

  Tackley grinned, revealing two rows of small yellow teeth. “Four of them.”

  The big fellow heaved a slab of ice as if he were a giant. “But don’t whistles make them sit? Or do tricks?”

  “Only if they’re trained that way,” said the detective, clearing the powder from the truck’s windshield with his right arm. “Most dogs bark when they hear one.”

  A grin of comprehension illuminated Dominic’s face. “Nigga’s got ideas.”

  Tackley flung the passenger door. “We’ll swing by Wendell’s place, get some whistles on the way up.”

  “Good.”

  The big fellow circumvented the silver car and opened the driver’s door. “You can ride with us if you want.”

  “We should have more than one vehicle,” Bettinger said as he entered the pickup truck, brushing powder from his scalp. “I’ll follow.”

  “Good thing you ain’t driving the mustard.”

  * * *

  Dominic slammed a battering ram against the back door of a two-story brownstone. Wood buckled, and canines barked.

  “Sounds like a dog army in there.”

  Bettinger flanked his partner, holding a plastic bag, which was one of a dozen that he had retrieved from the grocer down the street. Wendell was not home, nor was he answering his phone, and the closest pet store was thirty-five minutes out of the way (and possibly out of business). Breaking into the dog handler’s home was the quickest and surest way for the policemen to acquire an ultrasonic whistle.

  Again, the big fellow raised the battering ram.

  “Don’t let it fly open,” advised the detective. “We don’t want them getting out.”

  “I’m bein’ delicate.”

  Dominic swung. Wood cracked, and the canine clamor crescendoed. The big fellow set down the siege device, tore off the doorknob, and tossed it into the bushes.

  “You ready?”

  Bettinger nodded, kneeling.

  Dominic poked the door with an index finger. A barking head launched through the opening, teeth gnashing, and the detective covered it with the shopping bag. The hood was then attached to the confused beast’s collar by a piece of duct tape.

  Blinded by cheap plastic, the bewildered animal attacked a receipt.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said the big fellow.

  “Definitely.”

  “Ain’t gonna suffocate, is it?”

  “No.” Bettinger walked the animal into the yard. “Plenty of air.”

  A barking head that belonged to a German shepherd appeared in the opening and received two shopping bags. As the detective guided the hooded beast from the brownstone, the big fellow looked inside.

  “The others are in the detention center.”

  The policemen walked through the doorway, entering a turquoise kitchen that smelled like wet hay. On the far side of the room, three mutts barked from the insides of large wire cages.

  Dominic shook his head. “Doin’ time.”

  “There’s a main kennel area?”

  “He converted the garage.”

  “Let’s.”

  The big fellow led his partner across the kitchen and down a hall to a reinforced metal door. Paws scratched the other side of the barrier as if it were an instrument in a jug band.

  Bettinger undid the locks, turned the handle, and pushed. Warm air and dog smells spilled into the hallway.

  The detective looked through the opening. Inside the garage was a large stainless-steel kennel that had four compartments. Sleepy German shepherds sat in two of the cells, while a pair of beagles and something fluffy that looked like a four-legged monkey patrolled the grounds.

  Bettinger walked into the warm enclosure and started to sweat. It seemed as if the most comfortable room in the entire state of Missouri was inhabited by dogs.

  “My ex-wife got one.” Dominic pointed at a Teutonic prisoner. “But bigger.”

  The detective approached a metal supply cabinet that was big enough to be a fat man’s coffin and opened its door. Inside were bottles, jars, and a series of posts from which depended various clippers, scissors, collars, chains, and dog whistles.

  Bettinger took all of the lattermost instruments.

  The policemen departed the room and retraced their steps up the hallway. As they neared the kitchen, the detective handed half of the whistles to his partner.

  “We only want the ones that’re completely ultrasonic.”

  “Ain’t they all?”

  “Some produce noises people can hear.”

  “Sure as fuck don’t wanna be blowin’ those in the Heaps.” The big fellow waved at the caged animals as he passed through the kitchen. “Good luck gettin’ parole.”

  The policemen returned to the snow and blew whistles as they circumnavigated the building. Wendell’s dogs and others that were much farther away responded with a chorus of barks and woofs. Seven tests identified three entirely ultrasonic instruments.

  Bettinger and Dominic approached Tackley, who was inside the silver car listening to local talk radio. A gun sat in his left hand, and his window was ajar.

  “Here—” The detective handed one of the selected whistles through the opening. “Anything on the news?”

  “The roads will be impassable in about an hour.” The mottled man pointed to the backseat. “There’s an extra ballistic vest.”

  “I’ve got one. And a mask.”

  Dominic raised an eyebrow. “A ballistic mask?”

  Bettinger nodded, thinking, If it were a regular mask, Gordon would still be alive. His eyes began to sting.

  “Remember that grocery where they found Elaine James’s body?” the big fellow asked as he circumvented the front of his car. “In Shitopia?”

  “On Ganson Street.”

  “Yeah.” Dominic opened his door. “That road goes all the way to the Heaps.”

  “Got it.”

  Bettinger walked to the charcoal gray pickup truck and climbed inside. The ballistic devil mask, bulletproof vest, and additional silencer-equipped semiautomatic that he had taken from the killer were all on the bench cushion, bundled up in a blue towel. Atop these items, the detective set his whistle, which was made of stainless steel and surmounted by a morose English bulldog.

  The silver car rumbled, exhaling steam, and rolled forward. Bettinger started his engine, shifted into gear, and followed Dominic and Tackley into the blizzard.

  XLVII

  Dark Gray

  Nature assaulted the city of Victory. Snow covered exposed surfaces, and for most of the det
ective’s journey through the downtown area, he saw very little except the red taillights of the silver car that he followed. Both vehicles were able to traverse the five inches that had fallen (the sedan had chained tires, and the pickup truck had deep treads and helpful elevation), but the blizzard had arrived in full and would continue to roar until the roads were impassable.

  The policemen knew that they had to beat the weather, and thus, they drove at a speed of fifty miles an hour across the frozen accumulation. Any car that got in the way of the two-vehicle convoy received high beams and honks.

  Driving east on Fifty-sixth Street, Bettinger saw Claude’s Hash House, Baptist Bingo, and the pillbox, which looked like a Siberian outpost. Windshield wipers shoveled powder across the glass, and overhead, the violescent sky glowered, exhaling snow.

  The silver car’s taillights grew larger and slid together, which was what happened whenever Dominic slowed down and turned. Bettinger braked and dialed his wheel clockwise, following his partner north.

  As the convoy progressed up the avenue, the violescent sky darkened. It was not quite ten in the morning, but already, it looked like dusk.

  The detective traversed five blurry miles on this road, and as he began a sixth, he saw the parking lot of a long-abandoned shopping mall. Beside the curb sat three snow-covered cars that were all the same exact same size and shape. Spinning police lights shone atop the trio of inert lumps, turning the landscape red and blue.

  It was not hard for Bettinger to guess the fate of the officers who had driven these vehicles.

  He tried not to think about what was inside the cooler.

  Fifteen minutes later, the convoy entered the Toilet, where the divine eraser was steadily removing vandals’ signatures and advice. Nobody was outside.

  Something crackled underneath the truck’s left tires, and the detective knew that he had just turned a pigeon into squab tartare.

  The taillights of the silver car shone, grew, and slid together. Bettinger braked and dialed the wheel counterclockwise, following Dominic onto a cross street. A couple of blocks later, the convoy navigated another turn and was again proceeding north.

  Snow fell.

  Shortly after ten thirty, the detective passed the cat that had been nailed by its head to a telephone pole. The creature no longer possessed a body.

  “Christ.”

  The pickup truck lurched, fishtailing, and Bettinger lifted his boot from the gas. Gradually, the truck slid to a stop.