Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  “We should stay off the road and walk single file,” Bettinger suggested to his associates.

  “Why?” asked Dominic.

  “To keep clear of manholes and reduce the risk of stepping on something bad.”

  “Nigga’s got ideas.”

  The policemen veered onto the buried sidewalk and became a three-person phalanx. Tackley took the lead, followed by Bettinger, who was succeeded by Dominic.

  The winds skirled. Fifteen lurching, churning, frigid minutes later, the mottled vanguard motioned to the west.

  The policemen trudged onto a narrower cross street where they were shielded from the wind by an exceptionally wide rubble pile. There, they paused and blew their whistles.

  The Heaps offered no reply.

  Pocketing the instruments, the trio staggered through the white tide. The winds gentled, and a moment later, the size of the falling snowdrops increased twofold.

  Dominic thudded against the powder.

  Bettinger faced his partner. “Are you—”

  “I’m fuckin’ fine.” The big fellow rose to his feet, spat out snow, and dusted himself. “Let’s keep on.”

  The trio crossed a lumpy intersection, traversed the following block, and circumvented a snow-covered van that had two trees growing out of its roof. Looking at the impaled vehicle, the detective was reminded of several outsider art shows that he had attended with his wife. Unbidden images of her battered body and ruined eye filled his mind.

  It was better for him to focus on his pains, the cold, and Sebastian.

  The plump snowdrops grew sparse, and Bettinger looked toward the western horizon, which was much clearer than it had been only seconds earlier. Beyond the heaps stood the tops of two ruined buildings.

  “Fuck.”

  Something thudded.

  The detective looked back.

  Dominic was lying on his side in the snow. His shoulders shook, and steam burst erratically from his covered head like a series of smoke signals.

  Bettinger was not sure how much longer Dominic—or any of them—could continue. As the big fellow rose to his feet, the detective withdrew the steel bulldog from his pocket.

  “Let’s try again.”

  “Whatever.”

  The policemen inhaled deeply, put their whistles to their mouths, and blew.

  A dog barked.

  Needles danced upon Bettinger’s nape. The policemen removed the whistles from their mouths and looked in the direction of the far-off sound.

  A second canine launched some woofs, and a moment later, both beasts quietened. It was clear that a person had silenced the animals.

  The detective’s heart pounded.

  Dominic raised the whistle to his mouth, but Tackley caught his wrist and shook his head. “Wait until we’re closer.”

  “It’s them,” remarked the big fellow. “It’s Dobermans.”

  Bettinger wanted to believe his partner’s assertion. “I hope so.”

  “It is. I grew up with Dobermans and know the bark.”

  Tackley removed his assault rifle from the duffel bag, an ugly smile sitting in the bottom hole of his ski mask. “They raised him.”

  “Might explain why he killed Kimmy’s cat.”

  “That first one sounded just like one I used to have named Julia.” Dominic withdrew a semiautomatic gun from his clip-on holster. “Someone’s probably walkin’ them while the storm takes it easy.”

  “That’s a good guess,” agreed Bettinger.

  “A accolade from the king of guesswork.”

  “You’re our dog expert.”

  “I understand them.”

  The detective pointed at the pair of ruined buildings that stood on the horizon. “Sounded like it came from over there.”

  “A little bit north of that.” The mottled man raised his rifle and looked through its telescopic sight. “When we’re halfway, we’ll blow the whistles.”

  “Unless the storm picks up before then.”

  “Unless that.”

  Spirited, the three-man phalanx lurched toward the buildings. The wind was a distant whisper, and the plump snow fell straight. As quickly as possible, the trio traversed the block and its westward neighbor.

  Bettinger wiped ice from his fangs and looked over his shoulder. Five yards behind him staggered Dominic, whose gait was as labored as it was lopsided. Red dots colored the tracks made by his left foot.

  “Keep going,” said the big fellow.

  “I’ll look at that again when we get inside.”

  “Whatever.”

  The detective returned his attention to the mottled man’s back, which vacillated smoothly with each of the fellow’s small, quick strides. Of the three policemen, he was in the best condition by far.

  “I still got Perry’s DVD,” said Dominic. “The one with the Japanese guys in the submarine.”

  Boots compressed snow.

  “The Crushing Depths,” said Tackley. “Did you watch it?”

  “It’s got subtitles.” This seemed to be a complete answer.

  The mottled man scanned the area through his telescopic sight. “It’s a good movie.”

  “It is,” added Bettinger, who had seen it on late-night television.

  “I’ll watch it.”

  The policemen neared a snow-covered object that resembled a gigantic bed. Sitting atop the mass was a hub from which extended a very long pole.

  “Is that a tank?” asked Bettinger.

  Tackley nodded.

  “Then the odds I’m dreaming all this just went way up.”

  “They didn’t.” The mottled man paused, pulled a beer can from his right boot, and continued walking. “There used to be a war museum up here.”

  “Junk.”

  Passing the tank, the detective looked over the vanguard’s head to the northwest. The broken buildings were larger than before.

  Tackley proceeded up the sidewalk of a cross street, and Bettinger followed, trudging through the accumulation. His right foot slipped, and his rib cage clicked. Agonized, he dropped to the powder.

  “You okay?” asked Dominic.

  The detective grunted. It felt like a dagger had pierced his intercostal muscle.

  Suddenly, strong hands were under his arms, helping him to his feet.

  “You can walk?”

  The sharp pain turned into a throbbing ache, and Bettinger nodded, picking snow out of the devil’s eyes.

  Dominic squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “Whenever it hurts, just think about killin’ Sebastian.”

  The phalanx continued north.

  Bettinger gripped his side and his gun as he trudged through the white adversary. Every part of his anatomy was pained or numb or a throbbing combination of these two states.

  “Huan was really ahead at the game last night,” remarked Dominic. “It was like five bills he left with.”

  “He was a great poker player,” said Tackley.

  “I wonder if he got a chance to—”

  “Save it for the funeral,” barked the mottled man. “We don’t need this now.”

  “Sorry.”

  The phalanx crossed an intersection and landed on the opposite sidewalk.

  Tackley stopped. “Let’s try here.”

  The policemen put whistles in their mouths and heaved carbon dioxide. Ribbons of steam shot into the air.

  Dogs barked. The bestial remonstrations were far louder than before.

  The men stopped blowing.

  Bettinger fixed the location of the barking animals, which was a little bit south of the two ruined buildings and directly to the west. “They moved.”

  “They’re gettin’ their walk,” replied Dominic. “Like I said.”

  Suddenly, the animals were silent.

  “There were three that time,” added the big fellow. “Julia, the other one, and a smaller guy.”

  The policemen replaced the whistles in their pockets and started toward their four-legged quarries. Rather than lurch through the snow, Tackle
y shuffled his legs, which noticeably reduced the amount of noise that he made. Bettinger and Dominic mimicked his manner, and soon, the phalanx sounded like three mills grinding peppercorns.

  Nearing the end of the block, Tackley pointed out the wide heap that lay between the policemen and the animals.

  The group shuffled toward the indicated pile. The mills ground peppercorns, and the volume of falling snow increased.

  Quietly, Dominic asked, “We blow again? Before they go inside?”

  Tackley shook his head. “Those mongrels told us plenty.”

  “Dobermans.”

  Shuffling forward, Bettinger surveyed the heap, which was a snow-covered collection of concrete slabs, support beams, and pipes. Atop the mass stood a statue of a gigantic headless man who had skewered two bicycles with a broken sword.

  The phalanx reached the base of the rubble pile and began their southwestern circumnavigation. Winds blew, covering up the peppermill noises of their progress.

  Tackley maintained the vanguard position, surveying the area through his rifle’s telescopic sight. His coat snapped taut, catching upon something in the snow, and he hastily jerked it loose.

  Bettinger soon passed the object, which was a cracked tombstone.

  The phalanx continued around an overturned school bus into the area beyond the heap, which was an uninhabited clearing of powder. On the far side of this three-block expanse loomed a gray-green four-story building, half of which had been demolished. Several broken pillars jutted from the collapsed façade.

  “The old courthouse,” whispered Dominic, wiping snow from his mouth. “That’s where my mother got sentenced.”

  “Shoot anything that moves,” said Tackley.

  The big fellow took the binoculars out of the duffel bag. “What if it’s Sebastian?”

  “This isn’t wheelchair weather.”

  The mottled man started toward the partially demolished courthouse, leading the phalanx.

  Although Bettinger felt like he and his associates were exposed targets, he knew that there was no better alternative. The isolated building was three blocks away from the nearest heap, and to reach it, they had to cross the white plain.

  The detective shuffled.

  His left side throbbed, and his muscles burned, but the thought of killing the man who had murdered his son, mutilated his wife, terrorized his daughter, and wiped out the major part of the Victory police force was an anesthesia. Proceeding across the plain, he saw a depression in the snow that resembled Gordon.

  Tackley lowered the scope from his eye and pointed to the right. There, Bettinger saw nothing.

  The mottled man led his associates in the indicated direction, and ten grinding strides later, the detective saw three small dots upon the snow. As he drew nearer, the anomalies grew larger and distinguished themselves as the products of a dog’s rear end.

  Dominic nodded sagaciously. “Dobermans.”

  The phalanx reached the droppings, and surveyed the surrounding snow. Paw prints led to the bowel movements and away from them, toward the collapsed courthouse.

  The policeman followed the trail. A second set of tracks joined the first and continued in the exact same direction.

  The detective eyed the building, which was now four hundred feet away. Its front entrance was a pile of snow-covered rubble, and the windows on its north face were boarded over.

  Tackley directed Bettinger’s attention to the ground. Joining the dog tracks were some deeper marks that had been made by a pair of women’s sneakers. The detective wondered if they belonged to Sebastian’s girlfriend, Melissa, or his sister, Margarita.

  Fighting the wind, the phalanx shuffled toward the courthouse. A winding set of paw prints crossed through the others, and a sinkhole of yellow powder sat at the intersection. Fifteen more steps brought the policemen to a place where a fourth set of dog tracks joined the pack, and there, the woman’s trail veered away from those of the animals.

  The phalanx followed the bipedal impressions. Twenty feet east of the building, paw prints rejoined the footprints, and a few yellow exclamation points commemorated the event.

  The policemen shuffled west, keeping beside the tracks, which were parallel to the north face of the building.

  Bettinger’s left foot plunged into something soft, which might have been a garbage bag, and pain shot through his ribs. Grimacing, he extricated his boot, sucked air into his lungs, and continued forward.

  Tackley neared the corner of the building and held up his hand.

  The phalanx stopped.

  Silently, the mottled man prostrated himself and looked around the corner.

  Winds skirled, and powder fell. A snowflake entered the devil mask, landing upon the detective’s right eyelashes as he and his partner watched the prone fellow.

  Tackley nodded his head, rose to his feet, and proceeded south.

  Bettinger shuffled around the corner. Ahead of him, the trail continued south, leading toward the dark entrance of a three-level parking garage that was 250 feet away.

  The policeman staggered their positions so that each of them had a clear line of fire. Quietly, they progressed toward the opening.

  A dog barked, and the trio flattened themselves.

  Prone, the detective eyed the parking lot entrance, which was black and revealed nothing. He aimed his tactical light at the ground, switched it on, and waited, lying on the cold blanket between his two prostrated associates. His mistreated, fifty-year-old flesh was numb, excepting the pain caused by his broken ribs as they pressed skin and muscle into his ballistic vest.

  The snowfall thickened. A ponderous minute passed, but no sounds or living things emerged from the dark entrance of the parking garage.

  Tackley rose from the blanket. His thumb touched the scope of his rifle, and a red dot flew across the ground like an alien insect.

  Bettinger and Dominic got to their feet.

  Quietly, the masked policemen proceeded south.

  Falling snow concealed them within the white landscape, and soon, the distance between them and the garage diminished by half.

  One hundred feet away, the dark entrance gaped like a maw.

  Tackley panned his assault rifle to the right, and his red dot tripled as it struck a car window, shot through the opposite glass, and landed on a concrete wall.

  Bettinger shuffled onward, gun in hand, aware that he might be killed in the very near future. It was especially unpleasant to think about how his death would affect Alyssa and Karen, both of whom were already traumatized.

  Ruminating, the detective fixed his objectives. He had to kill Sebastian, and he had to stay alive.

  Everything else was irrelevant.

  Seventy feet separated Bettinger from the opening of the parking garage.

  Shuffling, he swept his tactical beam through the darkness. The circle of light illuminated a hubcap, riven concrete, and a cardboard box. Nothing moved.

  The detective proceeded, and soon, less than fifty feet separated him from the entrance.

  He pointed his weapon at the right side of the garage, where the circle of light illuminated rusty pipes, a gate, and a pair of staring eyes.

  A red dot appeared on the human face, and Tackley’s assault rifle flashed.

  The head shattered, bursting into hunks of brown, white, and gray ice.

  Bettinger tilted his tactical beam, and the circle of light illuminated the garbage bags, duct tape, and carpet swatches that comprised the frozen Heaper’s clothing. Sitting in the vagrant’s right hand was a beer can from which depended five small icicles.

  Although the detective was relieved that the mottled man had not murdered anybody, he was a little unnerved by the fellow’s nearly instantaneous dispatch of lethal gunfire. Bettinger had very fast reactions, but Tackley was a cobra.

  The policemen entered the parking garage. Layers of snow sloughed from their bodies onto the concrete like old skin.

  The detective panned his tactical light in an arc, illuminating r
ubble, charred automobiles, barbed wire, a rotten cardboard box, pipes, and the ramp that led up to the second level. Excepting the dead vagrant whose head now resembled Neapolitan ice cream, the immediate area appeared to be uninhabited.

  Dominic pointed his tactical light at some bits of snow that the dogs and the woman had left behind.

  L

  The Pillars of Justice

  The trail of white clumps led Bettinger and his associates past a mattress, an overturned car, a crate, a hole in the floor, and a dented elevator, before it veered to the right and disappeared inside a dark, open doorway.

  Shutting off their lights, the policemen put their shoulders to the wall and listened.

  No sounds emerged from the portal.

  Bettinger wiped powder from his mask, looked into the doorway, and turned on his light. Clumps of snow led across a gray landing to a flight of descending stairs. Affixed to the near wall was a corroded sign that read TO UNDERGROUND LEVEL.

  The detective pivoted, shining his light at the steps that went up to the second floor. Not one snowdrop lay upon them, and it was clear to him that the dogs and their human companion had all gone underground.

  Bettinger slid into the stairwell, walked across the landing, and descended. Although he treaded carefully, every sound that he made was amplified into significance by the acoustics.

  The detective shut off his light as he neared the intermediate platform.

  Something boomed.

  A head slammed into Bettinger’s back, catapulting him to the far side of the landing. Stone pounded his ballistic mask, pressing it sideways across his face, and something snapped.

  The detective soon found his footing and leaned against the wall. “You okay?” he asked the big fellow who had fallen down the steps.

  “Mm.”

  Something warm that tasted like a mixture of copper, dirt, and honey slid into Bettinger’s mouth. This fluid and the new fire in the middle of his face told him that he had just broken his nose.

  “Junk.”

  Pressing his shoulder to the corner, the detective shone his tactical light down the nether stairwell, which was uninhabited and ended in a closed gray door. Bits of snow and half as many clear puddles sat on the steps, and the existence of water—as well as the stinging sensations all over his body—told him that the temperature was slightly warmer belowground.