Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  Tackley helped Dominic to his feet. Grunts echoed as the big fellow clasped a rail and wobbled.

  “Can you walk?” asked Bettinger, whispering.

  Dominic put a fraction of his weight on his hurt foot, and a grimace filled the bottom hole of his mask. “Bind it.”

  Tackley and Bettinger exchanged a glance. It was obvious to both of them that the big fellow would be more of a liability than an asset in his present condition.

  “You’re staying here,” whispered the mottled man.

  “No fuckin’ way.” Dominic’s words resonated throughout the stairwell.

  “Keep it down.”

  “I’m going.” (This protest was quieter.)

  “You aren’t.”

  “And you can’t,” added Bettinger.

  “Fuck you.”

  The big fellow took one step, wobbled, and collapsed to his knees. Gritted teeth appeared in the bottom hole of his ski mask.

  “Idiot,” said his associates.

  Clouds of steam burst from Dominic’s mouth as he heaved his back against the wall. His eyes glimmered with pain and disappointment.

  Tackley withdrew the first-aid kit from the duffel bag and set it beside Dominic. “Guard the rear.”

  “Whatever.”

  Bettinger was uncertain whether or not his partner would stay behind. “If you come after us, you might get shot.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Learn some synonyms.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “He’s right,” remarked Tackley, handing four blue pills to the injured man. “Take two more. Don’t follow us.”

  “Whatever.” Dominic pocketed the medication and winced as he moved his bad leg. “Duct tape.”

  The mottled man withdrew a thick gray roll from the duffel bag and gave it to the big fellow.

  “Kill your tactical until we’re clear,” said Bettinger.

  Dominic turned off his light. “If you do him without me, do it rough.”

  “We will,” promised Tackley.

  Bettinger continued down the stairwell. A few bits of snow and two small puddles sat on the lower landing directly in front of the closed gray door. The mottled man reached the bottom of the steps, and the detective shut off his tactical light.

  Darkness filled the stairwell.

  The policemen held their breaths as they listened for noises beyond the gray door.

  Silence loomed.

  Bettinger pressed the push bar, and metal squeaked. Again, he listened for disturbances and heard nothing.

  The detective leaned his weight forward, but the door did not move. Gently, he released the push bar.

  “Locked.”

  A zipper was pulled across the darkness. Something clicked, and Tackley’s headlamp glared, illuminating the steel pieces of the lock-picking set that he held in his pink and milk-white hands. He kneeled, selected a rod that ended in a right angle, and slid it between the door and the jamb at the exact level of the push bar. Employing an ellipsoidal motion, the mottled man hooked the spring latch.

  A click echoed.

  Bettinger pushed the door, opening it a fraction of an inch.

  Tackley returned to his feet and shut off his headlamp.

  Darkness consumed the stairwell.

  The detective pushed the door so that it was two inches from the jamb. Through the hooded nostrils of the devil mask, he smelled a rich history of urine and rot.

  Everything was quiet.

  Bettinger rose to his feet and crept from the stairwell. The subterranean garage in which he found himself was very dark, but not opaque: A small amount of daylight was admitted by two small holes in its ceiling, one of which he recognized as the pit that he had earlier circumvented.

  Eyes adjusting to the gloom, the detective surveyed the area. The ramp that led to the upper level had collapsed, and strewn about the large enclosure were hunks of concrete, a score of abandoned vehicles, and half as many cardboard boxes. It seemed very unlikely that a disabled criminal who had the resources to kill off an entire police precinct would hide himself, his loved ones, and a pack of Dobermans in a place like this.

  Bettinger crouched beside an overturned station wagon, and the small ugly shape that was Tackley materialized, raising his assault rifle. The luminous red dot flew to the opposite end of the parking garage and sat on a wall.

  Behind the car, the policemen awaited a response.

  None was offered.

  Bettinger pointed his gun at the ground and switched on his tactical light. At the edge of the luminous circle he saw two very faint paw prints.

  The policemen followed the trail, but it quickly grew impossible to discern from its surroundings.

  Pausing, Bettinger searched the area for more tracks. His tactical beam drifted left and right and back again until it struck a damp stain—a nexus where the animals and their human companion had lingered. Directly behind this mark was the sliding door of an old gray cargo van that was backed up to the garage wall.

  The detective shut off his light and aimed his gun at the vehicle’s passenger window. Inches below the glass shone the mottled man’s prophetic red dot.

  The policemen approached the gray cargo van. Except for the sounds of their boots arranging grit, the subterranean area was silent.

  Bettinger kneeled beneath the passenger window, adjusted his ballistic mask, and stood.

  The devil stared back at him. Beyond his dim reflection loomed pure darkness.

  The detective sank below the glass, shook his head, and tapped his weapon.

  Ten feet away, the mottled man nodded an affirmative response.

  Bettinger stood, aimed his gun at the center of the window, and turned on his tactical light. The beam shot through the glass, illuminating the cargo van’s charred interior.

  Nothing moved.

  Heart pounding, the detective circled to the front of the vehicle, where he pointed his light through the windshield. Behind the molten seats was an empty cargo area, the back of which was concealed by a navy blue tarpaulin.

  Bettinger and Tackley tried the doors.

  All of them were locked.

  The headlamp glared. Kneeling on the driver’s side of the van, the mottled man slid two steel tools into a tarnished keyhole. Grinding metal echoed as he rocked the pick across the tumblers, and a rat ran out of a capsized car.

  The lock popped.

  Tackley replaced his instruments, shouldered his bag, and aimed his assault rifle.

  Bettinger opened the door and climbed into the van, which smelled like charcoal. Soot swirled in his tactical beam as he walked into the cargo area, kneeled, and grabbed the edge of the navy blue tarpaulin.

  Tackley materialized inside the front of the vehicle.

  The associates exchanged a nod, and together, they turned off their lights.

  Darkness filled the cargo van, excepting the lone red dot that shone upon the navy blue fabric.

  Bettinger pulled the tarpaulin.

  Fabric crinkled. The red dot disappeared and blinked back into existence on a remote surface that could not possibly be inside of the van.

  Breath held, the detective listened to the darkness. The only thing that he heard was the sound of his own pulse.

  “Okay,” whispered Bettinger.

  Something clicked, and the headlamp glared, illuminating the van and a roughly hewn tunnel that led from the garage through yards of stone and metal into the partially demolished courthouse. The only thing that was visible in the adjacent building was a beige wall, which happened to be the same exact color as the detective’s house in Arizona.

  Ignoring the pains that filled his body, he climbed into the opening and crawled through layers of concrete, brick, ventilation, wiring, insulation, and metal until he reached the far end of the passage, where he paused. Directly before him was a hallway that had beige wallpaper and brown carpeting.

  Bettinger leaned forward and looked around. To the left he saw pure darkness and to the right he saw the glo
w of incandescent lighting. The radiance spilled from underneath a closed door that stood at the end of the hallway.

  Carefully, the detective clambered out of the tunnel. Pain shot down his side and through his face, but he remained silent.

  A red dot appeared on the distant door, and suddenly, Tackley was standing beside Bettinger.

  The detective checked his ballistic mask, his bulletproof vest, and his silencer-equipped gun. Ready, he nodded.

  Bettinger and Tackley stalked forward, abreast, their quick but gentle footfalls muted by the carpet. The light that glowed beneath the closed door at the end of the hallway shone like a beacon.

  Soul music sounded from somewhere, and to the detective, it sounded like a memory from another lifetime. Underneath his tactical vest, his heart thudded against his hurt ribs.

  The distance between the associates and the sliver of light diminished to ninety feet.

  A dog barked.

  Bettinger paused, as did Tackley.

  The creature did not offer a second complaint.

  Cautiously, the policemen resumed their stealthy approach. Eighty feet lay between them and the door.

  Again, the animal barked.

  The policemen stopped.

  A second dog tossed basso woofs, and a third yipped, remonstratively.

  The time for stealth had ended.

  Bettinger and Tackley bolted toward the door at the end of the hall.

  Dogs barked, clamorously.

  The detective leveled his gun, and the mottled man put his red dot directly beside the brass handle.

  A shadow darkened the line underneath the door.

  The assault rifle spat white fire. Bullets chewed up the wood, and a woman shrieked.

  Bettinger’s blood went cold.

  The brass knob flew from its housing, and light spilled through the hole. Dogs barked and growled.

  Pain lanced the detective’s side as he ran, and the mottled man gained the lead.

  “Sebastian!” yelled the woman. “¡Ayúdame!”

  Tackley slammed his shoulder into the door, knocking it wide.

  Toenails clicked across the floorboards of a room that had pine green walls as Dobermans charged the intruder. White fire flashed, pulverizing snouts, tearing off jaws, and severing paws.

  Dogs squealed.

  “¡Mis hijos!” shrieked the woman.

  Bettinger reached the doorway of the pine green room, which appeared to be a waiting area. Sebastian’s petite sister Margarita was on her back, cradling a gory hand that had only two remaining fingers.

  Tackley stepped on the woman’s right ear, slammed her head to the ground, and fired shots across her face into the floorboards. Gunpowder scorched her eyes.

  Margarita wailed as Bettinger hastened toward the oak door that was the only other way into the waiting area. Knocking over a huge bag of dog food, he slammed his shoulder to the wall.

  Something clicked.

  Automatic gunfire rattled in the adjacent room. Bullets tore through the oak door, sending splinters everywhere. A brass placard that read JUDGE’S CHAMBER flew into the air like a frightened butterfly.

  Bettinger kept his shoulder to the wall, and Tackley crawled behind the front counter, dragging Margarita by her long black hair.

  A moment later, the woman shrieked.

  The gunfire stopped. A hole that was the size of a long-playing record sat in the middle of the door, surrounded by a constellation of smaller apertures.

  “Come out with your hands up,” the mottled man yelled, “or your sister gets a makeover.”

  “Tackley?” There was disbelief in Sebastian’s voice.

  Tackley wound a thick clump of Margarita’s hair around his hand, made a fist, and tore off a patch of her scalp.

  The woman’s shriek filled the room.

  “Here’s an answer,” said the mottled man, tossing the hirsute clump through the hole in the door.

  Bettinger focused his thoughts on his mission and his family. Nearby, a Doberman with two legs stepped on its own entrails as it tried to stand.

  “There’s some disturbing stuff on the news,” Sebastian remarked from the judge’s chamber. “Is Dominic okay? How about Perry and Huan? I’m very concerned about you guys.”

  “Come on out,” ordered Bettinger. “Now!”

  “Do I know you?”

  “One of your guys stabbed my wife and killed my son.”

  “Oops.”

  A bright red urge to run through the door and strangle the cripple filled the detective, but he restrained the impulse.

  Tackley tore another piece of scalp from Margarita’s bleeding skull, and tossed it through the hole.

  “¡Ayúdame!” yelled the agonized woman. “¡Por favor!”

  “Throw your gun through that hole right now or I’ll shoot her in the bladder,” said the mottled man.

  An assault rifle flew through the opening and clattered across the waiting room floor.

  “You’ve got ten seconds to come out.”

  “Melissa needs to unlock the gurney,” said Sebastian. “Give—”

  “Nine seconds.”

  Tackley rolled something across the floorboards that knocked against Bettinger’s left boot. Lying there was an unarmed stun grenade.

  “Eight.”

  The detective picked up the nonlethal explosive, pulled its pin, and held the spoon against the cylinder.

  “Seven.”

  The red dot landed directly beside the doorknob, and unseen gurney wheels squeaked.

  “We’re coming, little man,” said Sebastian.

  “Six.”

  “We’re coming, goddammit.”

  Bettinger let the spoon fall to the ground, extended his arm, and dropped the stun grenade through the hole in the door.

  “What the fuck was—”

  Light boomed, filling the judge’s chamber, and Tackley’s assault rifle spat fire.

  “Stop!” screamed Sebastian.

  Bullets devoured oak, and sparks shot from the doorknob until it flew into the room.

  Tackley released his trigger. In the quietude that followed, Bettinger prostrated himself behind the jamb, reached out, and shoved the door. The blasted panel swung away.

  Smoke billowed into the waiting area.

  The detective adjusted his ballistic mask and peered around the edge. Ten feet from the door and lying on a gurney was Sebastian Ramirez. His gaunt face, narrow chest, and stick-like legs had been seared red by the stun grenade, and his blue satin robe was in pieces. Pressed into the bottom of his chin was the barrel of the huge revolver that he held in his right hand.

  A red dot appeared on his elbow.

  “I know what you want to know,” announced Sebastian. His eyes were watery, their photoreceptors overstimulated by the stun grenade, but his voice was cool and remarkably even. “Let the girls go or I will take my own—”

  The assault rifle flashed.

  Sebastian’s elbow cracked. His revolver tilted forward, and he fired, blasting white fire across his own jaw and nose.

  Tackley shouted something that was not a word.

  Sebastian’s pistol fell to the ground, and quick footfalls sounded deep inside of the judge’s chamber.

  Bettinger raced through the doorway and kicked aside the gurney. In the far corner of the luxurious chamber stood a ladder that led to a hole in the ceiling. The bare legs of a woman in a rose-colored robe were near the top rung.

  Gun raised, the detective fired.

  Lead clanked against aluminum, knocking the ladder sideways, and Melissa Spring fell from the ceiling. Her back slammed against the floor.

  Bettinger stepped on her hand, which held a snub-nosed pistol, and pointed his semiautomatic at her face. Although the slim and pale brunette was twenty-three years old, she did not even look old enough to drive.

  “Drop the gun,” said the detective.

  The revolver tumbled from young woman’s fingers.

  “Who the fuck’re you?”
<
br />   The man wearing the devil mask claimed the relinquished weapon, but did not reply to her inquiry.

  “FBI?” suggested Melissa. “No way these local idiots could ever find us here.”

  “You get her?” Tackley asked from the waiting area.

  “I did.”

  A pair of steel handcuffs flew through the air, struck the carpet, and bounced.

  “And her legs,” the mottled man added as a second set landed beside the first.

  Melissa looked toward the door. Her face stiffened, and soon, tears filled her eyes. “Sebastian…?”

  Bettinger clapped handcuffs onto the stunned woman’s wrists and ankles. Massaging his hurt side, he stood upright and looked toward the door.

  A reddish-black crater had replaced the bottom half of Sebastian’s face. Three molars sat in the exposed roof of his mouth, directly above a white splinter that was all that remained of his jawbone. His death was imminent.

  Tackley dragged his bound and unconscious captive to the door by what remained of her bloody hair.

  Bettinger searched the judge’s chamber for what he needed, found the object in a plastic container, and carried it toward the gurney. A song that had played at his wedding emanated from the stereo, which was connected to a small solar generator.

  The mottled man pocketed his ski mask and looked at the blasted invalid. “So I’ll interview the women instead.”

  Tears sparkled in Sebastian’s eyes.

  Yellow teeth appeared between Tackley’s milk-white lips when he saw what it was that Bettinger held.

  “No!” yelled Melissa, struggling against her bonds. “No!”

  Tackley handcuffed Sebastian’s wrists to the gurney, seized his neck, and held him down.

  Bettinger discarded his devil mask and jammed the stoma of a colostomy bag into the disabled man’s mouth. “This is for my son and for my wife,” said the detective, squeezing the pouch like a bagpipe.

  Feces shot down Sebastian’s throat.

  “Stop!” yelled Melissa.

  The disabled man convulsed, shuddered, and vomited. Stool and bile refilled the colostomy bag, and Bettinger squeezed it again, sending the warm excreta back down his victim’s throat.

  Again, Sebastian retched. Brown fluid sprayed into the bag and squirted from his nostrils.