Mean Business on North Ganson Street
Page 33
* * *
In May, David Rubinstein sent an e-mail to Alyssa in which he requested pieces for an upcoming show that would feature her and only one other artist. The gallery owner stated that he was only interested in new works.
Conflicted by the opportunity, the woman thought upon what she should paint, if anything. Two weeks of desultory efforts resulted in a pile of abandoned canvases, several of which she had ripped apart in fits of anger.
Lying abed in the room where Karen had been conceived, the couple conversed. Bettinger raised the subject of paintings and listened to Alyssa talk about how hard it was to create art when their son was dead and their daughter was a stranger.
“Have you tried to put some of what happened in your work?” the detective asked the pile of curls that pressed against his bare chest.
“I don’t want to do pieces like that—be identified as a victim. I can’t stand that ‘poor me’ shit.”
“You’re not that kind of artist—or person—but you’re angry. Maybe you should put that on the canvas.”
“Anger?”
“About what happened to our kids. To you. The way some critics talk about your eye and Gordon like they’re your gimmicks.”
“Fuck them.”
“Say that with your brush.”
“Like art therapy?”
“Like that. Don’t come up with a concept, just trust in your techniques, which are fantastic, and let it out.”
Bettinger wanted—and perhaps needed—to see paintings like these.
Alyssa kissed his left pectoral muscle. “I’ll try.”
A few minutes later, the painter returned to her workshop.
Bettinger opened up a novel, reclined, and read about some cowboys who were far less intelligent than the horses upon which they sat. A couple of chapters galloped him to the edge of consciousness, where he slotted a bookmark, yawned, and switched off the light.
At three in the morning, the detective was drawn from his nightmare by warm kisses upon his neck and the caress of fingertips along his engorged phallus. Alyssa turned on the bedside lamp, and in its amber radiance, the couple made love.
* * *
Discrete track lighting shone upon the twenty-two new paintings that adorned the exposed brick walls of the David Rubinstein Gallery of Chicago. Admiring these works, Bettinger buttoned the jacket of his brown suit and walked toward the bar. Tonight was the public opening of Alyssa Bright’s third exhibition, and her very first as a solo artist. The new series of oil paintings, entitled Excisions, was dark, but not as oppressive as its predecessor, Exsanguination, which the detective appreciated, but had been unable to look at without feeling ill.
“Three glasses of champagne, please.”
“Certainly, Mr. Bright,” said the narrow white woman who was the bartender. She was not the first person to give Bettinger his wife’s last name, and the proud husband offered the server a grin rather than a correction.
Three crystal flutes were expertly arranged on the silver linen and filled with champagne.
“Thank you,” remarked the detective, setting a bill upon the table.
“Sir … you don’t need to tip.”
“Mr. Bright’s a big spender.”
Bettinger claimed the celebratory fluids and turned away from the table. The monetary yield from the second exhibition greatly exceeded what the detective made in a year, and although he and his wife did not consider themselves wealthy, they could now afford luxuries that had previously been out of their reach.
Carrying the bubbling flutes, Bettinger neared David Rubinstein and Alyssa. The forty-seven-year-old woman wore a green, single-strap dress, a sparkling smile, and glasses that had one black lens. Behind her bare left shoulder was a painting of a vaguely demonic face that had been rendered in iridescent oils and slashed with a box cutter.
The detective handed drinks to his wife and the pristine gallery owner. “I look forward to another very successful show.”
“Hopefully,” said the painter.
“Definitely.”
“Listen to your husband, my dear, or I’ll have him muzzle you,” remarked David Rubinstein, whose social manner and sexual preference could be described with the same three-letter word. “Unless he does that already…?”
“I’m an authority figure,” said Bettinger.
The rheumy old man who lived inside of Alyssa’s chest snickered.
There was no sound in the world that the detective enjoyed as much as his wife’s hideous laughter.
Raising a glass, Bettinger said, “To Alyssa Bright’s third and most successful exhibition.”
The painter nodded. “Deal.”
Crystal clinked, and soon, the trio rolled champagne into their curved mouths.
A cell phone buzzed inside of the detective’s pocket, but he ignored the interruption and let the call go to voice mail.
Two Asian women who were either journalists or admirers or both approached Alyssa, and Bettinger took his wife’s glass and departed so that the coming conversation would not be altered by his presence. Tonight was her night.
People with loud voices, louder perfume, and very expensive sweaters came through the front door as Bettinger returned the flutes to the bar and found a quiet corner. There, he removed his cell phone and looked at the display, which showed the name “Williams, Dominic.” The detective had not spoken to the big fellow since the day of the blizzard.
Irked, Bettinger put the receiver to his ear and listened to the message.
“It’s Dominic. Solved the Elaine James case if you wanna hear.”
The line went dead.
On more than a few occasions, the detective had pondered the abandoned case, and although he was loath to speak to his former partner, it seemed that one quick phone call would allow him to forever excise the odious matter from his mind.
“Christ’s uncle.”
Bettinger returned to Alyssa, placed a kiss upon her cheek, turned away, opened the front door, and entered the air-conditioned walkway of the luxury mall that housed the gallery. Sitting on a bench, he thumbed a connection and put the receiver to his ear.
“Hey,” said Dominic.
“What happened?”
“Me and Brian—my new partner—started with them files you pulled—the ones for the other dead hookers. We went to the scenes, checked ’em out, and found tripod marks like you did on Ganson. But when we pulled samples from the bodies, there was different DNA in each of ’em.
“So it’s multiple niggas killin’ hookers and fuckin’ them in front of cameras—like a new trend or somethin’.” It sounded like the big fellow was grinning. “You wanna take a guess what’s goin’ on here?”
All of the anger that Bettinger had felt toward his partner and Tackley and the city of Victory and himself resurfaced. “I want this conversation to end as quickly as possible and have no sequel.”
“Grouchy-ass nigga. Sure don’t sound like that Arizona air’s doin’ you any good.”
“I don’t have long.”
“So there’s a gang called the Angels—they’ve been around a long, long time, runnin’ operations. Stealthy. They used to have initiations like liftin’ a car or takin’ a dealer’s stash or killin’ a guy in another gang, but this here’s what they got now.”
Bettinger was confused. “What is?”
“This Elaine James situation. It’s what a young nigga’s gotta do to get in with the Angels and prove his loyalty. Grab a hooker from a rival operation, kill her, and videotape himself fuckin’ the body—showin’ his face and sayin’ his name to the camera while he’s doin’ it. Once he makes this tape, he gives it to the head guy in the Angels, and that movie’s like collateral—insurance that’ll guarantee the young guy stays loyal for life.”
The detective felt ill. “Fucking Christ.”
“Yeah.”
A slim and pretty redhead who looked like a fashion model walked past the bench, holding an infant inside of a thickly padded harness.
“Victory isn’t a place for women,” said Bettinger.
“It ain’t.”
“You get the guys?”
“Indelicately.”
The Elaine James case was closed, and this call had served its purpose. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You was involved—started the whole thing off. Who knows what you could do if you was still here…?”
“I’ll pretend that question’s rhetorical.”
“How’s that desk job treatin’ you?” Dominic’s voice had a mocking tone. “Got all them pencils lined up nice and correct?”
“I’m with my wife right now, and she’s happy.”
Bettinger thumbed the disconnect button.
ALSO BY S. CRAIG ZAHLER
A Congregation of Jackals
Wraiths of the Broken Land
Corpus Chrome, Inc.
About the Author
S. Craig Zahler’s debut Western novel, A Congregation of Jackals, was nominated for both the Peacemaker and the Spur awards. His Western screenplay The Brigands of Rattleborge garnered him a three-picture deal at Warner Bros., and his crime script The Big Stone Grid is now at Sony Pictures. In 2011, a script that he wrote in the nineties became the movie Asylum Blackout, which was picked up by IFC Films after a couple of people fainted at its Toronto premiere. In spring 2013, his brutal Western novel Wraiths of the Broken Land was published by Raw Dog Screaming Press, who months later published his science fiction book Corpus Chrome, Inc. He is half of the epic metal band Realmbuilder (whose three albums have been released by I Hate Records of Sweden) and lives in New York City.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
MEAN BUSINESS ON NORTH GRANSON STREET. Copyright © 2014 by Steven Craig Zahler. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photographs: badge © Don Farrall and Tetra Images/Getty Images; snow © rvika; blood © Bartosz Zakrzewski/Shutterstock.com
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05220-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5351-5 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466853515
First Edition: October 2014