by David Levien
“Dean,” she said in voice that sounded tiny and far away. “They put him in charge of the house, and I didn’t see the others in the family much for a while, so it wasn’t so bad. I had to keep dating Dean a little to keep everything quiet. After another few months I would’ve had enough to disappear. But then this new asshole with a briefcase, Gary, started coming and checking the books all the time. He was some kind of an accountant, and he wanted to check on how the location was doing. I knew he knew when he started looking at me.”
“Looking at you?”
“He would come out of the back office and just look at me. Not like he wanted to fuck me, but like he knew. It made me cold, like he could count everything I had taken.”
“And then Aurelio started coming in?”
“Yeah, he started coming in. He started asking me out. I really liked him…” She paused and looked into Behr’s eyes. “I did, I really did.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, “go on.”
“Then I found out he was the fighter. Kenny, the youngest brother, used to stay ten feet away from him. He treated Auri like a god, but he was afraid of him. I saw it right away. Even Charlie kept his distance. I figured they couldn’t fuck with Auri, he was so tough, so we started dating.”
Behr nodded, starting to understand the exit plan she’d developed for herself.
“He didn’t know or he never would have done it,” she said quietly.
“Done what?”
“I rigged him for a win. A big one. When he hit he was so excited. We went out to celebrate, and that’s when I told him about the Schlegels and my problem.”
“How’d he react?”
“He was mad. So mad. At first. He wanted to go bust them up. Especially Dean. But I calmed him down… and he gave me the money. The way it worked out, I didn’t have to skim anymore- paying Aurelio on a win was like paying myself, and no one would know it… not even him.”
“So you did it again,” Behr said, now asking questions the way an investigator should the first time: basically knowing the answer already.
“Yes.”
“He was in love with you.”
“I think so. He said he was.”
“And you?”
“It was still early.”
“So you were just playing him.”
“No. He was special. We had good times together.”
Behr stared at her, trying his best to read what was going on behind her eyes. They might as well have been the Dead Sea Scrolls for all he could make of them. “Then what? He moved you here so they couldn’t find you?”
“Yes.”
“And what, the Schlegels figured it out, caught up with him, and killed him?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What do you mean you don’t know!” Behr shouted, jumping up from the couch and causing her to cower back.
“I don’t, I swear it. I wasn’t there!” she said.
“What did you think when you found out what happened to him?”
“I was afraid. I thought… I knew.” She put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. If she was crying, Behr couldn’t hear it.
“You’re going to be a witness,” Behr stated.
“I can’t be a witness,” she said into her palms.
“You can. You’ll see.”
“No,” she said, pointing her chin up at him in defiance, her eyes dry.
“Don’t go anywhere. I have to go take care of some things. I’ll be briefing the police. But I’ll be back and I don’t want to have to go looking for you. But you know I will, and you know I’ll find you.”
She nodded. “Can’t you… let me out of it? I’d do anything to stay out of it.”
Behr looked at her. “Is that right?”
“Yes. I know… how to do things… Give me a chance.”
Behr took her in, sitting there. He found himself feeling for her. She’d gotten herself all jammed up. She only had herself to blame, but she couldn’t have known the kind of animals she was dealing with.
“Like I said, stick around.” This time he said it with less conviction.
She nodded, sadly, and then quietly began to weep. She tried to hold it back, but the tears welled up in those black eyes of hers and spilled down her cheeks. “If it wasn’t for me, Auri wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”
Behr felt his throat thicken. They’d both lost Aurelio, they were bonded in that, and he knew how she felt. He had an impulse to reach out for her, to give her some comfort and tell her it would be all right.
He was about to, when he suddenly felt like he was watching the moment from above the room, and in that instant he saw it for what it was. She was gaming him. She’d laid out the sexual suggestion, and when that hadn’t worked, came over the top with the tears. And dupe that he was, he’d almost gone for it.
“Stick around,” Behr said, his voice cold. “I’m not your mark.”
She looked up at him, pushed a strand of hair back, and wiped a cheek. The tears were done.
“I see that,” she said. Her voice was low and quiet, but colder than his nonetheless.
FORTY
Charlie Schlegel didn’t give two loose shits about the Bully B-B-Q or whether their dogs took any honors. No, he was here for business, not for fun this time. He and Kenny stood by a table gnawing on the half-dozen corn dogs they’d bought, dropping pieces for their brindles, Mr. Blonde and Clarence. As always, Kenny couldn’t let it go at that. He got down on his knees and started feeding Clarence a corn dog out of his mouth.
“Come on, boy,” Kenny said, “grrr.” The dog took the meat, lapping saliva all over Kenny’s face. But Kenny kept the stick clenched between his teeth, and the dog clamped down on the other end. Then Kenny and Clarence commenced a vicious tug-of-war. “Let’s go, Clarence,” Kenny urged between gritted teeth. The dog’s muscles rippled under his shining coat as he hunched his shoulders and pulled.
“Get up, you dipshit,” Charlie said. He didn’t listen, and Charlie gave Kenny a kick to the ribs. “Come on, knock it off.” Kenny transferred the stick from his mouth to his hand, then pushed Clarence’s nose back until he let up on the stick.
“What, man?” Kenny said.
“The point’s gonna hurt his mouth,” Charlie answered.
“Nah. His mouth is like leather.”
“Nah. His mouth is soft.”
“Whatever,” Kenny said, dusting himself off.
“There they are.” Charlie pointed. Coming across the tented area, with a measly blue bull pup on a thick leash, were Peanut and Nixie.
Charlie handed off the leashes to Kenny and walked toward them, Kenny following. When the two groups came together, the dogs greeted each other with friendly curiosity, sniffing and circling. The men weren’t so civil.
“What is that thing, a squirrel on a leash?” Kenny asked, for the moment able to keep the smirk off his face.
“Man, shut the fuck up. That’s a pedigree dog,” Peanut said, taking the bait. Nixie’s narrowed eyes just went deader than they’d been in the first place.
Kenny shook his head. “If you bought that, you got took. Hope you used food stamps.”
“What about your mangy-ass mutts?”
“No, these beauties are pure class,” Kenny said. And now the smirk followed. Nixie stepped forward and squared with Kenny, who stuck his chest out and went eye to eye. He also let the leashes drop from his hand and Clarence and Mr. Blonde took the opportunity to light out across the tent.
Charlie shoved Kenny in the shoulder, breaking the stare-down. “Get the fucking dogs, would you?” Kenny shook his head and walked off after them.
“You pricks finally ready to do this?” Charlie asked. Peanut nodded and slid a wad of money up from his pants pocket so it was just visible.
A lot of barking and an angry “Tend your damn dogs!” reached Charlie from the owners’ pens. In another few minutes he’d be dealing with a chewed-up dog thanks to Mr. Blonde or Clarence, or Kenny beating the shit out of some
owner or enthusiast.
“Good,” Charlie said, “let’s put the dogs up and figure a place to meet.”
Knute Bohgen hated being right. And that was the thing of it-he usually was. He thought Terry’s pea-shake play sounded nuts when he’d first heard it, but then he thought maybe shit had changed while he was inside and he was out of step, and then he had gotten swept up in the ambition, so he went with it. Now they had a nice mess on their laps. Knute lived in the back unit of a two-family house, but he was currently in the front kitchen fixing a peanut butter sandwich. The couple that usually lived in the unit had gone away for the rest of the summer after the Brickyard 400, so Knute had let himself in and had the run of the place. He preferred it to his own, which was an under-furnished rathole, and wondered what he was going to do when the couple got back. He crossed to a recliner that was in front of a thirty-six-inch flat-screen. He supposed he could get some of his own stuff, but he wasn’t particularly flush at the moment-especially after last night. That little pecker Kenny had busted him out in the poker game. Knute thought he’d caught the kid with his hand in the cookie jar raising from the small blind, and went all in pre-flop with a wired pair of fours, but Kenny called and showed a pair of Kokomos that stood up when no one improved. The rest of them had howled when he lost his three hundred. He would have paid double that to skip the ribbing. He shouldn’t have even been playing, drunk and distracted as he was with today’s task-booking the Chicago guys as soon as Terry got his ass here.
Knute stopped chewing a few minutes later when he heard tires on gravel outside. Then came a car horn and he exited out the front door. Terry was there by the side door behind the wheel of his Charger, a scowl knotted on his face.
“Gimme some of that,” Terry said absently as Knute climbed into the passenger seat. Knute tore the remaining half of the peanut butter sandwich in two and handed a piece over.
“I thought you live in back,” Terry said.
“I do.”
“Chalky,” Terry remarked of the sandwich.
“It’s all they had,” Knute responded. Terry gave him a quizzical glance but didn’t say anything. “Did you meet Camp?” he wondered, though based on the grimace Terry was sporting, he had a pretty good idea of the answer.
“We’ve got issues there.”
“You ready to do this thing then?” Knute asked.
Terry nodded. Knute pulled out a prepaid cell and dialed a number he had memorized. It rang several times. Knute felt Terry’s eyes scanning his face, but he kept his gaze forward. Finally, the ringing stopped.
“Who’s this?” a dry, granular voice asked.
“Knute from down south,” Knute said. He could hear the noise of plates and glasses clinking in the background, and the sound of a televised baseball game. “This Bobby B.?”
“You got me. Indy Newt?”
“Right. What’re you doing?”
“Watching the Cubbies. They were in first place, looking like they were gonna get something done post-season, but now… The fuck’re you doing?”
“Hold on,” Knute said, extending the phone, which Terry took.
“Hey man,” Terry said, “we have a complication from that other piece of work.”
“This T?” Bobby asked.
“Yes, it is.” A moment’s angry silence passed.
“What kind of fucking problem?” Brodax demanded, his voice charged and not so low that Knute couldn’t hear it bleed out of the phone.
“A cleanup problem.”
Silence reigned on the line.
“Some asshole’s been poking around,” Terry went on.
“Law enforcement?” Brodax asked.
“He has that smell.” There was a breath; Terry wasn’t happy about what came next. “He turned up-someone turned up- that… package down by the river.”
“And now you want me to make another package,” Brodax volunteered.
“Something like that,” Terry said.
She’d finally managed to stop the darned waterworks. In the end, she hadn’t been able to go inside the clinic and do what she’d planned. She got herself together and drove Lynn home, and the smile her friend had given when she’d climbed out of the car made her sure she’d done the right thing. For the moment anyway. But Susan needed to see Frank. Not just to talk to him, but to look into his eyes. They’d been apart too much lately, he on his cases, she with her situation, and whether this break was for good or not, they needed to hash things out. She’d suddenly understood with clarity what was at issue between them. She’d gotten a tiny taste of it outside of that clinic, and it was enough to make her shudder. It should’ve been pretty obvious considering what he’d had and lost in his life. Deep down she’d known it from the moment she’d told him the news and things had started crumbling between them, but she’d been unable to do anything but take it personally. She had her own baggage, she supposed. Hey, it was only fair. But now a phone call wasn’t going to do it, so she headed to his place. If she was going to have his kid, to raise it with him or without him, there was a lot to talk about.
She called on her way, just to see if he was home, and had gotten his voice mail. It didn’t dissuade her, though. She figured she’d find him there, not answering his phone, or would just wait until he arrived. She hoped it wouldn’t be long, but she had her key, so if he truly wasn’t home she’d rest until he showed up.
When she reached his place, she glanced toward the parking area in the back and didn’t see his car. She parked on the street, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. Her key was in the lock when she felt a creeping sensation and stopped. Her neck felt frozen, unable to turn her head so she could look to confirm what she knew in her bones: someone was watching her. They’re here for Frank. It echoed in her head. Her car seemed miles away back down on the street, a distance that was suddenly too great to traverse. She squeezed the doorknob, wondering what awaited her on the other side. Still, it was the only choice now. She forced herself to turn the lock and open the door. She swung the door open, entered, closed it behind her, and turned the lock.
The place felt empty. But her heart was pounding now and she didn’t know if she could trust herself.
“Frank?” she called out. There was no answer. Total stillness. Only the low hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. Should I call the police? She tried to imagine what she’d say-that she felt like someone was watching her sort of boyfriend’s house, send a SWAT team? Maybe she was just panicking. Maybe she was just hormonal. She went down to her knees and peered out the bottom of the front window between the blinds. She could see the fenders of several cars on the street, but nothing else. She sat back against the wall and looked at the locked gun cabinet. She could smash the glass and grab a shotgun, but it had been fifteen years since she’d fired one-shooting a few clays with her dad-and didn’t know if she could even do it, much less find the right ammunition and load it. Frank had offered to teach her many times, but she’d always said no. The idea of handling guns was unpleasant and ugly to her, but she wished she had taken him up on it now. There was one thing she needed to do, she realized, before she did anything else: she knew she had to check the place to make sure she was alone.
Convenience stores. It was a silly thing, but they were what Knute loved. And he loved everything about them. The fluorescent lighting, the bad music, the linoleum floors, all the choices-that was freedom to him now. Pepsi, Mountain Dew, slushies, Little Debbie Marshmallow Pies, Twizzlers, BBQ-flavored Fritos, jerky snacks, fifteen brands of beer, and porno mags-all the shit he couldn’t get when he was inside, at least without a major effort and expense, and definitely not on his own timetable. He had to take a hell of a squirt right now courtesy of the Big Gulp he was sucking on. Dr Pepper, ah the good doctor. Together with a bag of Funyuns it was a gourmet junk-food pairing. When they thought about the possibility of going back and doing another stretch, most guys who’ve been inside can’t face the prospect of no women. That was a tough one for sure, but it would
be harder still living without the ability to visit a Kwik Mart or 7-Eleven whenever the hell he damn well pleased.
It wasn’t really a question anyway. “Not going back” is what all the cons say in the movies, Knute thought. But “can’t go back” is the truth. He died some in prison in Michigan City, his body just didn’t catch on. But if he went back, it surely would. And if he kept on following blindly behind Terry and those dumb-ass dreams of grandeur, that was exactly where he was headed. Back. Cold fucking cement, surrounding him like a coffin. A narrow, opaque slice of window that only hinted at the light of day. Icy-blooded evil bastards around him on every side. Terry was a badass-as bad a man as he’d seen who hadn’t been locked down-but Camp Doray not showing had rattled him. Terry tried not to show it, but Knute knew him too well. Now the man was ready to admit what Knute had already figured: it was time to cut losses. He was glad, real glad, when Terry had gotten him to bring the Chicago guys back in the mix. They were expensive, but worth it-especially for this Behr motherfucker. What Knute had learned about him-how he’d managed to run shit down and end up at their door, how he’d scrapped with Kenny and Charlie at the same time and was still walking-well, that told Knute he was serious business. And that’s what those Chicago guys were for. Knute knew plenty about hurting and killing, and about the removing when it was all done, but even he had learned volumes watching those guys work.
Now, as long as Terry was footing the bill, Knute was happy for them to come back and make their troubles go away. He half wished they wouldn’t stop with Frank Behr, but that they’d go on and button up Fat Larry, too. Hell, maybe Knute would take care of that himself. Either way he was happy to sit on Behr for the time being, to clock his comings and goings and hand him over when Chicago came to town. Then a car rolled up and a tall blonde with a bouncy ponytail bopped out and caught his attention. He turned down the Scorpions disc that was playing in the car and hit bottom on the Big Gulp as he watched her climb the steps to Behr’s unit. He’d already decided that Behr wasn’t home by taking a good look around and had settled in to wait, but this was an added bonus. It meant Behr might be coming home soon, maybe for a little afternoon delight-that sure wouldn’t be delightful for long.
