City of the Sun fb-1

by David Levien

  “What do you want me to say? Cute kid.”

  Behr stuffed Mintz into the chair back, moved around behind him, and pinned his arms. He looked to Paul.

  “Give him one.”

  Paul ’ s scrotum tightened and his bladder threatened to release. He knew what Behr was asking but couldn ’ t believe it.

  “Hold up. Are we sure he even knew Jamie?” The situation felt all wrong to Paul, like he was on some insane quest and Behr had roped him into meting out punishment on a guy who ’ d hurt a cop and had nothing to do with him.

  Then Paul flashed on his one fight, the only time he had hit a man in anger. It was back in college. Senior year. He and his friends were juiced up on pitchers of Milwaukee ’ s Best. They were at the Spaghetti Bender off Washtenaw, a place Carol liked to go just after they ’ d started dating. A guy from the football fraternity had touched Carol ’ s hair as he walked toward the men ’ s room. The guy ran his hand down her blond ponytail before continuing on his way. It was a proprietary gesture that caused Paul to go white-hot with anger. Despite his size, the guy never made it to the john. Paul clocked him in the side of the jaw and followed him, swinging, as he went down. He landed two or three more clean punches, then he was pulled off by the guy ’ s friends and his own. They all scraped and tussled before being thrown out by bouncers and braced by the local authorities. His friends started calling him “Clubber,” after Mr. T ’ s character in one of the Rocky movies, and Paul had felt guilty for what he ’ d done for a long time.

  Behr ’ s words cut through his thoughts.

  “This guy ’ s done unspeakable shit. Whatever he gets he deserves.” Behr wrestled the smaller man up out of the chair and held him. Paul stood.

  Nothing smells like a jail, Behr thought when they ’ d entered — floor wax, bad cafeteria food, sweat, human filth, and hate. He ’ d been wondering if bringing Paul Gabriel there had been his biggest mistake to date. Although the man had showed some nerve so far, he had no experience in these matters or places. Or people. The second Rooster Mintz entered the interview room Behr ’ s old cop radar blipped and bleeped and bonged. The little grease ball was radioactive with bad energy. He seemed to be riding high on the respect that cop killers and cop hurters received in the joint. One look told Behr that the man in front of him lived in a world of foul darkness, and that beating the female officer nearly to death wasn ’ t the ends or depths of what he ’ d done.

  Behr had hoped the unexpectedness and intensity of the father of a victim would help extract information from Mintz in a way no organized professional pressure might. At the least, Paul deserved a moment of indirect payback. Behr ’ s wisdom, or lack of it, was about to be seen. Paul got up from his chair and moved awkwardly, his arms stiff, and threw a tentative right that landed with a clop to the left side of Rooster ’ s chin.

  “Not the face,” Behr corrected, and watched with growing concern as Paul redirected his attack to the body, the punches brittle and weak. He swung for a bit, to no effect, then stepped back, panting. Mintz took the shots no problem and seemed to be smirking. Paul was nervous, afraid, and Behr knew well what fear did to punchers: It sapped them of power. It made them feeble. Behr had seen it before many times, in overworked cops on high-pressure cases who suddenly began to function at a quarter of their capacity and then started to fail in important ways. He ’ d seen it in the ring, at the Police Firefighter Smokers. Strong, fit men who were suddenly unable to stop their opponents even when landing clean shots, while their respective departments cheered rabidly for them. He ’ d felt it in the ring himself, at the same smokers, but had managed to overcome it and stop the Kelly brothers two years running, one on cuts, one by clean knockout. Now Behr grew concerned. They weren ’ t getting to Mintz, and it would soon ruin their play. He was tempted to spin the con around and chop into him personally. He certainly had enough bad feeling for the task. He didn ’ t want to, though. It wasn ’ t how he figured they would succeed.

  “Drop your shoulders…see your son…and hit this bastard,” Behr said sternly.

  Paul ’ s eyes went distant. He swallowed a gout of air, rolled his shoulders, and waded in close. Now his blows came with more fluidity. He punched with controlled intent, with anger so old and compressed it didn ’ t flame but rather glowed like burning coal. Paul stayed with it as if he wanted to carve through Rooster ’ s abdomen and tear out his organs, which is exactly how it ’ s supposed to be done. Behr felt the man in his arms, who had been loose and active in his defensive posture at first, go tight with pain and then, finally, start to sag with damage. Behr could see that the fury had started to flow in Paul and it just kept flowing.

  I can take this, ran through Rooster ’ s head, all damn day. It was a stroke of luck that the big fucker was just holding him and not beating on him. Hells, I ’ m lucky, he mused as the other guy ’ s peashooter rights and lefts rattled off his stone abs. Always been lucky. It didn ’ t look good for a minute there, when he ’ d walked in and Big Fucker had jumped up on him. He recognized them from Sebo ’ s, and then the big one had looked clean through him and fixed him with a glare of hate that made his guts slide. He felt the man ’ s power when he stretched the headphone cord across his larynx and felt it again when the man ’ s viselike hands pinned back his arms, fingers of iron squashing his biceps and cranking down on his brachial nerves. If that guy had started in with the trimming, it might ’ ve been trouble, but this shit he could handle. He took a moment to decide who they were and what they had on him. He ’ d thought they were cops, and there was something vaguely copish about them, but the way they were going on about other things and beating on him had him confused. As far as the picture went, there was something familiar about the kid in the shot — he looked like every kid he ’ d ever worked. And he looked like none of ’ em in the same way. How the hell was he supposed to remember? They were all just bodies once he was in the room. He didn ’ t bother trying to keep track. And even if he did remember, he sure wouldn ’ t tell them about it. He wasn ’ t here to make the world some better place. Nuh-uh. The world had taken a big shit on him and the way he felt about it was: Pass it on.

  John B. Good stepped back off him, winded already, and it was only Rooster ’ s experience that kept him from smiling outright. He didn ’ t want to inspire them, for god ’ s sake. Then Big Fucker started coaching his buddy and things went south. B. Good rolled his shoulders like a cruiserweight when he came back in for round two. The next punches were different. The man had his weight planted and his arms were firing like pistons. Rooster felt his obliques begin to cave, and the blows started to eat him up, and then panic flooded in. He felt the breath get knocked out of him. He fought to keep down his peas and carrots. He found himself wishing it was over, silently crying out for it to Stop, just Fucking stop. But it didn ’ t stop. His abs failed him. They gave out like hammered copper. The punches were landing straight on his liver and spleen now. The blood rushed from his head and he got dizzy. If Big Fucker wasn ’ t holding him, he ’ d be weaving and staggering around the room. He ’ d give ’ em what they wanted now, whatever he had, which was nothing, if they ’ d just ask. Just please fucking ask. But they weren ’ t asking. He felt the foamy remnants of his breakfast shoot out of the corners of his mouth and his legs started to go. He sagged in the big man ’ s arms and then, Thank fucking Christ, it ended.

  “Okay,” Behr said, and deposited what was left of Mintz in his chair. Black bile was running out of the guy ’ s mouth and he wasn ’ t even trying to wipe it away. Behr was tempted to allow the beating to go on until there was a knock on the door, let Mintz go to the hospital after they left, but he saw how spent Paul was. He didn ’ t want his partner passing out in the room, and he had questions to get to.

  Mintz retched, two, then three times, but they were just spasms and he managed to hold his mud. Now Behr made the picture of Jamie reappear. Mintz looked at it and just shook his head weakly.

  “You ’ re not protecting anything. We kno
w who you are. We know your business.”

  “I don ’ t…” Mintz ’ s head bobbed slightly in surrender. “I don ’ t…”

  “We know about you and your old buddy Tad Ford.” Behr saw Mintz ’ s Adam ’ s apple bob and constrict. Son of a bitch, he thought, he ’ s got the dirt on Ford ’ s killing.

  “We don ’ t give a crap about that. We want to know about the kids. This boy.” Behr pounded Jamie ’ s photo with his index finger. “Do you know him?”

  “I don ’ t know” came the answer.

  “You ’ ll give or I ’ m going next.” Behr saw blank fear shoot across Mintz ’ s face.

  “What are you fucking with me for? Huh?” Mintz asked, his voice a high whine. He was crying. His tears and snot were mixing with the bile and sweat on his face, making him a total mess. There was a sharp knock on the door. Time was up.

  “Hold that door, Paul,” Behr snarled, glad to see Paul jump up and head for it. “I know you break down these kids so they make for better companions. Now tell me something I can use or you ’ ll never leave this room.” Behr shot his hand out, grabbed Mintz around the throat, and squeezed. The sounds of a key in the lock and a hand on the knob could be heard. Paul gripped the knob, holding it still. Behr throttled Mintz as if he ’ d kill him and thought maybe he would.

  “What the fuck am I? I never kept track of what I was doing. You want the guy who matters, right?” Mintz croaked. “You want Riggi. Oscar Riggi.”

  The knocks had turned to banging. Paul looked back to Behr, who nodded. Paul stepped away from the door and it opened. Silva was standing there, a pissed-off look on his face.

  “It’s time, goddamnit.”

  Behr let go of the man ’ s throat, took out a notebook, and wrote down the name, doing his best to control a hand that trembled with adrenaline and disgust.

  They all stood, looking around uncomfortably. Rooster was recuffed and they exited the room single file. Waiting in the hall was the room ’ s next occupant, a bald middle-aged lawyer holding a large briefcase. The interview room was soundproof, but the lawyer gave them a knowing look. The ugliness that had just occurred inside poured out into the hall, as palpable as a shit-house odor.

  Being led down the corridor was the lawyer ’ s client, a big, strong black man with a shaved dome. Behr recognized him. Earl Powers. He could put a hand to whatever a buyer wanted, which was often guns. He was Terry Cottrell ’ s friend.

  “Earl,” he said in greeting.

  “What you doing down here, Behr?” Earl nodded.

  Mintz turned back as he was half led, half carried away. “That ’ s your name? Behr? I ’ m gonna sue your fucking ass.”

  “You know this bastard?” Behr said to Earl. “The guy ’ guls kids.” Behr spoke in a moment of rash anger, sentencing Rooster Mintz with his words.

  Powers ’ s face changed. His eyes enlarged in their sockets with fury. Anyone who ’ d been inside, as Earl Powers had, knew the term. It came from Italian, from fungulo, and it meant to take someone by force.

  “Bullshit,” Mintz screamed, more animal than man, because he knew how child rapers were treated inside, and now he was branded. He was still screaming his denials as he was prodded on down the hall by the guard and they turned the corner out of sight.

  Behr and Paul left the jail. Troy Silva at County sure didn’t owe him anymore.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The blond wood grain of the floor at Samadhi Yoga Center was close to Carol ’ s face as she lay on her stomach and then arched up into bhujangasana, cobra pose. The sound of Indian music was in the air, harmonium, finger cymbals, and sitar, in addition to the faint traces of sandalwood incense. She dreaded what came next and struggled not to anticipate, but to remain in the moment. The instructor ’ s voice came, soothing, encouraging, and directed the class through downward dog and into pigeon pose. Carol placed her right leg in front of, and folded beneath, her and puffed her chest out like a bird. She held for a moment before folding over toward the floor and opening her hips. An advanced student in front of her moved into eka pada rajakapotasana, one-legged king pigeon pose, the sole of her rear foot bending up to touch the back of her head. Carol couldn ’ t imagine the flexibility required to do that when the preparatory position she was in already flooded her body with something approximating searing pain. The ancient wounds of her pelvis, which had spread wide to birth Jamie, began to open.

  She had taken up yoga two years earlier and had hardly been a devoted student, stopping entirely when Jamie disappeared, until a few months back when she was standing in line at a supermarket checkout and saw a yoga magazine featuring a model in an extended side-angle pose. The image spoke to her heart and called her back to the mat. Now she practiced five days a week and had felt physical stability slowly returning to her through the motion and focused breathing. At first, for many months, and even now, the stilling of the mind, the quiet, was terrifying for her. Memories of sounds and images, of Jamie ’ s face, his smile and laugh, would launch in her mind when she was completely defenseless in the midst of class. The agony was profound. Where her emotional nerves had once been dead, they had begun to spike with sensation. She had, one moment and one breath at a time, found a way to not give up. She continued to attend class, unrolling her mat and lying down before it began, participating silently, and then rolling up her mat without saying a word to fellow students or the teacher. She had made progress, but still there were obstacles in the way of her body ’ s opening and she wondered if she ’ d ever develop the confidence and ability others in the class had. The teacher ’ s voice came again, urging them.

  “Breathe deeply and soften your edges to the vast sea of divine grace around you.”

  Carol glanced left, trying to empty her mind, and saw the large brass Dancing Shiva statue. The god stood under the flaming arch, with his right foot resting on the back of a dwarfish figure that personified illusion and ignorance. She had learned this all at a meditation seminar months ago. Shiva had two sets of arms, and in one of his right hands was the small drum on which he beat out the rhythm of the universe and creation, while the flame in one of his left hands represented the burning, the destruction and purification, of all things worldly and temporal.

  She looked up toward the god ’ s head, focused on his third eye, in the middle of his forehead, center of omniscience, and suddenly her psoas muscles, then lower back and hamstrings, released and opened. What felt like a wave of warm liquid poured through her hips. Her torso settled flat and she melted into the floor, going further than she ’ d imagined possible. Her every cell spoke to her now as she felt an onrushing of deep emotion breaking free from her hips. The pain of childbirth, every sickness, fear, and disappointment Jamie had faced in his life, washed over her. And then a great soaring of joy in her motherhood, the agony of her loss, it all seemed to spring forth from the seat of her being. Overwhelmed, she felt her stomach seize up and she began to sob quietly. She ’ d heard that this emotion-body connection was possible in deep practice but hadn ’ t imagined she would ever find herself weeping in class. But finally the tender pain was of a magnitude that she could not, did not even want to, stand in the way of any longer. It all just flowed.

  Paul knew he ’ d run into Carol if he went home to change. It was unfortunate, but he had to. He had popped sweat the moment he and Behr had entered the jail and was drenched, sodden, by the time they ’ d left. He needed to wash off the filth of the day, and Behr had to go run down information on the name they ’ d gotten before they ’ d meet up again to go talk to this Oscar Riggi. He flexed his swollen hands and rolled his wrists. He ’ d learned some things about hitting a man that day that he wouldn ’ t soon forget. Distance was the enemy. Short punches, the way. He felt he was wearing stiff gloves, several sizes too small, so sore were his wrists and hands now. Wrong as it may have been, landing the blows had brought a measure of satisfaction. He ’ d have to thank Behr for that.

  Carol got back from her class around midday and realize
d Paul was at home. When she had seen that he wasn ’ t wearing a suit that morning and that he didn ’ t go off to work, she felt sure he was having an affair. She wasn ’ t surprised that he was, considering the state of their life together, only that he ’ d waited so long to start one. He ’ d been out most nights for the past few weeks, with no explanation. For her part she hadn ’ t asked for one. It seemed he was unconcerned about hiding things. This hurt her in a place she didn ’ t know could still be hurt. The pain was brand new to her, and not unpleasant, but rather enervating. She went upstairs, expecting to find him with someone, and wondering what she should do about it. She hardly had the indignation or the energy for a scene. But in the bedroom she found Paul alone. He was uncommunicative and on his way to the closet after a shower. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when she got her next surprise — his hands.

  She looked up from them, all puffy and red, to his towel-clad waist, across his naked torso, to his face. “Were you boxing again?” As far as she knew, the heavy bag had hung dormant in the garage for some time.

  He didn ’ t meet her eyes. “Yeah. That ’ s right.” He went to the closet and dressed. Her eyes were clear and she recognized the lie immediately.

  Something is going on, she thought, but she didn ’ t know what.

  Paul left the room and went downstairs. She could hear him in the kitchen making something to eat. After a moment a car horn sounded. The front door opened, then closed behind Paul. She felt the house empty. She went to the window in time to see him, carrying two sandwiches, cross to Frank Behr ’ s car and climb in. Then they drove off. Something is going on repeated in her head.

  O Loving Jesus, meek Lamb of God, I miserable sinner, Oscar Riggi incanted, kneeling in the mottled light of St. Francis Church, salute and worship the most Sacred Wound of Thy Shoulder on which Thou didst bear Thy heavy Cross, which so tore Thy flesh and laid bare Thy Bones as to inflict on Thee an anguish greater than any other wound of Thy Most Blessed Body. The church smelled of stale frankincense, an odor that brought him back to his youth, to his long hours spent in service as an altar boy. Mass had become routine for him on those endless, repetitive mornings, and it was only the old habit that kept him worshipping these days. He said the words to himself, but there was no longer any connection to what they meant. In fact, the words would hardly come anymore. He was a long way from the Church. Further than he ’ d ever been. I adore Thee, O Jesus most sorrowful; I praise and glorify Thee, and give Thee thanks for this most sacred and painful Wound…