Mean Business on North Ganson Street (17 page)

“So the African American gets the trash bag from me and walks out of the building. Three guys follow him, and they've got their hands in their pockets, just like him, but the one with the knife stays behind. I ask him if he's with Sebastian, and he's like, ‘Who's he?' and I'm like, ‘Sebastian Ramirez,' and he's like, ‘Who's he?' playing dumb, since everybody in Victory knows the name—but I get that he's not gonna say anything incriminating or whatever.

“So then he's like, ‘Come with me,' and I'm like, ‘No,' and he's like, ‘You shouldn't stay here,' and I tell him, ‘I'm fucking staying.' I wasn't really scared of the African American anymore, and I was sick of guys telling me what to do. Right?

“So then he opens our mailbox—Melissa must've gave him the key—and puts the gun in and some bullets.” Kimmy motioned to the large firearm that lay upon the couch. “And he's like, ‘You know how to use one?” and I'm like, ‘Theoretically?' and he's like, ‘Have you ever fired a gun before?' and I'm like, ‘I can learn.' So he's like, ‘How?' and I'm like, ‘Watch a video online.' So the guy's then, ‘Okay. Go online,' and walks away.

“So I bring the gun here, lock everything, drink some whiskey, and watch some gun videos.”

“I'm glad you're okay,” said the detective. “A lot of people don't survive an experience like that.”

“It fucking sucked. Want a beer?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well I'm having some.”

 

XXIV

Diminished by Small Sips

Bettinger massaged his overtaxed right hand as Kimmy returned from the kitchen, drinking from a can of light beer.

“I want to ask you a question,” the detective said, “and I promise that your answer will remain off the record.”

“Okay.” The young woman sat on the couch, adjusted her robe, and pressed the cylinder of cold aluminum to her bruised right eye.

“Have you taken any controlled substances today? Pills? Some weed?”

“What's weed?” Curvature appeared on the young woman's chin.

The detective closed his notepad. “Something that would discredit your testimony if this ever became a court case.”

“I didn't call the police,” defended Kimmy.

“I know you didn't. And thanks for telling me what happened.”

Although the young woman's story might not result in an arrest, it had confirmed that Sebastian Ramirez was in hiding.

“You done?” asked Kimmy. It was clear that she wanted to proceed to her itinerary of weed, alcohol, and gunplay.

“You're gonna need to give me that—” Bettinger pointed at the revolver.

“But what if the African American comes back?”

“First off, you shouldn't stay here. Is there someplace else where you can—”

“Unless you put me in cuffs and drag me out of here, I'm fucking staying.”

“I'm not going to put you in cuffs.”

“Then I'm fucking staying.”

“Okay. I understand. And I have a pretty good idea what'll happen after I leave—” Bettinger motioned to the bottle of whiskey that was on the counter and the bong that lay underneath the recliner. “It's normal after what you've been through. And I think you're right: It's not very likely that this guy will return. You didn't see his face, you're an unreliable witness, and you don't know where Melissa Spring and Sebastian Ramirez are.

“But we might be wrong.

“He—or an associate of his—might come back. If that happens, what're the chances that a drunk girl firing a gun for the first time in her life will beat an armed professional?”

“One out of three?” Kimmy looked hopeful.

“Change that first number to a zero.”

The young woman wrinkled her face. “You don't know that.”

“I absolutely do know that. Yet the chances that you shoot yourself in the leg or blow off some fingers or kill a neighbor while playing around with it are good. Something I'd put money on.”

“You're kind of an asshole.”

“There's been talk.”

“Fine.” Kimmy finished off her light beer and reached for the revolver.

“Wait.”

The young woman paused. “Yeah?”

“Can you get me a baggie for that?”

“If you go.”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

Afternoon had begun while Bettinger was inside of Kimmy's apartment. Walking along the stone path, he shivered, exhaled steam, and adjusted the handle of the bagged revolver that jutted out of his parka like a threat.

The detective soon reached the parking lot within which he had deposited his yellow hatchback.

“Christ's uncle.”

Upon the windshield of the car was a splatter of broken eggs that resembled iced phlegm.

Bettinger entered his vehicle, slammed the door, and twisted the ignition, containing his irritation over the prank, which was at least less hazardous than a bear trap. Irked, he thumbed a preset number on his cell phone and put the receiver to his ear.

The big fellow's prerecorded voice said, “Dominic Williams,” and a binary entity beeped.

“It's Bettinger. I'm leaving Melissa Spring's apartment right now—after a fairly interesting conversation with her roommate—and heading back to the precinct.”

The detective disconnected the call, adjusted the heating vents (which currently blew cool air), and yawned for no fewer than ten seconds. Sunlight shone into the car through the prismatic splatter of frozen eggs and became a dismal rainbow.

Upon his left thigh, the cell phone buzzed.

Bettinger stretched his arms, opened the device, and put the receiver to his right ear. “Yeah?”

“I got your message.” Dominic did not sound happy.

“I really appreciate you getting back to me.”

“You've got somethin' you wanna say?”

“Do you? I'm starting to think you might have a whole lot on your mind. A heap of preoccupations.”

Silence sat between their ears for a slice of a minute.

“You wanna talk?” asked Dominic.

“I want to listen. I want to hear the story of some miserable pricks who keep secrets that get good cops killed. Know any stories like that?”

There was a period of silence during which the big fellow either managed his anger or consulted another person.

Eventually, Dominic said, “I might.”

“So it's not just oatmeal in that skull.”

“You gonna keep givin' me elbows?”

“Until the day I buy a pair of boots that're made out of rock.”

The big fellow snorted into the phone. “We should sit down—do this in person.”

“Yeah. You and your short blotchy pal.”

“He'll be there.”

“I don't mean your dick.”

“I fuckin' know who you mean.” Dominic was unable to keep the venom out of his reply. “So … where?”

“Sichuan Dragon. Be there in twenty minutes.”

“Give us thirty.”

“You have twenty.”

Bettinger killed the connection and pocketed his cell phone. Sometimes he wondered if the real reason that he had become a policeman was so that he could berate idiots.

Soon, he was on the road, driving east. People, cars, and buildings shattered and reassembled as they slid through the icy egg lacquer, but the weary driver could see well enough to safely navigate the terrain. Halfway through his journey, a yawn exploded on his face and lasted for the duration of a red light.

Battling the fatigue that sought to close his eyes, the detective accelerated through the intersection. The street lengthened and grew dark, and a corpse fell from the clouds. It was female and nude and looked like Alyssa.

Startled, Bettinger woke up, sitting inside his hatchback while stopped at a red light. His heart pounded inside his skull, throat, and chest.

“Christ's uncle.”

The detective rolled down the windows, inserted an earplug, and called his wife, hoping that the cold air and pleasant conversation would keep him awake for the remainder of his short drive. As he accelerated through the intersection, Alyssa's voice appeared inside of his head.

“You must be exhausted.”

Bettinger grunted an affirmation. “Any news on the show in Chicago?”

“I'm talking to Rubinstein at two thirty.”

“Great. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks.”

“As soon as you have a date for the opening, let me know so I can put in for a couple of days off.”

“I will. I think it'll be late March.”

“Good. The weather should be better by then.”

“Should be. How's work?”

“Busy. I may not be able to come home tonight.” Unless the detective took a long nap in the near future, he would be too tired to endeavor the drive back to Stonesburg.

“Something serious is going on?”

“There's something.” Bettinger hoped that whenever Alyssa first learned about Stanley and Gianetto, the news item she saw would also contain photographs of the apprehended murderers.

“Be safe.” The painter knew better than to ask after details that were not freely offered. “Please don't make this a habit—not coming home.”

“I won't.”

“You're getting congested.”

The detective inhaled through his nose and felt the presence of phlegm. “You're right.”

“Of course I am. Pick something up—one of those vitamin supplements. Maybe a decongestant.”

“I'll get a decongestant.” Bettinger guided his hatchback onto a four-lane street. “Those supplements don't do anything except put vitamins in the sewer.”

“There's no harm in extra vitamins.”

“The vermin in Victory are healthy enough.”

“Be sure to get non-drowsy.”

“Okay.” The sign for Sichuan Dragon appeared on the right side of the road, and the detective toggled his turn signal. “I'm about to meet some idiots.”

“If they don't tell you what you want to know, you have my permission to get rough.”

“Thanks.”

“Same thing if I'm asleep when you get home…” A dirty chuckle emerged from the old man who lived inside of Alyssa's chest. “You have my permission to get rough.”

“Expect it.”

“For orgasmic purposes,” clarified the woman.

“Assignment accepted.”

The oldster cackled.

Bettinger secreted Kimmy's gun underneath the passenger seat and changed lanes. “I love you.”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Braking, the detective dialed the wheel and entered the lot of the restaurant, where he saw his partner, dressed in gray, leaning against his silver luxury car while drinking from a cup. The big fellow looked up, noticed the hatchback, and tossed his beverage into the trash. Hot coffee splashed upon a cube of frozen lo mein, cracking it in half.

The rear door of the silver vehicle opened, and Tackley stepped outside, buttoning the jacket of his sharp blue suit. As he and his former partner entered the restaurant, the hatchback landed in a parking space.

Thinking about dead policemen and roasted duck, Bettinger left his car and entered Sichuan Dragon. Warm air that smelled like garlic, vinegar, and peanuts enveloped him as he looked around the establishment, which had fewer than a dozen diners. Sitting beside each other at the corner table in which Elaine James had eaten her final meal were Dominic and Tackley.

Harold Zhang materialized. “You're with them?”

“Sort of.”

Bettinger strode to the seated duo and dragged the chair that opposed them from the table. Calmly, he sat down and reached for the teapot.

“We don't need to turn this into a meal,” said Dominic.

“I'm eating.” The detective filled a cup, raised it to his lips, and blew vapors across the table.

Tackley stared. Vitiligo had turned his face into a map of pink oceans and milk-white islands. Lying in the middle of this porous geography were two cold blue pools.

“While I'm eating,” Bettinger said, “you guys are talking. Keeping me entertained.”

The mottled man gestured with his left hand. Shadows stretched across the table as Perry and Huan materialized.

Bettinger looked at the new arrivals. “Glad you could make it.”

“It's New Year's in China.” The doughy redhead claimed a chair and looked at his partner. “Right?”

The pockmarked Asian took a seat. “Year of the monkey.”

Tackley took the teapot, filled his cup, and eyed Bettinger. “You shouldn't fuck with us.” His voice was soft and betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

“I'm looking for cop killers, and I'm fucking with everyone.” The detective from Arizona sipped his tea. “If you have good posture, you won't fall over.”

Perry looked at Huan. “This guy's like that dog I read about.”

“Which?”

“The one that could smell things from real far away—ten miles, maybe even more. Was a show dog, actually.”

“Did tricks?”

“When he was a kid. Anyways, the feds were doing a manhunt in West Virginia, looking for one of those crazy survivalist types, and they read about this dog and put him on a plane.”

“First class?”

“I'll have to look that up. Remind me. But they get him out there, let him sniff the fugitive's socks, and right away, he bolts into the woods, running after the guy so fast nobody can keep up.”

“He's determined.”

“Even by canine standards. Next day, they catch up with the dog. He's got one of the fugitive's fingers in his mouth, and he's got a stick in his neck, going all the way through.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.” Perry shook his head. “And people like dogs.”

“Even more than black detectives who know everything?”

“There's just no comparison.”

“Hmmm.” Huan contemplated his chopsticks.

Bettinger refilled his teacup and looked at Tackley. “Start with your pal Sebastian Ramirez.”