Mean Business on North Ganson Street (28 page)

“Hash browns.”

The fellow rose from his stool. He was exactly halfway between six and seven feet tall. “Toast?”

“Whole wheat.”

“Pumpernickel close enough?”

“I like pumpernickel.”

“Coffee?”

“Decaf. And a pitcher of water.”

“Got it. Sit wherever you want.”

“Thanks.”

Bettinger walked toward the window booths and took the one that was farthest from the truckers. On the opposite side of the diner, the Latina dashed her cigarette in an extravagant manner and threw a well-rehearsed look.

“I'm Buford if you need me,” said the cook, opening the double door that led to the kitchen.

The detective nodded his thanks, surveyed the parking lot, and looked across the street. There, a sodium streetlamp threw ochre light upon a used car lot that had been closed for years, though the cracked windows of its office still advertised an “Amazing Bargain Bonanza!”

Bettinger wondered if the people who contrived such phrases were actually human beings.

The man who had been slouching beside the light-skinned Latina exited the diner, and as the door closed, the detective returned his gaze to the corner table. Two dark eyes and a pair of freshly painted red lips were waiting for him.

Bettinger gestured to the empty bench at his booth, and the woman nodded her head. Although she probably did not know anything of value about Sebastian or the executions, she may have been an associate of Elaine James's or heard something about her murder. At the very least, a conversation with her would cover up the rap music.

Rings of smooth skin showed between the bottom of her short lavender dress and the tops of her black thigh-high boots as she stalked across the establishment, cradling a white fur coat in her right arm. Her clicking heels stopped the truckers' conversation like a high command.

“Want me to sit here?”

The Latina's mouth worked in a lopsided way, and she had a small lisp. Although she was probably twenty-five years old, these qualities made her seem far younger.

“Please do.”

The woman rested her rump upon the bench and arranged her half-exposed breasts, which were large, but believable. “You're not a cop, are you?”

“No.”

One of the most helpful misconceptions held by criminals was their belief that this question had to be answered truthfully.

“You still got your jacket on,” observed the Latina. “You in a rush or something?”

“I'm not a fan of cold weather.”

The woman adjusted the hem of her lavender dress. “Where're you from?”

“Georgia.”

“A businessman?” This was said hopefully.

“Sure.”

“What kind of business?”

“I sell airplanes.”

“That's a good business, no?” Excitement had thickened the woman's accent, which sounded like it was Venezuelan.

“It is. Though you need a lot of storage space.”

“For the airplanes?”

“For the airplanes.”

“My name is Daniela.”

“Nice to meet you, Daniela. I'm Jacques.”

“Are you looking for a little company tonight?”

Something crept into the parking lot and slid behind one of the trucks. Bettinger could not see what kind of vehicle had landed, but he knew that its headlights had been off when it pulled in. Within his parka, he gripped his gun.

“You waiting for somebody?” inquired Daniela.

The kitchen door opened, and Buford emerged, carrying a plate, a cup of coffee, and a pitcher of water.

Bettinger rose from the booth. “Go back to your table.”

Confusion and irritation shone upon the Latina's face. “Why'd you invite me over?”

The detective turned around, passed the cook, and walked to the back of the restaurant, where he entered the bathroom and cracked the door. Putting his eye to the opening, he observed.

Daniela returned to her table, and Buford set down his burden. Outside in the parking lot, a dark reflection spilled like oil across the steel grille of a truck.

Bettinger strongly doubted that he would be approached by a killer in such a public place, but he was cautious by nature and felt an obligation to isolate himself from civilians … even if it meant that he had to eat room-temperature eggs. His phone buzzed, but he did not answer it or remove his eye from the front windows.

Outside, the moving thing entered the light and became two blurry figures.

The detective clasped his gun, and again, his cell phone buzzed.

He waited.

The front door opened, and into the diner walked a good-looking young black couple who wore formal attire. The woman carried a swaddled and cooing infant, and the fellow rolled a plush stroller. They seemed happy, and thus, Bettinger concluded that they were from out of town.

The detective's cell phone buzzed for the third time. A glance at its display told him that the caller was his partner.

Bettinger placed the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” asked Dominic.

“Claude's.”

“Make sure nobody's watching you and get away from the windows.”

“What's—”

“More cops are dead—executed, had their dicks cut off—and most of the others are missing. It's cop genocide, and you need to get yourself hid.”

Bettinger suddenly felt like a ghost. “What do you know?”

“Looks like a coordinated effort all over town. Some niggas in a SUV took a shot at me and Tackley, but blew it, and then we started checkin' up on everyone. Perry's missing, and Huan never got home. We're at Zwolinski's place now and there's blood fuckin' everywhere.”

Needles climbed up the detective's nape. “They went to the inspector's home?”

“Yeah.”

A terrible thought occurred to Bettinger. He bolted from the bathroom and slammed into the young black father.

“Excuse you!” chastised the staggered man.

Running across the linoleum, the detective pocketed his cell phone and withdrew his semiautomatic, ready to knock down or shoot anybody who got in his way.

The Latina screamed, “He's got a gun!” as he stormed past her.

Thinking of his family in Stonesburg, Bettinger careened toward the front door. His mind was a hard and narrow place.

 

XXXIX

Vehicular Abuse

Bettinger exited Claude's Hash House, flung himself into his hatchback, and started the engine. Tossing his gun onto the passenger seat, he stomped the accelerator.

The car flew backward and thudded over the curb. On Fifty-sixth Street, the detective cut the wheel, shifted gears, and dropped his boot. Tires shrieked like dying eagles.

Speeding toward Summer Drive, Bettinger clapped his cell phone to his skull. “Still there?”

“Yeah,” said Dominic. “You goin' home?”

“Yes.” The detective tried not to imagine terrible things.

“Why don't you call—see if they're okay?”

“If somebody's with them—holding them—I don't want him to know I'm coming. And if they're already…” This was not a sentence that Bettinger could complete. “If something bad's already happened, I want to surprise whoever's waiting for me.”

Tires screeched as the hatchback seized Summer Drive.

“A'ight. Me and Tackley're gonna get Nancy out of the hospital, put her someplace safe, and go look for Perry and Huan. Call when you know the situation with your family. You need backup, we're there instantly.”

“Thanks.”

The hatchback overrode its headlights, and Bettinger clicked on the high beams.

“Watch yourself,” cautioned Dominic. “We just became a endangered species.”

“You be careful too.”

The detective disconnected the call and flew past a motorcycle that was driven by a hunched biker who wore a petite woman as if she were a backpack. Monitoring his rearview mirror, he watched the interwoven duo diminish until they resembled mating insects.

The engine roared.

Bettinger sped past a flashing yellow orb and glanced at the dashboard, where a white needle wavered fearfully on the right side of the dial, indicating a speed of ninety-three miles an hour. If a vagrant stepped into the road or a significant pothole appeared or a car ran an opposing light, the detective knew that he would have a serious or fatal accident.

He raised his boot, slowing down the hatchback. It was not easy for him to drive at a safer pace, but he had to be sure that he made it home to his family.

Bettinger honked as he approached every major intersection, and in fifteen minutes, he reached the southern fringe of Victory, where the roads were in even worse shape. The hatchback rumbled like an earthquake, and yet again, the detective was forced to retard his progress.

Rolling toward the black tunnel mouth at a speed of fifty-five miles per hour, he leaned on his horn. A troll waggled appendages and disappeared into a crevice.

The hatchback zipped through the passageway and back outside, where its tires crushed a pigeon, struck the ramp, pulled the vehicle up an incline, grabbed the interstate, and shrieked.

Leaning on the accelerator, the detective sped south. His headlights inhaled the lines in the road as if they were illicit substances. The engine roared.

At a speed of ninety-five miles an hour, Bettinger flew toward the three people who were his entire world. Rocks turned into a wake of red hail in the glow of the hatchback's taillights.

The detective checked to see if someone was trailing him, even though it would be impossible for another car to match his speed in an inconspicuous manner. At present, he saw no followers.

The distance between the two cities was rapidly devoured.

Traffic was thin, and whenever he saw another vehicle, he overtook it. No automobiles remained in his rearview mirror for more than fifteen seconds during his roaring, thirty-minute tear down the interstate, and it was not until he saw the sign for Stonesburg that he remembered to turn on the heater. Vents blasted exhaust onto the stones that were fists.

Dialing the wheel clockwise and applying the brakes, the detective caught the off-ramp and entered the suburbs, where he proceeded at a moderate speed until he was five blocks from his house. There, he slowed the vehicle to a quiet speed and killed the headlights.

Darkness fell.

Bettinger's eyes dilated, adjusting to the night.

Thick clouds diffused the lunar chunk that hung in the sky, and the weak light that the cataract emanated varnished small houses and a variety of four-wheeled pets. Surrounding these man-made artifacts were carpets of dead grass that looked like sandpaper.

Quietly, the hatchback drifted through the suburbs. A glance at the clock on the dashboard informed the detective that it was seventeen minutes after four in the morning. Passing through an intersection, he checked the side streets and saw only darkness and incomplete gray shapes.

Bettinger continued west, crossing lifeless roads at a speed of less than fifteen miles an hour. His journey was almost over.

Moonlight illuminated the sign for Douglas Avenue, the street upon which he and his family lived, and his chest constricted, smothering his ugly little heart. Although the detective had been in numerous physical altercations and three gunfights, a direct threat to his family frightened him far more than anything that he had ever before experienced.

Dialing the wheel clockwise, Bettinger turned the hatchback.

He lowered his window, seized his gun, and fixed his gaze on the tall wooden fence that hid the major part of his little salmon house from its northern neighbor.

The hatchback crept down the street. Freezing winter flooded through the open window, stinging the detective's eyes as the distance between the front of his car and the edge of his property diminished to ten feet.

Gripping his pistol, Bettinger passed the wooden fence and saw his house. Its salmon-colored paint was gray in the moonlight, and all of its windows were dark. The garage door was closed, and there were no cars in the driveway.

Everything looked normal.

Relief tingled the detective's skull, nape, and shoulders, but he was cautious by nature and suspicious by trade and thus did not apply the brakes.

The yellow hatchback continued south, and behind the wheel, Bettinger ruminated. It was conceivable that a killer's vehicle was hidden inside of the garage, though unlikely, since any reasonably intelligent bad guy would avoid using a noisy, unreliable device like an automatic door. A smarter way for the gunman to accomplish an ambush was for him to leave his vehicle someplace nearby and walk over.

Rolling south, Bettinger surveyed the area. All of the cars that he saw were familiar, and every single home was dark.

The detective reached the end of the block, turned east, and drove along the intersecting street, which was the one that he used whenever he went to downtown Stonesburg. Most of the vehicles that he saw were recognizable, and nothing seemed out of place to him.

Dialing the wheel counterclockwise, Bettinger landed on the avenue that ran parallel to the one upon which he lived. He had not been on this street very often, and he doubted that he would notice any anomalies.

The hatchback rolled north. Something caught the detective's eye, and a moment later, his stomach sank.

Parked in the driveway of an unlighted house was a charcoal gray pickup truck.

Bettinger was certain that this was the vehicle that had entered the parking lot of the Sunflower Motel just as he had been leaving.

A murderer was in Stonesburg with his family.

 

XL

Things Fall

The detective drove across the lot of dead grass until his car blocked off the driveway. Two inches separated his door from the back bumper of the charcoal gray pickup truck, which appeared to be uninhabited.

Bettinger silenced his cell phone, slid it into his parka, and clambered out of the passenger's door. Moonlit mist rose from his mouth as he stalked toward the suspect vehicle, his gun pointing at the driver's side window. A thin, balding black man who was three shades darker than the night sky appeared on the glass, but nothing of note lay beyond this reflection.