Mean Business on North Ganson Street (11 page)

The detective swept an arm in an arc that included the sidewalk, the street, and the parking lot of a two-story teal building. “It would've been dark in this area when she was coming home.”

“As dark as you.”

“Clever.”

Bettinger entered the parking lot, eyeballing the teal building, which had a sign that read
CHRIST THE SAVIOR COMMUNITY CENTER.
A pale oval drifted behind one of the windows, paused at an altitude of six feet, and was joined by three smaller dots that barely crested the bottom edge of the glass. Silent and still, the children and their monitor observed the trespasser.

The detective withdrew his badge and angled it until he saw its bright reflection upon the windowpane.

Suddenly, the watchers vanished.

“Ain't eager to help.”

Dominic entered the parking lot, and together, the policemen searched the area. The dumb gray canvas yielded nothing of value.

“We ain't turnin' up much,” the big fellow remarked as he and his partner returned to the sidewalk.

The pair continued south and soon arrived at a well-maintained redbrick high-rise that wore a bright number 84 on its chest. Bettinger proceeded directly to the security gate, where he stopped, scanned the intercom, and fingered the button for the superintendent. Nearby, Dominic leaned against an iron pole that looked like a spear.

Static crackled. “Yes? Who is it?” The voice that emerged from the grill sounded like it belonged to an old man.

Again, Bettinger fingered the talk button. “It's the police. We'd like to see apartment five twelve.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by two squirts of static. “A policeman was already here. He looked around and did his business.”

The detective recalled the name of the officer who had done the inspection. “Officer Langford?”

“My wife thought he looked like some actor.”

“We'd like to inspect the apartment again.”

This request was followed by a long silence. “Why?”

“We just want to double-check.”

The speaker spit static, and the oldster coughed. “He didn't do it right the first time?”

“We just want to double-check.”

“Um…”

A woman whispered something. Wet crackles erupted from the grill and were replaced by silence.

The detective leaned on the talk button. “Sir? May we see room five twelve?”

“Someone's in there.”

“Who?”

“Mexicans. A family.”

The policemen exchanged a glance, and Bettinger thumbed the talk button. “You rented it?”

“People want to live in this building. We … we didn't know.”

“Nobody told us or the owners that we couldn't,” defended the super's wife.

The grill spat static.

Bettinger exhaled steam and fingered the button. “What did you do with Elaine James's possessions?”

“Donated them to charity,” said the old fellow. “There wasn't much.”

“Thanks for your time.”

“That other officer should've told us—we didn't know you'd be back.”

“Thanks for your time.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Static crackled.

The detective looked at his partner. “Officer Langford's young?”

“Shavin' is a seasonal event for him.”

“Christ's uncle.”

Bettinger faced the intercom, scanned the numbers, and thumbed the button for apartment 512.

Static crackled, and an excited little muchacho inquired,
“¿Quién es?”

The frustrated detective turned away from the iron gate and began his journey back to Sichuan Dragon.

“Where to now?” asked the big fellow, trailing his partner.

“The pillbox.”

“Not Bermuda?”

Bettinger hoped that Miss Bell's files would contain something useful, because the cold winds of Victory had just frozen the case.

 

XVII

Her Opportunities

“Congratulations.” Happy for the first time that day, Bettinger kissed Alyssa on the mouth and hugged her. “A show in Chicago,” he said into her wild curls. “Wow.”

“I really didn't expect to hear back from him.” The woman withdrew from her husband and took a glass of grapefruit juice from the refrigerator. “I squeezed some before.”

The sight of the beverage conjured a salivary premonition in the detective's mouth. “What's the name of the gallery?”

“David Rubinstein Gallery of Chicago.”

“Sounds rich.”

“He is. And so's his clientele.”

“I'll dust off my yarmulke.”

“Too bad they're worn on the back of the head.”

Alyssa eyed her husband's balding scalp.

“Hey.” Bettinger slid a palm across his head until he reached the silver-and-black growth that began on the far side of the North Pole. “I'm sensitive.”

“You aren't.”

The woman drank some of the grapefruit juice, puckered her face, and gave the glass to her husband, who received it happily. His eyes stung and his throat burned as he swallowed the astringent beverage.

“This's the bitterest one yet,” said the detective.

“It sure is.”

Bettinger returned the glass to Alyssa. “Almost impossible to drink.”

“I know. Right?”

Both of them liked challenging grapefruit juice.

“What pieces are you going to show?”

“
The Breathing Cargo
.”

Disbelief shone upon the detective's face. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

The series depicted white aristocrats dining, playing croquet, and lounging atop piles of black bodies in the cargo holds of slave ships. Unlike most of Alyssa's paintings, which were subtle and impressionistic acrylics that had nothing to do with race, the
Breathing Cargo
pieces were highly detailed and politically aggressive.

“You know how much I like that series.” There was an implication in the detective's remark.

“Rubinstein thinks they'll really get people's attention.”

“They'll do that.”

Alyssa drank the rest of the juice, revealing the host of little citric leeches that clung to the inside of the glass. “You don't think they'll sell?”

“I don't want to say that.” Bettinger flashed his palms. “I don't know the art world in Chicago, and those pieces are terrific.”

“But…”

“They're provocative. They make people feel guilty or angry, maybe both, and are better suited for a museum than a banker's condo, where they'll sit on some wall beside a seventy-two-inch plasma screen and pictures of a blond woman who flashes the same exact smile in every photo.”

Alyssa grinned. “I look forward to meeting some museum curators who share your opinion.”

“You will.” There was no doubt in Bettinger's voice—his belief in his wife's art was absolute. “Rubinstein doesn't think they're too dark?”

The painter poured more grapefruit juice. “He's not sure, but even if they don't sell, they'll establish me with his clientele.”

“To whom he'll offer more palatable works by the very same artist?”

“That's the plan.” Alyssa grimaced as she swallowed the astringent fluid.

“It lets these people be ‘edgy' without actually going to the edge.”

“Exactly.” The painter extended the glass to her husband. “You can have the rest.”

“Not sure I'll survive.”

“There are worse ways to go.”

Bettinger drank the searing remainder of juice. “It's almost sulfuric.”

“Right?”

A door closed in an adjacent room, and the detective faced the hallway. “Gordon.”

“Yeah?”

“Dinner's at seven thirty.”

“Okay.”

“If you're late, you're doing dishes for a week.”

“Relax, officer.”

“Come here.”

The lean, sleepy-eyed fifteen-year-old inhabited the doorway and plucked a white bud from his right ear. “Yeah?” His voice was sullen.

“Have you ever cooked dinner for our family?”

“Nah.”

“Do you think it's easy?”

Gordon contemplated some smartass remark, gauging whether or not he should risk further irritating his father. Decided, he shook his head. “I know it's not easy.”

“Don't make me threaten you with chores like you're ten years old. Respect and appreciate that your mother does a lot of work so that we can eat good, healthy food.”

“I do appreciate it—she cooks good.” It seemed like Gordon's rebellion was over.

“And tell her congratulations.”

Confusion wrinkled the adolescent's brow. “She's pregnant?”

Alyssa chuckled. Although she was a youthful and very feminine forty-six-year-old woman, her laughter sounded like it originated in the chest of a white oldster who had pleurisy.

“Your mom's paintings are going on display in a prestigious Chicago gallery.”

“Really?” Gordon's face brightened. “That's platinum.” He pulled out his second earbud, walked across the linoleum, and hugged his mother. “Seems like they got better taste up here than in Arizona. More intellectual.”

Alyssa squeezed her son's hand. “Thanks.”

“Platinum.”

Bettinger set his empty glass in the sink. “You'll have to watch your sister while your mother and I are at the opening.”

“Fine.” Gordon thumbed the buds back into his ears. “You're takin' Mom to a fancy dinner up there?”

“Of course.”

“You'll go in a limo? Get her champagne and a hot tub?”

A couple of rheumy snickers were produced by the old man who lived inside of Alyssa's chest.

“I'll treat her right,” said Bettinger. “Don't worry.”

“Do it like it's New Year's for the year 3000.” The adolescent activated his audio player and departed.

Ruminating, the detective rinsed his glass and set it in the washer. “He's got some definite ideas about women.”

“Good ones.”

“Daddy,” said Karen, walking into the kitchen with a magnetic chessboard in her little hands. “You're about to get annihilated.”

“Do you see where my bishop is?”

The girl looked at the array of white pieces. “Oh … I didn't.”

“But your chess trash talk is really coming along.”

“Can I get a do-over?”

“After you tell your mother congratulations.”

“She's gonna have a baby?”

“Even better.”

*   *   *

Flavorful and aromatic food was swept from plates into mouths, where it was squeezed by peristalsis toward gastric chambers. Karen and Gordon departed from the table, thanking their mother, and as Bettinger began the dishes, Alyssa relaxed in a nearby chair, cradling a glass of white wine.

Television voices and dim music crept into the kitchen area, and soon, the couple exchanged a meaningful glance.

The woman led her husband into the master bedroom and locked the door. Quietly, they removed clothes that smelled like cilantro and slid their bodies underneath a blanket. Gentle fingertips explored soft flesh, and Bettinger's phallus solidified until a warm ache throbbed in its core. Alyssa straddled her husband, and together, they found a slow, deep rhythm.

The feces-spattered boy and Elaine James's autopsied corpse did not impede the detective's ability to ejaculate hot fluid only a moment after his wife had climaxed. Compartmentalization was something that he had learned long ago.

Modesty soon returned to the shuddering animals, and they raised the covers over their bodies, grinning idiotically at each other. Heartbeats slowed, and ten luxurious Caribbean minutes passed before either of them spoke.

“I've always wanted to sleep with a celebrity,” announced Bettinger.

“‘Celebrity'?” Alyssa shifted her head on the pillow so that she faced her husband. “It's just one show.”

The detective ran a hand down the small of his wife's back. “It's more than that.”

“Well … I don't want to get too excited.”

“You should get excited—this is big.”

“We'll see.”

“Don't hedge,” said Bettinger. “A good thing is happening for you—for your career as an artist—right now. Enjoy it.”

“But if it doesn't go well…”

“It will go well.”

“But if it doesn't? It's conceivable that it won't.”

“If it doesn't go well, you'll have other opportunities. And you'll also have the experience of enjoying the uphill portion of the ride rather than just worrying about it.”

The painter considered her husband's advice. “I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am.”

“You're a pretty optimistic pessimist.”

“That's not the only thing I am.” The detective raised an eyebrow.

“Already?”

“I told you I have a thing for celebrities.” Bettinger placed Alyssa's hands upon his phallus, which was stiff. “And this doesn't lie.”

*   *   *

Shortly after his wife had fallen asleep, the detective donned jeans and a sweatshirt, finished the dishes, and entered the mauve study, where he put a cup of coffee beside the stack of files that Miss Bell had earlier that day left on his desk at the pillbox. He yawned, reclining in a padded chair as he examined the cover sheet. Seventy-nine Victory women had become dirt during the last eighteen months, and over half of these deaths were suspected or confirmed murders.

“Christ's uncle.”

The detective scanned the remainder of the document. Amongst the forty-three probable homicide victims were sixteen convicted prostitutes whose files were already at the top of the stack.

Bettinger sipped his coffee and opened the uppermost folder, which contained autopsy photographs of a woman who had no head.

 

XVIII