Mean Business on North Ganson Street (21 page)

Izzy pressed a tiny arrow. A moment later, he said, “It went through.”

“Put that thing down,” ordered Dominic.

The racketeer set the cell phone upon the table. “The number he gives people doesn't even go to him directly. And even if he gets it, I don't know why he'd bother to respond.”

“If he thinks you're trying to use the situation to your advantage—to cheat him of his percentage—he might reach out,” replied Bettinger.

Izzy looked uncomfortable.

The detective withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket. “We got a list of the meds he's on from the hospital. Painkillers, mostly.”

“That's surprising.” The racketeer's sarcasm was as dry as a Nevada road.

Bettinger set the document upon the table. “Who can he get this stuff from when his supply runs out?”

“Prescription painkillers?” Izzy smirked. “Get me a phone book, and I'll cross off the names of the ten people who can't get him that.”

The prisoner's reply was what Bettinger had expected, and his real question was already on its way to his mouth. “Where would Melissa Spring or Margarita Ramirez get a clean vehicle on short notice?”

Something flickered in the racketeer's eyes.

The detective said, “Margarita's car is still in the parking lot of her building, Melissa doesn't own a vehicle, and Sebastian's is impounded. Neither of the women bought one from an authorized dealer, but obviously, they need something—a truck, a van, a big car—to drive Sebastian around in. Who would they get it from?”

“I don't know.”

Disbelief shone upon Bettinger's face. “You don't know who Sebastian would go to for clean wheels?”

“I don't.”

Dominic kicked the empty chair across the floor. Wood smacked Izzy's right kneecap, and he howled.

“Oops.”

Bettinger looked at his partner. “Watch where you step.”

“I forget to look sometimes.”

This bit of violence might prove useful, but the detective would not tolerate any more such infractions. He mouthed the word “Don't” to the big fellow as the racketeer massaged his hurt knee.

“You fucking broke it,” said Izzy, looking up at Dominic.

“Nah—there would've been a snap. Even soft faggot bones.”

“It's real hard to imagine why your wife left you.”

Bettinger withdrew the unoccupied chair, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down. “Who would Melissa and Margarita get a clean vehicle from? The purchase was probably made this month.”

Sniffing, Izzy wiped his eyes. “I'll give you this if you let me go.”

“Nah,” replied Dominic. “You give us this and your place won't get torched at midnight. Nobody goes anywhere 'til we have Sebastian.”

“What if you can't find him?”

“We'll find him,” Bettinger stated as he withdrew his notepad and mechanical pencil. “Who would Melissa Spring and Margarita Ramirez get a clean automobile from?”

Izzy wiped his sweat-glazed face. “Slick Sam.”

“Know his last name?”

“No.”

“Never heard of him,” said Dominic, shaking his head.

“Right,” replied Izzy. “That's why people go to him.”

“Where's his shop?” asked the detective.

“Shitopia.”

“What street?”

“You know that elementary school where those kids were killed in the eighties?”

“I know it,” replied the big fellow.

“Across the street from there.”

Bettinger asked, “You've got his cell?”

“No.” Izzy looked like he was about to vomit.

“Do you know when he's in?”

“You're asking me for his itinerary? I met the guy once.”

“Then you shouldn't feel so bad—he's practically a stranger.”

Ashamed, the racketeer looked away.

The big fellow placed the cell phone in the baggie, buttoned his jacket, and handed the red file to his partner. “Poofs feel bad about everything. It's just how they are.”

“We'll send in a sketch guy,” the detective told the prisoner, “and you two can make some art.”

No response emerged from Izzy, who sat slumped in his seat, looking at his hands. The policemen exchanged a nod and strode toward the exit.

“Don't get executed,” advised the racketeer.

Unkind laughter resonated within Dominic.

A yawn swallowed Bettinger's face as he and his partner returned to the frigid main area and climbed onto the dais.

“You look terrible,” Zwolinski said from behind his desk. “Was it the Chinese food? I warned you about that place.”

“I'm just tired.” The shivering detective zipped up his parka.

“What did Isaac Johnson give you?”

“The address of a chop shop that might've sold a vehicle to Melissa Spring or Margarita Ramirez.”

The inspector scratched the thick silver pelt that was atop his skull. “Izzy gave you that?”

“Bettinger pulled it from the ether,” remarked Dominic. “Nigga's a asshole, but he's got ideas.”

“I theorize.”

“Looks that way,” observed Zwolinski.

Bettinger motioned to the door. “We need to get to the chop shop bef—”

“Williams will take care of that. I want you to go rest that brain before it has a heart attack.”

“I'm capable of—”

“Quiet. The Sunflower Motel gives us a deal.” The inspector aimed his mouth at the ceiling and bellowed, “Molloy! Crater Face!”

Perry and Huan looked over from the far side of the pillbox.

“When you leave in twenty minutes,” the pugilist commanded, “drop Bettinger off at the Sunflower.”

The redheaded fellow and the pockmarked Asian gave thumbs-up signs and returned their attention to the phlegmatic printer.

Zwolinski looked at Dominic. “Go to that chop shop. If it's quiet, get a cadet to do surveillance.”

“Okay.”

The big fellow walked off of the dais.

“Don't cripple anybody,” said the inspector.

Dominic shrugged.

“You do,” Zwolinski warned, “and we're in the ring.”

“Whatever.”

“You didn't do too good last time,” added the inspector. “By round six, you were beyond uncomfortable.”

Again, the big fellow shrugged.

“Is something wrong with his neck?” Zwolinski asked Bettinger.

“It doesn't seem to let oxygen into the top floor.”

“I've suspected that. Tackley gave you some history?”

“He gave me some.”

“So that's it. It was an ugly situation, and I was just barely able to keep 'em on. Somethin' like that happens again, they'll be fired—probably go to jail.” The inspector rubbed a lump that had an eyebrow. “Make sure it doesn't go that far.”

“I've had experience handling pit bulls … though usually I put them in the back of the cruiser.”

“In Victory, pit bulls ride up front.”

 

XXIX

Officer Nancy Blockman Observes Other People

Officer Nancy Blockman frowned as she located another piece of eggshell in her hair. The stocky, bulldog-faced, thirty-eight-year-old brunette had showered twice since the embryonic bombs had fallen, but a group of tenacious white flecks still clung to ground zero. Lowering the driver's side window of the stopped patrol car, she jettisoned the shard onto a twilit Victory street, where it skipped twice and disappeared inside a crack that looked like a mouth.

“Did you use cream rinse?” Officer Abe Lott inquired from the passenger seat.

“Cream rinse? You sure you're not gay?”

“Cream rinse's gay?”

Accelerating through the intersection, the policewoman observed her pudgy partner.

“What?” asked Abe, defensively. “Lots of people use it. I use it.”

Nancy's former husband, Steven, was a homosexual (regardless of the fact that he had been in a sexually fulfilling marriage with a woman for five years), and ever since he had revealed himself, the policewoman looked for the warning signs in all men. There was no real reason for her to suspect that Abe was gay—he was married, went to strip clubs, and had dirty fingernails—but it was her duty to let him know if he exhibited any of the most common gay traits or affinities.

“I don't want to offend you,” the pudgy officer said, “but I think you're a little paranoid about that stuff.”

“I'm vigilant, not paranoid. And there's a reason.”

“Your husband?”

“No—it's because of scientists,” said Nancy, turning off of Summer Drive. “They say that the body is rebuilt from scratch every seven years. Completely. Down to the cellular level. All of it.”

“All of it?”

“According to scientists.”

“Then what about tattoos? How come they last more than seven years?”

“Because it's ink. It doesn't do anything but just sit there while the cells all around it are having kids and dying. A tattoo's just subcutaneous jewelry.”

“Hmmm.” Abe played with his revolver as if it were an action figure.

“But my point is,” Nancy resumed, “you never know how all this cellular activity might affect you … how you might change as the body—and the brain and everything—rebuilds itself. The man you were seven years ago no longer exists.”

The pudgy officer looked at his hands. “Seems the same.”

“On the outside. But maybe some of your brain cells are different. Mutated. Maybe the next time you go to a strip club, some—”

“Gentlemen's lounge,” corrected Abe.

“Maybe the next time you go to a gentleman's lounge, some girl will take off her top, show you her double Ds, and you'll be like, ‘So what?'”

“Never.” The pudgy officer was steadfast. “Tits are the greatest.”

“But why do you think that?”

“'Cause I'm a man, and because they are.”

“It's because you're a man who has a certain biological reaction to tits, and that reaction is because of your programming—your cells. All of that can change when you're being rebuilt. And you're always being rebuilt.”

“Man…” Abe was exasperated. “This conversation's depressing.”

“I'm just saying that you change over time—everyone does. Molecule by molecule. Be vigilant. Watch out for things like ‘cream rinse.'”

“But I really like tits.” There was a note of desperation in this statement.

“I don't think you need to worry.”

“Good.” The pudgy officer resumed playing with his gun as if it were an action figure.

“That Langford's another story.”

“Langford's a fag?”

“I really don't like that word—I have nothing against homosexuals—but yes.” Nancy imagined the officer's handsome face, neat blond hair, and chiseled physique. “If not, his cells are on the brink.”

“You see that blonde he brought to the Christmas party? With that amazing rack?” Abe swallowed saliva. “I'd like to see her at the gentleman's lounge.” Again, he ingested his own secretions.

“Is that what you fantasize about when you see a woman like that? Seeing her strip?”

“I'm a married man.” The pudgy officer tapped his gold wedding band. “Even in my fantasies, I'm faithful.”

“That's sweet.”

“I take my vows very seriously.” Abe ruminated for a moment. “But Langford's girl … it was like she was made out of frozen custard.” Again, he swallowed saliva. “Wanna get some custard?”

Nancy had long ago realized that her partner's mind was a linear machine. “After we check on this motorcycle.”

“Yeah. Of course, of course. Y'know, I've heard it's a lot better for you than ice cream—frozen custard.”

“Could be.”

The policewoman knew that frozen custard had a high concentration of egg yolks and was very unhealthful, but she decided against correcting her partner. Continuous cellular upheaval and the deaths of Anthony Gianetto and Dave Stanley were as much bad news as the pudgy officer could possibly handle.

At present, Nancy turned onto 178th Street and drove west, toward the part of the Toilet in which the motorcycle had been stolen. The sun was sinking, and the buildings on the horizon were nothing more than dark, silhouetted blocks.

The policewoman turned on her headlights. Bicycle reflectors, watchful eyes, and an array of discarded beer cans emerged from the dark gray swath. Dialing the wheel counterclockwise, she circumvented a sleeping terrier.

“He's cute,” remarked Abe.

Nancy did not ask if he had a special affinity for small dogs.

The patrol car rolled through an area of partially inhabited apartment buildings and banked onto a northbound street that was named Luther. Ten minutes later, the cruiser entered the southernmost part of the Toilet. Nailed to a telephone pole by its head was the top half of a dead cat.

Nancy looked away, disgusted. “Who would do something like that?”

“Democrats.”

The policewoman rarely discussed politics with her partner. “What's the street number?”

Abe looked at the Biggman's Burger napkin upon which he had scribbled the information. “Eighteen fifty-three Luther.”

“Keep an eye out.”

“I saw a seventeen sixty-seven on that last block.”

“Okay.” Nancy slowed the vehicle. “Then we're close.”

Because the majority of buildings in the Toilet were unnumbered, any would-be navigator had to be observant and do some math.

In the passenger seat, Abe fondled his gun.

“Stay alert.”

The pudgy officer looked confused. “For the stolen motorcycle?”

“For an ambush. Like Zwolinski told us to look for.”

“Because of what happened to Dave and Gianetto?”

“Because of them.”

The patrol car rolled past a group of black teenagers, compressed a beer can, and crushed a dead pigeon.