Mean Business on North Ganson Street (22 page)

“Those things are annoying,” remarked Abe. “Why do they keep dying?”

“The air makes them suicidal.”

“You always say that.”

Nancy slowed the cruiser and surveyed a three-story building that wore no less than five hundred pounds of graffiti. Amidst tags, names, and genitals was a square sign that had been painted black.

“Can you read that?” asked the policewoman.

Abe looked through the driver's window, squinted, and nodded his head. “‘Suck my big fat d—'”

“Not that. By the door.” Nancy pointed at the sign. “Can you read it?”

“Looks like a four and a nine at the end.”

“So it's two down.”

The policewoman tapped the accelerator, and the cruiser rolled past a similar building and arrived at a three-story edifice, which was covered with a large, weathered mural that prophesized some sort of breakdancing utopia.

Nancy stopped the car. “Look around.”

“For the ambush?” Abe liked for things to be clear.

“Yes.”

The officers surveyed the area, looking for people who might do them harm. Several kids on dirt bikes buzzed past, and a pair of oldsters appeared at a window across the way.

None of these individuals seemed at all threatening.

“I'll go knock,” said Abe.

“I'll keep the engine going.”

“Good idea.” The pudgy officer holstered his revolver, looked at the Biggman's Burger napkin, said, “Garret Oakwell, Garret Oakwell,” stuffed the information into his chest pocket, and repeated the name twice more as if he were preparing for a recital. “Sounds kinda fake, doesn't it?”

“He's a taxpayer. Dispatch checked on him before they sent us.”

Abe pulled the handle to no avail. Embarrassed, he undid the lock, and jerked the latch a second time, opening the door. Cold spilled into the heated vehicle as he climbed outside.

“Something happens to me,” the pudgy officer said, “don't tell my wife about the gentlemen's lounge.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

Exhaling steam, Abe nodded his head, patted his gun, and closed the door.

Nancy was not especially concerned about her partner's safety. Her experiences on the streets of Victory and as a soldier in Haiti told her that bullets favored people of intelligence.

A heavy white man with silver hair, a long beard, and abraded denim appeared in the doorway of the mural-adorned building. Standing directly behind him was a brunette woman in ancient leather who was either his sister or his wife. No less than one third of her body mass was stored in her rump.

Abe waved as he approached the couple, and Nancy cracked her window.

“'Bout time you got out here,” said the bearded biker. “My motorcycle might already be a Canadian.”

The pudgy officer continued up the stone walkway. “Are you Mr. Garrett Oakwell?”

“Exactly how many people 'round here got their motorcycles took that you need to ask me that?”

“Sir, please.” Abe reached the stoop. “I'm required to follow official police procedures when res—”

“Eat at Biggman's, did you?” Oakwell pointed an index finger. “I see the napkin right there.”

“Sir. Please—”

“Maybe you had lunch with the guy who took my motorcycle?” posited the biker. “Maybe he was right next to you, and when he said, ‘Pass the ketchup,' you went and passed him the ketchup. A brand-new bottle—still vacuum sealed so it clicked when he opened it.”

“Sir. Pl—”

“Maybe the guy who took it used the bathroom same time as you. Maybe his stall ran out of toilet paper, and he asked you for more, and you got it for him. The soft stuff you can wipe with all day.”

“We did drive-through.”

In the cruiser, Nancy sighed.

“When you were in line at the drive-through,” Oakwell continued, “was the one ahead of you a stolen motorcycle?”

“I don't remember.” Abe looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes at his partner.

“What're you looking back there for?”

The pudgy officer returned his attention to the biker. “Is your name Garrett Oakwell?”

“Still haven't figured that out?”

Something entered Nancy's rearview mirror, and she adjusted the angle of the glass for a better view. Two blocks away was a moving object that looked like a van.

Its headlights were off.

Calmly, the policewoman removed her pump-action shotgun from the rack.

“Please just answer the question,” said Abe.

“I am now, always have been, and always will be Garrett Oakwell.”

Nancy faced her partner and the bikers. “Everyone go inside right now.”

“The law isn't welcome in my house.”

“Get inside!” snapped the policewoman. “You're in danger.” Her eyes returned to the rearview mirror.

The approaching vehicle was one block away. It was a brown cargo van that exactly matched the description of the one that had been spotted the previous night at the crime scene.

“Inside!” Abe shouted as he guided the couple (or siblings) into the building. “Move it!”

Nancy aimed the pump-action shotgun through her rear windshield.

Tires screeched, and the brown van shot forward. The policewoman panned her weapon, tracking the vehicle as it rumbled past the patrol car and crossed the intersection at the end of the block. No license plate sat upon its rear bumper.

Nancy knew that she could not let the cop killers get away. Shouting “Call for backup!” to Abe, she set the shotgun on the passenger seat, shifted gears, and stomped the accelerator.

The patrol car roared.

Tires skirled, and the Toilet turned into a blur as Nancy rocketed toward the brown cargo van.

The patrol car shook as it thundered up the road. Flying stones dented the frame, and the engine wailed, but the policewoman did not raise her foot from the gas. The distance between the speeding vehicles soon narrowed to half a block.

Nancy reached for her shotgun, and a black square appeared at the back of the van.

It was a window.

White fire exploded from the opening. The patrol car's headlights shattered, and a front tire burst, jerking the steering wheel to the left. Metal screeched.

The cruiser fishtailed, its blasted wheel flapping.

Nancy lifted her foot from the gas and turned directly into the skid. The remaining tires caught, and soon, she regained control of her car. Stomping the accelerator, she continued her pursuit.

The distance between the vehicles closed, and again, the policewoman reached for her shotgun.

Fire boomed.

The windshield exploded, and a score of pellets seared Nancy's neck and chest.

Tires thudded. The vehicle leapt the curb, and a telephone pole slammed into the grille. Nancy's forehead pounded against the steering wheel.

Dizzy and bloodied, the policewoman leaned over, located her shotgun, and pointed it forward, through the broken windshield. The brown cargo van was no bigger than a matchbook, and soon, it was a memory.

“Come back here, you faggots! Fucking faggot cocksuckers!”

Officer Nancy Blockman was surprised by her own vocabulary.

 

XXX

Bettinger Versus Sleep

“Wake up.”

Bettinger opened his eyes. His bedroom had become a cold white enclosure, and for no reason that he could possibly apprehend, Alyssa was a gaunt, pockmarked Asian guy who had close-cropped black-and-silver hair. Reality rearranged tired thoughts, and murkily, the detective recalled two acts: Sitting at his desk and leaning backward. It had not taken very long for the lurking predator known as sleep to capture its prey.

Huan helped Bettinger to his feet.

“It's from Hawaii,” said Perry, extending a thermos of coffee to the arisen detective.

Nodding his thanks, Bettinger received the vessel.

“Huan's got an uncle who sends it for the holidays,” said the redhead. “Their soil's way better than all this shit on the mainland.”

“It's an amazing place to get buried,” added the pockmarked Asian.

“Concentrate real hard and you'll taste hints of cinnamon and almonds.”

“Possibly bikinis.”

Bettinger tipped some of the odiferous coffee into his mouth. Even in his sleep-deprived condition, he recognized that the beverage was an extraordinary achievement. “This is—”

“You've got two minutes!” Zwolinski shouted from behind his desk.

“We'll drop you at the Sunflower,” Perry said as he and the other two detectives proceeded toward the door. “Your car will be in the lot when you wake up—we're covering the repair bill and'll put the keys under your door.”

Bettinger had no interest in thanking the redhead for these services. “Fine.”

“Don't worry though—Dominic isn't going to walk away from your challenge.”

“I wouldn't allow him to.”

Perry glanced at his partner and then eyed the contender. “Ever fight an elephant that's made out of angry gorillas?”

“Not since I was a kid.”

“Get ready.”

“Zwolinski handled him.”

“Zwolinski's a titan, and a scientific fighter. Even still, that was in a ring, with gloves, and you don't get dirty with the boss. You, on the other hand, will get the full arsenal.”

“I'm ready.”

“Want that on your tombstone? ‘He was ready.'”

“Put an ellipsis,” suggested Bettinger.

“‘He was ready…'”

Huan considered the revision. “It just became art.”

“Make sure it's cursive,” added the detective from Arizona.

Grinning, the redhead patted his charge's back and motioned him forward. “I will.”

Bettinger strode through the doorway and across the receiving area, where the bereaved receptionist at the front desk did not once lift her gaze from her big white telephone. It looked as if she was expecting a direct call from Heaven.

*   *   *

Something tapped Bettinger's right shoulder, rousing him, and his stinging eyes told him that he was in the back of a parked sedan. Huan sat behind the steering wheel, and Perry slouched in the passenger's seat, eating a candy bar. Magenta twilight painted the detectives' faces, the windshield, and the façade of the Sunflower Motel, which was twenty feet away.

“Show them your badge,” said the redhead. “You'll get half off.”

“Got it.”

Bettinger reached for the door.

“Hold up,” said Perry.

“Yeah?”

The redhead finished his candy bar, glanced at his partner, and returned his attention to the backseat. “You could've snitched on Dominic for what he did to that lady yesterday—the child abuser—and you could've told the boss about what happened to your car, but you didn't. You just kept working, pushing the case, coming up with ideas.”

“Good ones.” Huan held up a folded square of paper.

“Our information,” said Perry. “Cells, private e-mails.”

Bettinger claimed the data.

“Put them in your phone and flush the list.”

“I will. You guys have my info?”

“We do,” said the redhead. “If you think of something … or if something happens … call us.”

The pockmarked Asian nodded. “Whenever.”

“Thanks.”

Bettinger knew that Dominic was a brute and that Tackley was mean, but Huan and Perry both seemed like pretty decent guys, especially considering the environment in which they worked.

The redhead motioned to the motel. “Get a room on the second floor, away from the street and the other guests. Bolt the door, put the chain on, shove a couch in the way. Close the curtains and put your mattress on the ground so you won't get hit if somebody fires a gun through your window.”

“That's happened?”

“Some guys in a brown cargo van just took a shot at Nancy Blockman. She's okay, but the guys're still out there.”

“I'll be careful,” said the detective, disturbed by the news.

Huan extricated a cigarette and blew smoke. “Pleasant dreams.”

Bettinger left the car, shut the door, and dragged his elongated shadow into the lobby, where he received a set of keys from the bald fellow who sat behind the front desk.

“Enjoy your stay.”

“Mmph.”

The bleary-eyed detective returned to the cold, circumnavigated the yellow motel, and climbed up to his second-floor room, which faced the rear parking lot. Listening for noises, he opened the door and made a quick survey of the (well-heated) yellow-and-green interior, unsure if such precautions were paranoiac. His brief but thorough search revealed no clandestine enemies.

Following Perry's advice, Bettinger shut the door, twisted the bolt, drew the chain, pushed a couch in front of the entrance, closed the curtains, and slid the bed's queen-sized mattress off of the elevated box springs. This last endeavor revealed two condoms, a withered joint, and a Mexican scatological fetish magazine.

The detective had never imbibed urine for erotic purposes (or any other), but if he had, he doubted that the taste in his mouth would have been any worse than it was right now. Although he would have paid twenty-five dollars for a toothbrush and a squirt of paste, he was too tired to involve the front desk or return to the oppressive Victory cold to acquire a mint amenity.

Bettinger gargled hot water, spat, gargled hotter water, spat again, and rinsed. Returning to the bedroom, he withdrew his cell phone and highlighted his wife's number. This call would be his final act before relinquishing consciousness.

“Hi,” said Alyssa. “How are you?”

The detective discerned a well-concealed note of anxiety in the woman's voice. “You heard.”

“Did you know them?”

“I met one of them.” Bettinger sat on the edge of the box spring.

“Are you working on it?”

“The whole department is … though right now, I'm about to get some sleep.”