Mean Business on North Ganson Street (24 page)

“If I get cancer and you don't, I'll put a melanoma in your rice.”

“I might notice a lump.”

“I'll tell you it's tofu.”

The pockmarked Asian turned his head, exhaled filth, and created a flower of sparks, dashing his cigarette inside a flattened beer can. “You just had to ask.”

“Didn't want to be rude.”

Perry's left shoulder still ached from the bullet that he had taken in November, and the pain reminded him of the day when he, Huan, Dominic, and Tackley had caught up with the lying scumbag who had gotten Detective Lawrence Wilson killed. Although Sebastian had some legitimate grievances from that event (and others), his recent retaliations seemed random … if not evidence of outright madness. Gianetto and Dave Stanley were good, honest policemen (almost to the point of inefficacy), and had never even met the Hispanic, nor had Nancy Blockman and Abe Lott, whose lives had been threatened earlier this evening.

“It's tragic.” Perry raised a mug of dark stout. “To Gianetto and Dave.”

Huan hoisted an iced ginger ale. “To Gianetto and Dave.”

Glasses clinked, and the men drank.

“I'm not looking forward to that funeral,” the redhead remarked as he wiped foam off of his upper lip. “Italians don't hold it together.”

“Understatement of the millennium.”

“The food'll be good, I guess … and plenty of it. His daughter's sweet sixteen had enough fried ravioli to make a bivouac.” Perry sucked down another mouthful of beer. “You gonna bring Heather?”

“Police funerals give her nightmares,” said Huan, setting down his ginger ale. “This whole situation's got her worried enough.”

“Makes sense.”

As was the case whenever Perry grew morbid, he thought of his two sons in California, their mother, and her husband, the man with whom his progeny shared everything except for 50 percent of their genetic code and the first two years of their lives.

“Thinking about your boys?” asked Huan.

“Maybe.” The redhead had not seen his sons since the Christmas before the previous one, when he had flown out to visit them in San Francisco. During that trip, he had gotten into an argument that almost turned into a brawl with Dan, the Ivy League lawyer whom his wife had married. “It's all fucked to shit.”

“You should see your boys.”

“You know what's the worst thing about it? When things were getting hot between me and that prick Dan? My kids—my sons—sided with him—with their stepfather—a fucking lawyer—and I could tell if things got physical, they'd help him out.”

“You should see your boys.”

“That event doesn't need a sequel. Or a retarded remake in 3-D.”

“Don't go to San Francisco. That's Jill and Dan's territory, and you don't fit in with them. Take your sons to a fishing town or a beach resort—someplace new that can be yours together.”

Perry considered the suggestion. “Maybe.”

“You aren't their father in any traditional sense, so don't pretend like you are. You're a good guy, a smart cop, and a great friend. Show them that guy and they'll want to have some kind of relationship with you.”

“I'll think about it.”

“See them.”

Perry pulled the half-used cigarette from the ashtray and stuck it in Huan's mouth.

A respectful silence sat between the partners who had been best friends since their first year at the police academy.

The pockmarked Asian thumbed his lighter. Firelight shone upon the uneven surface of his face, illuminating all but the deepest pits. Hirsute tobacco glowed.

The song with the desultory guitar solo was replaced by a cut of soul from the seventies. Black men sang in precisely harmonized falsetto about an ice-cream sundae, which Perry concluded was a metaphor for a woman or the most delicious parts of a woman.

“Listen to these dudes,” remarked the redhead. “Black guys used to be so cool … so much cooler than a white guy could ever hope to be. Man—what the hell happened to them?”

“They became African Americans.”

“What a waste.” Perry drank an amount and adjusted his sling. “That Bettinger's pretty grumpy.”

“Intellectuals are usually grumpy.”

“Why?”

“Dumb guys always asking them, ‘Why?'”

“Minute ago you said I was smart.”

“Things change.”

Perry drank another lump of stout. “You think we'll find Sebastian?”

“We'll find him.” Huan sucked on his cigarette. “Though right now, something far more important is going on…”

“What?”

“Who.”

“Who?”

The pockmarked Asian exhaled smoke, and the redhead watched it float toward the bar, where a robust woman with platinum hair had put herself on display. A purple sweater and black slacks affectionately clung to her equipment.

“That's a specimen,” remarked Perry. “She's thrown a look?”

“Twice.”

“That's four eyeballs.”

“Plus mascara.”

Perry scrutinized the drink that traveled to the woman's painted lips. “That's an olive in there?”

“Probably not a miniature avocado.”

“She looks kinda lonely … forlorn, maybe.” The redhead gave some beer a tour of his mouth and sent it to the basement. “Might need some cheering up.”

“People say you're laughable.”

“I try.”

The woman pulled a lock of platinum hair behind her left ear and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Her movements were sensual and very self-conscious.

“I didn't even say ‘Action.'”

“I'm gonna play cards.” Huan turned his cigarette into a miniature hearth and rose from the table. “Have fun.”

“When you get home, give Heather my warmest and most invasive regards.”

Everybody who met the pockmarked Asian's adorable Thai wife had a crush on her.

“Probably not.”

“Don't make me steal her away from you,” warned Perry.

“You're not exactly her type.”

“What kind does she go for?”

“Deloused.”

“This from a guy who recycles.”

“That's just for pretend.”

“Like church?”

“Just like.” Huan pulled on his coat. “See you tomorrow.”

“Be safe.”

The pockmarked Asian shrugged.

“Don't be flip. It's dangerous out there, and you'd better be careful.”

“I'll be careful. Good luck with that olive.”

“You're talking to a pimento.” Perry ruffled his red hair.

Curvature appeared on Huan's chin, which was a very rare occurrence. Departing, he patted his partner's back.

Perry tilted his mug until it became a transparent vessel, set it down, and rose from the booth. Something with dripping church organs and a singer who had the pipes for gospel replaced the soul song about ice cream.

Stretching, the redheaded detective surveyed the bar. The seat to the right of the woman who had platinum hair was occupied by a guy that did not have a chance, and the one to her left was wide open.

“I noticed a vacancy,” said Perry, landing upon the latter stool.

The platinum specimen set down her drink, adjusted her tight purple sweater, and pulled a wisp from her face, which was a sharp and striking one that seemed to be of German origin. Although the dim blue lighting made it hard to tell if she employed a significant amount of makeup, the detective was not overly concerned—all of the lamps in his apartment had dimmers.

“I haven't seen you here before,” remarked Perry.

“I usually have better ideas.” The woman's voice was smooth, and her breasts were things of great interest.

“My name's Perry.”

Preoccupied by troublesome thoughts, the platinum specimen watched her olive.

“You can use a pseudonym if you'd like,” suggested the detective. “Or I can give you a name that's commonly used in limericks.”

The woman continued her ruminations.

“Look,” Perry said, “you were sitting here, giving me looks—as noticeable as neon—so I came over. But I'm polite. If you want to be alone, I'll go away.”

“You don't need to go.”

The drink levitated to the platinum specimen's mouth, and the olive disappeared. Chewing, she set down her martini glass.

Perry observed the machinations of her Teutonic jaw. “I bet your teeth are real soft.”

A tiny smile crept underneath the woman's nose. “Soft and sharp.”

“Perry.”

The chewed olive was sent to the dungeon. “I'm Kristie.”

With a raised finger, the detective garnered the attention of the bartender, who was a tacit, dumpy, and dour iteration of his species. “A thing with an olive for the lady, and a stout for me.”

“Mm.” The creature in the apron faced his bottles and extended appendages.

Perry returned his attention to Kristie. “That's your real name?”

“I respond to it.”

“I like responsiveness. You live in this area?”

The platinum specimen frowned. “Do I look like I live in this area?”

The detective knew then that he was talking to a person who had some baggage. “You look like you could live anywhere you wanted.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“I'm hoping.”

“Seems like an insinuation.”

The baggage was turning into freightage.

“Cute girls have options,” Perry defended, “and beautiful women have them to the tenth power.”

“So that's what women are? Things to look at?”

“No, no, no—of course not. I'm in it for the smell.”

“I thought you said you were polite.”

“Within reason.”

“So you like to objectify women?”

The detective knew then that Kristie liked to go to marches and rallies. “Any person you don't know is an object. Having an interaction like this—talking—gives you some idea what's inside that object.”

“But it's mostly about looks for you.”

“No. It starts with looks, 'cause that's how attraction works in the part of the brain we can't control.” An idea occurred to Perry. “Show me a picture of the last guy you dated.”

“I deleted him.”

The detective pulled out his cell phone, which had Internet capabilities. “Tell me his name.”

“No.”

“I'll bet he's handsome,” said Perry, pocketing his device. “I'll bet one thousand bucks that you did not rise above the crude impulses of physical attraction and date a bald, zitty midget just because he had a great-ass personality.”

“You're not that handsome,” said the platinum specimen, grinning.

The detective relaxed, pleased that he had successfully navigated the first minefield. “I've been told I'm pretty damn okay.”

A mug of beer bumped Perry's elbow, and as the empty martini glass changed into one that was full, he withdrew a twenty and put it on the bar. Claiming the bill, the creature in the apron returned to its lair.

Kristie nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Perry guided his cylinder of stout toward the woman's glass. “To pretty objects.”

“And those less fortunate.”

Two distinct pitches rang.

A bathroom door opened, and white light spilled into the bar, brightly illuminating the pair as if they were the stars of an impromptu musical. Perry got a very good look at Kristie, whose face evinced some wear, but was still very pretty overall. If he had to guess, he would have said that she was a youthful and healthy forty-two-year-old woman.

“I'm forty-two,” said Kristie, setting down her martini.

“Never would've guessed.”

The bathroom door closed, and the spotlight was gone. Troubling thoughts returned to the platinum specimen.

“What is it?” asked the detective.

Kristie sighed. Perry hated this sound, which had been his ex-wife's primary manner of communication during the last miserable year of their marriage, but today in the bar, he let it sail.

“I was supposed to meet somebody here tonight,” said the woman.

“You're in luck.”

“A guy.”

“Still lucky.”

“We went out last week—had a really good time—and were supposed to meet up here.” Kristie glanced at her watch. “More than an hour ago.”

“And then things changed for the better.”

The expression on the platinum specimen's face did not affirm the detective's statement, and he knew instantly that his efforts had been wasted. Sipping from his stout, he searched the establishment for new prospects.

Kristie set down her drink. “I think I should call a cab.”

A lone star twinkled in the black vacuum of space.

“You don't have a car?” asked Perry.

“My friend dropped me off. Jordan—that's the guy I was supposed to meet—has a car, and … well…”

“Again, you're in luck.”

“No, thank you.” The woman shook her head. “Sorry, but I'll just call a cab.”

“I'm a cop.”

Doubt wrinkled the platinum specimen's brow.

The detective set down his beer and displayed his badge.

“You really are one,” said Kristie, relieved. “If it's okay … I'd like to go now.”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“On Fourth, off Summer.”

Perry ingested the remaining stout. “That'll give you plenty of time to make up a phone number.”

Kristie drank the triangle of fluid from her martini glass and set it down. “I won't make one up.”

The detective helped the woman into her coat and escorted her into the parking lot, where his dark blue luxury car sat beside a neon four-leaf clover that looked like it had been twice picked. Exhaling steam, he opened the passenger door for his guest.

“Thank you,” said Kristie, climbing inside. Her words sat in the air—a visible puff lighted green by buzzing neon.