Mean Business on North Ganson Street (32 page)

It took Bettinger a moment to realize that he was looking at a pair of ovaries.

Sickened by the sight, he turned his head. Mist poured from the cooler, making the frigid interior of the truck even colder.

Grimacing, the detective put on a glove, seized the pieces of dry ice, and tossed them into the snow, where they crackled and hissed like firecrackers in reverse.

The mist in the cab dissipated, and Bettinger returned his attention to the cooler. Lying underneath the frozen and excised genitalia was a laminated envelope.

A dog barked, startling the detective.

“Christ's uncle.”

Bettinger stepped out of the truck, surveyed his violet environs, and saw some activity at the far end of the block. There, an unfortunate oldster tugged on a leash, waging a war against his pet, which was either a mastiff or a horse that had learned how to bark.

The detective reentered the truck, withdrew a piece of paper from the envelope, and read.

Dear Sir,

My identity is unimportant.

I am an anonymous agent who has been hired by a go-between to enlist your services. I do not know and will not ever know the identity of the unknown third party who is funding this enterprise.

Enclosed in this package you will find $50,000. These bills are unmarked and numerically unrelated.

This stipend of $50,000 is an advance payment for the executions of two (2) police officers in the city of Victory, Missouri, next month on the exact day of Wednesday, January 30. No lethal action should occur in this location before the stipulated date.

If you decide not to render these services, you are required to return this payment to the address below.

Bettinger looked down and saw that the address had been removed from the bottom of the letter. He then continued reading from where he had left off.

(If you neither return the money, nor fulfill your obligations, you will be executed.)

It is the sincerest hope of the unknown third party that you will kill more than two police officers on the day of the event.

For each and every Victory policeman that you kill, you will earn an additional sum of $25,000. The women officers are also targets, but at a discounted rate of $18,500 (for obvious reasons).

The unknown third party wishes to eliminate the entire police force of Victory, though an elimination of the majority of officers is also a satisfactory end result.

No less than fifteen of your peers have been contacted and offered the same exact terms, and thus, in order to keep things simple and honest, each of you must be able to prove your murderous achievements.

The unknown third party has stipulated that the proof must be the penis and badge of each executed policeman, and in the case of a slain female, her badge and ovaries. These excised bits of anatomy should be frozen in order to prevent their decomposition during the long period of silence that will follow the day of executions. (Formaldehyde—though permissible—is not recommended.)

You will be contacted six to twelve months after January 30 and asked to exhibit proofs of any and all killings that you committed so that the unknown third party might properly remit payment.

Best wishes to you and good luck!

Trembling with anger, Bettinger returned the letter to the envelope and stuffed it in the back pocket of his corduroy pants.

It was time for him to drive north.

 

XLIV

Idling in Shitopia

Snow fell from the violescent sky onto the eyes of a dying pigeon.

Sitting inside the black two-seater that was parked underneath the overhang of the abandoned school, Bradley Janeski watched the inclement weather bury the bird, which was the fourth one that he had seen collapse during his eleven-hour surveillance mission. Frozen talons were all that remained of the other feathered corpses.

The blizzard was supposed to land at nine o'clock (according to the news), and the weary cadet feared that he might be stranded in Shitopia if he did not soon depart. Slick Sam had not visited the concrete building that was purported to be his chop shop, nor had anybody else, and the twenty-two-year-old doubted that his first stakeout would yield anything but stoppered sinuses and a cough.

Bradley Janeski thumbed a preset number on his cell phone and pressed the receiver to his ear.

“You see him?” asked Corporal Dominic Williams.

“I don't think he's gonna show. The blizzard's on its way and—”

“Shut up.”

The cadet closed his mouth.

“I know you're uncomfortable,” the big fellow continued, “but you're stayin' there 'til you see him. When you do, call me or Tackley.”

“How about Detective Huan and Detective Molloy?”

There was no response to this question, and Bradley Janeski wondered if the line had been disconnected.

“Corporal Williams?”

“Just me and Tackley.” The big fellow cleared his throat. “Huan and Molloy are workin' on somethin' else right now.”

“Okay, though I'm gonna need to get some more food if—”

“Have a snow cone and stay put.”

The line went dead.

Bradley Janeski folded his cell phone and reclaimed his binoculars from beside the sketch of Slick Sam, whose lupine features, thin mustache, and oiled hair were so burned into his retinas that he saw them superimposed over everything—even when he closed his eyes. Except for the level of the snow and the amount of neural activity in the fourth pigeon's brain, nothing in the area had changed since his last survey.

The cadet donned his cap, exited the car, urinated, zipped up his pants, brushed flakes from his clothes, returned to the hidden two-seater, twisted the ignition, and cranked the heat. This cycle of activities had been repeated no less than eighteen times since he had begun his stakeout.

Bored, Bradley Janeski stuck an earbud into the right side of his head and thumbed his media player.

A man with a rich baritone voice read from the text of a book.

“—and shut the door. His training had not prepared him for this.

“Outside in the hall was a cacophony of metallic sounds. Grinding and whirring. Clanks. Hank knew the thing was getting closer. It smelled them.”

A blue luxury car appeared at the south end of the block.

Bradley Janeski stopped the audio book and raised his binoculars. The traffic on this road during the last ten hours had consisted of seven cars, and thus, each automobile was an event.

Focusing the conjoined antireflective lenses, the cadet monitored the blue luxury vehicle. Snow crackled underneath its tires as it rolled up the street toward the hidden observer.

Taillights flashed, and the vehicle stopped.

Bradley Janeski's stomach lurched.

The blue luxury car had landed directly in front of the concrete building. A collapsed fence, some snow, and a distance of three hundred feet were all that lay between the hidden two-seater and the new arrival.

Without taking his eyes from his binoculars, the cadet reclaimed his cell phone. His superior's number had already been highlighted, and all that he had to do was press the connect button if he saw Slick Sam.

The blue car's taillights were dark, but the plume of exhaust that rose from its rear end told the young man that the vehicle was idling. Behind the tinted glass, somebody moved.

Bradley Janeski's heart pounded.

The window flashed, and the driver's door opened. From the interior of the vehicle emerged a white fellow in dark blue who had smooth tan skin, a mane of well-oiled black hair, and a lupine face.

Bradley Janeski thumbed the connect button. As the phone rang, he descried a passenger inside of the blue car—a woman who had red hair, a brown fur coat, and a magazine.

“Yeah?” said Corporal Dominic Williams.

“Slick Sam's here.”

“Alone?”

“There's a chick.”

The car dealer said something to the woman and closed the door, shutting her inside.

“We'll be there in fifteen,” said the big fellow.

“The chick didn't get out, and the car's in idle.”

“The car's in idle?”

“Yeah.”

“Go arrest him. Do just like we talked about with the car.”

The cadet buckled his seat belt and lowered his window. “What about the chick?”

“She's whatever. It's him we need. Go.”

The line went dead.

Across the street, Slick Sam walked toward the front door of the concrete building. A key ring that had numerous occupants glimmered in his left hand.

Bradley Janeski knew that he should not let the suspect go indoors.

He tossed his cell phone and binoculars onto the sketch, shifted gears, and stomped the accelerator. The two-seater surged forward, shedding the shadow of the overhang.

Slick Sam looked over his shoulder.

Roaring across the lot, the black car flung snow. “Police!” the cadet yelled through his open window. His bumper clanked against a fence post, scattering sparks.

The suspect darted for the blue vehicle.

“Hands in the air!” shouted Bradley Janeski, firing his snub-nosed revolver at the sky. The shot boomed like an exclamation point.

Slick Sam reached the door of his blue sedan.

The two-seater thudded onto the sidewalk. Thirty feet separated the car dealer and the careening automobile that sped toward him.

Slick Sam dove out of the way and belly-flopped on the powder.

Bradley Janeski steered for the suspect's legs.

“Stop!” yelled Slick Sam.

Shins cracked underneath the two left tires, and the cadet stomped the brakes. A concrete wall pounded the grille, catapulting the young man forward until his seat belt snapped taut. His revolver flew out of his hand, ricocheted off of the windshield, and tumbled underneath the passenger seat.

Dazed, the cadet shifted into park—an act that he realized was somewhat redundant. He did not know if he should be proud or ashamed of his actions.

“Fuck!” yelled Slick Sam. “You broke my fucking legs!”

Bradley Janeski prostrated himself, slid his left hand under the passenger seat, and felt around for the revolver, hoping that it had not fallen through the hole in the floor that his older brother had not yet fixed. A window exploded, accompanied by the sound of a gunshot.

Glass covered the prone cadet's back, and he shouted, “You're under arrest! Put down your—”

Gunfire boomed, and a round piece of sky appeared in the car's ceiling.

Cursing himself for letting his car get so messy, the cadet dug through the soda cans, magazines, and crumpled bags that were underneath the passenger's seat. Cold air blew through the hole in the floor, freezing his fingertips as he searched for the snub-nosed revolver.

Bradley Janeski heard something, and he paused to listen to it more closely. It was a quiet and steady crunching sound. Somebody was walking through the snow.

“Ma'am,” the cadet said, “get back to your vehicle right now or I will shoot you.” He slid his hand through the hole in the bottom of his car and felt around for the gun. “I have permission.”

“You … have permission?” repeated Slick Sam, who sounded equally pained and incredulous.

“Yeah,” said Bradley Janeski, patting the snow underneath the two-seater. “Completely.” His pinkie landed upon notched metal.

“To shoot an unarmed woman?” asked the car dealer.

“The chick can just go home or whatever,” the cadet said as he seized the fallen revolver and raised it through the hole in the floor. “All I want's you.”

“Why?”

Bradley Janeski adjusted his rearview mirror until he could see Slick Sam. A gun was in the fellow's right hand, and the area around his crooked legs looked like a cherry snow cone. Kneeling beside him was the redhead in the brown fur coat. It did not look like she had a weapon, but there was no way for the cadet to be certain.

“Ma'am!” shouted Bradley Janeski. “Get back in that car and drive away.”

“I'm not leaving him like this,” protested the woman, who had a sour New Jersey accent. “In the snow with his legs all—”

“You're not taking him anywhere,” said the cadet, pointing his revolver at the sky. “Now get back in that car of yours and drive off or I'll shoot you to death. You've got ten seconds.”

“What kind of cop are you?”

“This kind!” The gun boomed. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”

“Those aren't seconds!” protested Slick Sam.

“Seven. Six. Five.”

“Go!”

“Four. Three.”

The redheaded woman bolted across the snow, fell on her face, rose to her feet, clambered into the vehicle, changed gears, and sped off.

“You're a real gentleman,” remarked Slick Sam, whose voice had become slurred. “Tip top.”

“Throw your gun against the wall or I'll back over your legs.”

The groggy car dealer stared at the black two-seater. “You'll … what?”

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.”

The pistol clattered against the side of the concrete building.

“Cocksucker.”

 

XLV

A Talk with Shitdick

Bettinger drove the charcoal gray pickup truck toward Victory. The vehicle was a better choice than his bright yellow hatchback, since it had elevation and snow tires, and was as inconspicuous as it was disposable.

Although the detective had very few experiences driving in the snow, he knew that automobiles like this one had better traction whenever they carried cargo, and so he wrapped the killer's corpse in a blanket and dumped it into the flatbed. This contribution of pounds was likely the most beneficent act ever committed by the vile sociopath who had murdered Gordon.

Despite the additional weight, the pickup truck fishtailed thrice during the trip north. These jarring events occurred when Bettinger changed lanes, and mostly because he found it hard to maintain a safe speed. Whenever he thought of his son or his wife or his daughter or Sebastian or the killer or the things that he had found in the cooler, his right boot grew heavy.