Mean Business on North Ganson Street (33 page)

The windshield wipers shoved powder across the glass, and through the opening, Bettinger saw Victory. Covered with snow and viewed from a distance, the city resembled a mildewed autopsy.

The detective's cell phone buzzed, and he took the call. “Yes?”

“Where are you?” asked Dominic.

“The exit.”

“We got Slick Sam.”

Bettinger was surprised by the news. “He say anything useful?”

“He's still unconscious.”

“What happened to him?”

“Some of his legs broke. Go to four twenty-eight Orchid Terrace, off of Thirtieth, and call when you're near.”

“Four twenty-eight Orchid.”

“Mm.”

The line went dead.

*   *   *

Bettinger parked the charcoal gray pickup truck on Orchid Terrace, directly behind Dominic's silver car, which now had chains on its tires. Beside the two vehicles was a brownstone that had boarded-up windows, barbed-wire fences, and three ancient missing-person notices where the subjects' faces looked septic.

The detective drew his gun and stepped outside, scanning the area. Something clanked.

Bettinger turned around. A flap that was a cellar door scattered snow as it swung open, and Dominic rose from the ground, wearing a black overcoat and matching gloves. Dangling from his right hand was a gun.

The detective locked the pickup truck and walked toward his partner.

“Close it behind you,” the big fellow said as he descended concrete steps.

Bettinger entered the stairwell, pulled the cellar door shut, and slid the iron bolt. Smelling dust, he followed the big fellow into the earth. Below them shone a dim yellow light.

“Here—” Dominic proffered a piece of black cloth.

Bettinger claimed the fabric, which was a ski mask.

The policemen entered a dank storeroom where a dirty hanging lightbulb illuminated rotten cardboard boxes and a stained twin mattress that was covered with cat skeletons. Saprogenic growth covered the small bones like kitten fur.

“Put yours on,” said the big fellow, donning his black ski mask. Between his lips were fake gold teeth.

Bettinger then knew for certain that Dominic was the man who had terrorized Kimmy, the stoner who lived with Sebastian's girlfriend. The big fellow's crime was not a true surprise to the detective, nor was the fact that he no longer cared about an intimidation tactic and a dead feline. Much worse things had occurred since that time.

Bettinger pulled the ski mask over his head and followed Dominic to a closed door. There, the big fellow knocked in three groups of two.

An old bolt clacked, and the door retreated into an unlighted room. A crisp, soft voice said, “Come in.”

The detective followed his partner into the darkness, which smelled like urine and feces. Plastic crinkled underfoot.

Hinges squeaked, and a bolt clicked. A lightbulb appeared overhead, glaring, and its radiance illuminated the third masked policeman, a stack of cinder blocks, four stone walls, a corroded boiler, three boarded-up vents, and the pale flesh of the naked and unconscious white fellow who was lying handcuffed and fettered atop the clear tarpaulin that covered the floor. Cellophane wrapped the man's legs, which were bloody and swollen, and a piece of his right shinbone had cut through the plastic. The captive's lupine physiognomy, oiled hair, and thin mustache exactly matched the sketch that Bettinger had seen at the pillbox.

“I just gave Shitdick a little morphine,” remarked Tackley.

“How're his vitals?”

“Sufficient.” The mottled man gestured at the captive. “I'll lead this, though grab the reins if you see something.”

“I will.”

Dominic snorted steam. “Let's.”

Tackley kneeled on the tarpaulin, raised his left hand, and slapped Slick Sam. The car dealer shuddered, but did not awaken.

“I can do it.” Dominic put the heel of his enormous boot over Slick Sam's shaved testicles.

“Don't,” said Tackley. “This needs to be gentle.” The mottled man elbowed the captive's larynx.

Slick Sam yelped, and urine arced into the air.

“Watch it.” Dominic pointed at the activated phallus. “He isn't empty.”

The captive opened his eyes, which were red and dilated. “Where the fuck…?” Confused by the narcotic, he appraised the boiler room, its masked occupants, and finally himself. The color drained from his face when he saw his own legs. “Get me to a hospital. I need—”

“Shut up.” Tackley withdrew a photograph of Melissa Spring, the attractive young woman who was Sebastian's girlfriend. Holding up the image, the mottled man said, “You sold a vehicle to—”

“Take me to the hospital right now.”

“You sold a vehicle to this woman.” Tackley shook the photograph. “What kind—”

“I won't say anything until I get some medical—”

An open hand slapped the captive's face, and again, the mottled man shook the picture.

“What kind of—”

“Until you get me a doctor, ‘Fuck you' is my all-purpose answer.”

Tackley pounded Slick Sam's nose, snapping the cartilage.

“Fuck!”

Bettinger drew closer. “If you want some medical attention, you'd better answer him.”

The captive spat blood. “Not until I see a doctor.”

“That's not the order of things,” replied the detective.

“My legs look like fucking headcheese!”

“How about lasagna?”

Tackley motioned to Dominic, who claimed a cinder block from the stack, balanced it on the palm of his right hand, and held it out. Pieces of grit fell upon the cellophane that wrapped Slick Sam's broken legs.

The captive was terrified. “Don't,” he said, “I j—”

“What kind of car did you sell her?” The mottled man raised the photograph.

“You'll—you'll kill me once I tell you.”

“Why do you think we're wearing masks?” asked Bettinger.

Slick Sam had no answer to this question.

“It's so we can let you go after you help us,” stated the detective. “You're not who we're after—so don't get in the way.”

“Get me a doctor, and we'll—”

Dominic heaved the cinder block at the ceiling. The slab hung in the air for a moment and then plummeted toward Slick Sam's legs. Terrified, he shut his eyes.

The big fellow caught the block in his left hand, and loose grit bounced off of the cellophane.

“He's a below-average juggler,” remarked Tackley.

“But I hope to improve.”

Slick Sam opened his eyes. His entire body was shaking.

The mottled man raised the photograph of Melissa Spring. “What kind of vehicle did you sell her?”

“A blue jeep.”

Bettinger took out his mechanical pencil and leaned forward. “Manufacturer?”

“Stallion Star.”

“What hue?”

“Cobalt.”

“You give her a license plate?”

“No.”

“She had her own?”

“Probably, but I never saw it.”

“V-six?”

“Eight.”

The detective scratched the information onto his notepad as quickly as it was uttered. “What kind of tires?”

“Mud terrain.”

“For off-road?”

“Yeah.”

Tackley and Dominic exchanged a meaningful glance, and Bettinger motioned for them to take the reins.

The mottled man leaned forward. “Did she mention the Heaps?”

“We didn't hang out.” Slick Sam spat bloody mucus. “She just told me what she needed. Paid cash.”

“When was that?” asked Bettinger.

“Five, six weeks ago.”

“Anything else customized?”

The car dealer ruminated for a moment. “She had me put straps in the back.”

“For what? A wheelchair?”

“Dogs.”

“You see these dogs?”

“When she came over.”

“What kind are they?”

“Dobermans.”

“The best,” remarked Dominic. “How many she got?”

“Four.”

“Anything else?” asked Bettinger.

“No. Nothing.”

Dominic hurled the cinder block across the room, and Slick Sam flinched when it shattered against the wall.

“Now g-get me to a doctor.”

Tackley rose to his feet. “You'll go when everything's resolved.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

“Pray that it doesn't.”

“You can't just—”

The mottled man kicked the captive's jaw, knocking him unconscious. He then rolled the man onto his stomach, withdrew a half-filled syringe, and stuck it in an exposed buttock so that its plunger was within reach of the fellow's bound hands.

“How much morphine's that?” asked Bettinger, pocketing his notepad.

Dominic frowned. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. Especially if he gave us bad info.”

“He didn't.”

“In case.”

“There's not enough to kill him,” said Tackley.

“Okay.”

The policemen departed from the boiler room, and the mottled man switched off the light, closed the door, and turned the lock.

“What're the Heaps?” asked Bettinger, pocketing his ski mask.

Dominic peeled the fabric from his face and removed his gold teeth. “What's north of Shitopia.”

“Didn't know there was more city past that.”

“It's not city.” Tackley wiped sweat from his white-and-pink face with his mask. “It's decades of disaster piled on top of itself—a wasteland.”

“You think Sebastian's there?” inquired the detective.

“It's the only place in Victory that requires off-road tires.” The mottled man seized a cardboard box that was labeled
KITCHEN
and carried it toward the stairwell.

“Ain't those tires good for the snow?” posited Dominic. “Maybe he knew 'bout the blizzard?”

“Not five or six weeks ago,” said Bettinger.

“All this shit sounds like guesses.”

“It's what we have.”

“Wait here.”

Dominic climbed the steps, undid the bolt, and opened the cellar door. For the better part of a minute, he scanned the outside area for assassins. “It's clear.”

Bettinger walked toward the stairwell and the falling snow. Tackley followed, carrying his cardboard box, the contents of which clanked with his footfalls.

 

XLVI

Canine Itinerary

Ice crunched underneath the falling boots of the policemen as they strode toward their vehicles. Held in Bettinger's right hand was one of the killer's silencer-equipped semiautomatic guns. Its safety was off.

“Sorry 'bout your wife and son,” said Dominic, dusting snow from his shoulders. “I can't even imagine how that must feel.” He exhaled steam through his nostrils as he walked. “My ex had a miscarriage when we was together, and that was rough. Pretty much the beginnin' of the end for us.”

“I'm sorry about Perry and Huan,” said the detective. “They seemed like good guys.”

“They were.”

“Better than us,” remarked Tackley. His little blue eyes were hard.

Bettinger reached the charcoal gray truck, withdrew the note from his pocket, and held it out. “Wanna go over it?”

The mottled man set the cardboard box on the hood of the silver car and took the letter. His eyes flickered left to right for the duration of a minute.

“Seems like the killers aren't local,” said Tackley, handing the note to Dominic.

“I inferred that as well.”

“We'll need to get their names from Sebastian before we kill him.”

“I'm not sure he'll know who they are,” said Bettinger. “It looks like he used a couple of middlemen to keep things anonymous.”

“That's fiction. Too many variables could go wrong in a setup like that. And if he really doesn't know, we'll make him find out.”

The detective thought of the box of kitchen supplies. “Okay.”

Dominic looked up from the letter. “Gianetto and Stanley got killed the day before it was supposed to happen.”

“It was after midnight,” Bettinger said, “so technically it was the right day.”

“I guess.” The big fellow took an ice scraper from his car. “We better find that fuckin' Sebastian.”

The detective considered the situation. “How big are the Heaps?”

“Big.”

“Do we have some kind of canine division?”

Dominic scraped chunks from his windshield. “A dude named Wendell works freelance with the department.”

“Dogs won't help us,” said Tackley, putting his cardboard box into the car. “They make too much noise for something like this, and the blizzard's almost here.”

Bettinger shook his head. “I don't want dogs—I want their whistles.”

“Why?” asked Dominic.

“The Dobermans.”

Tackley grinned, revealing two rows of small yellow teeth. “Four of them.”

The big fellow heaved a slab of ice as if he were a giant. “But don't whistles make them sit? Or do tricks?”

“Only if they're trained that way,” said the detective, clearing the powder from the truck's windshield with his right arm. “Most dogs bark when they hear one.”

A grin of comprehension illuminated Dominic's face. “Nigga's got ideas.”

Tackley flung the passenger door. “We'll swing by Wendell's place, get some whistles on the way up.”

“Good.”

The big fellow circumvented the silver car and opened the driver's door. “You can ride with us if you want.”

“We should have more than one vehicle,” Bettinger said as he entered the pickup truck, brushing powder from his scalp. “I'll follow.”

“Good thing you ain't driving the mustard.”

*   *   *

Dominic slammed a battering ram against the back door of a two-story brownstone. Wood buckled, and canines barked.