Mean Business on North Ganson Street (20 page)

“When's today?”

“Fuckin' nasty.”

Bettinger cracked the door, looked outside, and saw that the street was empty. “Clear,” he said, resealing the entrance.

Dominic put three plastic handcuffs on the recliner and eyed his partner. “The bald white guy's the one to watch—name's Lester. Izzy and the girl ain't stupid enough to get feisty.”

“Got it.”

The big fellow thumbed the intercom button and said, “Got ninety seconds.” Leaning back, he surveyed the Chinese food containers that sat upon the armrest and poked one with his gun. “The hell's this?”

“Spicy tuna roll,” said L-Dog. “Probably still good.”

“You got sushi from a Chinese place?” Dominic was disgusted. “Musta been high when you ordered.”

The wigger shrugged.

Footfalls sounded inside the stairwell at the far end of the hall, and the policemen exchanged a glance that meant “Get ready.”

Bettinger cracked the front door again and looked outside. Feigning nonchalance on the far side of the street was a skinny white man who wore sunglasses, work boots, and a giant overcoat.

“The police are conducting an investigation in this area,” announced the detective, displaying his badge. “If you stay here, the best thing that'll happen to you is a full-body search.” An assortment of soft and hard shoes tattooed the indoor steps, growing louder as they neared the ground floor. “So either put your hands on your head or leave.”

The skinny fellow bolted, his overcoat ruffling like a cape.

Bettinger shut the door, turned around, and raised his gun.

Emerging from the stairwell were an austere biracial madam who wore a heavy overcoat, a bald white guy in a green jogging outfit who had wild eyes, and a light-skinned black man in a blue suit who had intricate facial hair and precise three-sixty waves.

“Hands up and kiss the fuckin' wall,” barked Dominic.

“Why're you here?” inquired Izzy, the stylish black man.

“Shut up.”

The trio raised their hands, and a blond Asian woman who was holding a cell phone as if it were a gun appeared on the stairwell and announced, “I'm recording this.”

Bettinger wondered if the Victory police should join an actors' union.

The suspects faced the wall, and Dominic snatched the plastic handcuffs from the recliner.

“You gonna take us to the grocery store?” asked Lester, the bald white guy. “The one by Sebastian's place? Show us some groceries?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The big fellow yanked the white guy's arms behind his back and bound his hairy wrists with a zip tie.

“Aren't you going to read me my rights?”

“Nah.”

Lester turned to the Asian videographer. “Detective Williams is violating the law.”

“He isn't,” Bettinger said as he cracked the door. “You'll hear your rights before you're questioned.” Outside, the street was empty.

“That's at the station.” Dominic handcuffed Izzy. “When we've separated you.”

“What're we being charged with?” Kitty inquired as her wrists were bound.

“Somethin' or other.”

“You have to tell us,” stated Lester. “You're required to.”

Bettinger glanced at Dominic. “He watches a lot of movies.”

“Black-and-whites.” The big fellow motioned to the pile of blond dreadlocks. “Grab the wigger.”

The detective helped the prone man to his feet, looked outside, and saw the families that had emerged from the opposite building. To this gathering, he announced, “Anybody who steps within twenty-five feet of us or the silver car will be arrested for interfering with police business.” As his words ricocheted, he nodded at his partner.

Dominic thumbed the intercom. “Izzy, Kitty, Lester, and the wigger are goin' to jail—this place is now closed. The police'll be back in a hour and grab any retards who're still here.”

Gun in hand, Bettinger led the shackled quartet from the building. His partner trailed behind the prisoners, followed by the Asian videographer and the eyes of the group that stood on the opposite side of the street. Several of the spectators were smiling.

The criminals were stuffed into the back of Dominic's car, and an old woman yelled, “Put them in the incinerator!”

Her recommendation received a smattering of applause.

“Felons!” decried her husband, shaking a fist that looked like a crumpled grocery bag. “Racketeers!”

*   *   *

Bettinger was sporadically conscious during the cramped thirty-five-minute drive back to the pillbox. Inside the holding area, the big fellow and the detective read the prisoners their rights, charged them with a vast assortment of crimes, and installed them in two unconnected jail cells, the drunk tank, and an interrogation room.

The partners soon returned to the main area, where they saw Perry and Huan arrive, escorting five handcuffed and unhappy Hispanics who were somehow connected to Sebastian.

“Somebody open up the goddamn windows!” Zwolinski bellowed from behind his desk. “Goddamn crooks smell like possum.”

Two hasty cadets retrieved a stepladder that would enable them to perform the task.

“Get some coffee,” Dominic said to Bettinger, “I'm gonna talk to Izzy.”

“I want to be in that room.”

“I ain't arguing with you in front of him.”

“We won't argue.”

Doubt played across the big fellow's bandaged face. “I say, ‘Leave,' you heed me. This ain't time for regulations.”

“I'll give you room.” The detective would not allow his partner to physically coerce the prisoner, but he understood that there were already illicit connections in place and that any deal offered would remain off the record. “I know there's a relationship here.”

“Good.”

The door that led to the receiving room opened, and in walked five bloodied toughs who looked like they had just finished playing the version of dodgeball that used a cinder block rather than a rubber projectile. Succeeding the line of prisoners and drinking coffee from his antiaircraft shell was Tackley. As he traversed the main area, he lowered his beverage, looked at Bettinger, and nodded.

The detective returned the mottled man's salutation, aware that their tacit exchange was as meaningful as a handshake.

 

XXVIII

Poof

“Sebastian owns that buildin', but the girls, the casinos, the furniture, the dope—all that's Izzy's,” said Dominic, leading Bettinger into the rear hall of the pillbox. “He pays Sebastian rent—legal, on the books—and a percentage of his take off the books. That's how a lot of Sebastian's operations go.”

The policemen neared the gray door of the interrogation room in which they had earlier deposited the racketeer.

“Did Izzy continue to pay while Sebastian was in the hospital?” asked the detective.

“The rent, probably. But it'd be hard for Sebastian to know if he's gettin' his fair share of the rest.”

“That might be something to exploit.”

“Yeah. And he doesn't like bein' called ‘faggot,' which he is.”

A few more strides brought the policemen to the door. There, the big fellow said, “Don't give me elbows.”

“I won't.”

“I got a direct way to do this if he's churlish.”

Bettinger motioned for Dominic to precede him, and in tandem, they entered the interrogation room—a windowless enclosure that had cinder-block walls, four overhead lights, and two wooden chairs, one of which upheld Izzy. The racketeer's wrinkled blue jacket and unbound hands rested upon the only table, which was metal and bolted to the floor.

“If your ass comes one millimeter outta that seat,” the big fellow stated, “you get cuffs.”

The prisoner fingered his elaborate facial hair, which resembled filigree. “Why am I here?”

“Should I repeat the list?”

“Why am I here now? Today?”

Bettinger slid a red file across the table until it touched the prisoner's manicured fingers. “Peruse.”

Izzy lowered his gaze and lifted the cover. Inside was a photograph of Officer Dave Stanley, lying dead and mutilated on the pavement beside the blackened remains of his partner. “I heard about these guys,” said the racketeer, grimacing as he examined the picture. “You don't think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

Dominic shrugged. “Their dicks were stolen.”

“I don't know anything about this.” Izzy closed the file and surveyed the hard faces that loomed on the opposite side of the table. “I'll call my lawyer if you try to push this on me.”

“If you call your lawyer, I'll go back to where you work, get five floors of evidence, and turn your charges into a real court case.”

“You're not so clean yourself.”

“I ain't worried. You want a lawyer or you want to talk to us?”

“You know I didn't have anything to do with last night.”

“Your landlord did.” The big fellow put his hands on the table. “And we're lookin' for him.”

“He's in the hospital. Where you put him.”

“He checked out.”

Izzy seemed to be genuinely surprised by the news. “I saw him Sunday.”

“He left yesterday.” Dominic reopened the file and tapped the image of the executed officers. “Same day as this.”

A chuckle emerged from the racketeer.

The big fellow closed his fists, and the bandages on his face drew together. “You don't want to laugh anywhere near this picture.”

The threat hung in the air, and Bettinger prepared to interpose himself.

“You think Sebastian did this?” asked Izzy. “He's a cripple.”

“He had it done, and we're lookin' for him.”

“Try ringing his doorbell.”

“Ain't home. Vanished with his sister and his girlfriend.”

“Is that what innocent people usually do?” inquired Bettinger. “Hide?”

“What does that mean?” Izzy shook his head. “He probably thinks you guys want to finish what you started in that grocery. Throw another frozen turkey.”

The big fellow shrugged.

“I'd hide too,” said the racketeer.

“Is he in your building somewhere?”

“No. It's a walk-up.”

“Where else would he go? The place on Darren Street? Eve's? A flophouse in the perimeter? The Toilet? Out of town?”

“Follow the tracks of his wheelchair.”

Dominic straightened his jacket. “I know you're a entrepreneur—”

“An.”

“I know you're a entrepreneur,” the big fellow resumed, uncorrected, “so I gotta wonder why you're standin' up for a guy who charges you too much rent, takes a slice of your bank, and makes you lick his asshole. Seems like you'd benefit if Sebastian wheelchaired off a cliff.”

“I don't know where he is. I swear to God—on my mother's life—on that. I thought he was still in the hospital until you said he wasn't. But if I did know where he was, I wouldn't turn him over. I'm loyal.” Izzy tented his manicured fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Though I realize that the concept of loyalty might be hard for you to understand.”

“You got it backward, poof—who turned on who. That cockroach Sebastian earned his wheelchair and the bag he shits in.” Dominic spun the free chair around and sat on it so that he was at eye level with the prisoner. “But never mind what you think, 'cause here's the deal—here's reality:

“Help me find Sebastian or I'll burn down your operations.”

The racketeer was stunned.

“The building's already evacuated,” the big fellow continued, “and I got a pickup truck with oily rags and ten gas cans parked a few blocks away. All your casinos. All your herbs. All your beds and fancy linens.” He flashed his palms. “Poof.”

Izzy looked at Bettinger. “You hear this fucking maniac? You hear—”

“What was that?” asked the detective.

“Did you hear what he said to me? How he—”

“Sorry.” Bettinger jogged the side of his head as if it were a jukebox. “My ears are sporadic.”

“Goddamn Victory police.” Izzy massaged his temples with shaking hands. “Isn't somebody here supposed to be the good cop?”

“He was fired in the seventies.”

“Make me happy,” said Dominic. “I don't burn down buildings when I'm happy.”

Fearful tears glimmered in the racketeer's eyes. “You wouldn't really do it, would you?”

“That's the dumbest question I've ever heard. And I've got a ex-wife who asked, ‘Will we still be friends?'”

“I don't know where he is. I told you.”

Bettinger placed the plastic bag that contained Izzy's cell phone upon the table. “Send him a text message.”

“He won't answer if he's hiding.”

“Maybe not.” The detective circled the table and landed beside the racketeer's left shoulder. “But plan B comes after plan A.”

Izzy withdrew his cell phone from the baggie. “What should I put?”

“He probably knows you got picked up,” Bettinger said, “so tell him that we let you go, but confiscated all of your cash. Tell him you won't be able to pay him for a while.”

“Type that.” Dominic pointed at the cell phone and rose from his chair. “Just like he told you.”

“And let me see it before you press send,” added the detective.

“Fine.”

Izzy typed out a text message and showed it to his editor.

Bettinger read.

Hey. Fucking pigs raided my plce and took evryting, so there'll be a delay w the rent.

“Add the word ‘Sorry' at the end,” said the detective. “So it seems like you're trying to keep things friendly.”

With shaking thumbs, the racketeer typed the letters
S-o-r-r-y
and a period.

“Send.”