Mean Business on North Ganson Street (26 page)

Nancy's ordeal and the deaths of Gianetto and Dave Stanley had rattled Abe, and the thought that he might die without ever entering the fabled VIP room of Pink Roses depressed him. It was a place that every man needed to see.

Setting the pair of golden cards upon the dashboard of his station wagon, the pudgy officer raised his gaze.

Tom Ryder was gone.

Abe was surprised by the detective's absence, but assumed that the fellow had returned to his apartment to fetch something that he had forgotten. The guy had separate nail clippers for his fingers and toes, three different hairbrushes, and a piece of grooming equipment that looked like a dentist's tool. (Nancy might have something to say about Tom Ryder's affinities.)

Abe surveyed the parking lot, which was full of automobiles, including a taco truck that was probably being operated without a license. Backing out of the space directly opposite his station wagon was a navy blue sports utility vehicle that had tinted windows.

The pudgy officer looked at his dashboard clock and saw that it was ten after eleven. If Tom Ryder did not soon reappear, Abe would give him a call. The brown cargo van was still on the loose, and things were pretty dangerous in Victory.

Thinking of Wendy's smile, silver fingernails, and bare breasts, the pudgy officer said, “Hurry up.”

The blue SUV continued to withdraw from its space. Less than ten feet separated its back bumper from the front of the station wagon.

“Hey.” Abe tooted his horn. “Watch it!”

The space between the vehicles diminished, and something dark leaked out of the SUV's rear door.

Again, the officer tooted his horn. “Look where you're going, you stupid—”

A man leapt into the station wagon. The stranger had a stocking over his pale head, a black overcoat, and an assault rifle.

“Wait! I ha—”

White fire flashed.

Bullets lanced Abe's chest and slammed his head against the window.

Coughing up blood, the pudgy officer raised his hands. “W-w-wait!” He seized the passes from the dashboard and offered them to the masked gunman. “They're VIP!”

The next bullet cracked the golden cards and the skull of the Very Impressive Policeman.

 

XXXV

Rita's Bench

Teddy extracted a bottle of vodka from a gutter drain, and two dead rats tumbled onto the pavement. It seemed like one had eaten the other's innards, though perhaps there was a third creature that was alive and plump. The vagrant was not really sure what had happened with these guys.

A police siren whined, startling Teddy. Nobody in the world liked this sound, and an old black resident of the Toilet who had been incarcerated multiple times was no exception.

“Pull over,” ordered an amplified voice that sounded like it belonged to a hostile alien.

The vagrant faced Malcolm Avenue. There, a small green sports car veered toward the curb, followed at a distance by a police vehicle that turned the front of the long-closed shopping center into a red-and-blue disco.

Teddy exited the alley, walked in front of Victory's Best Pawnshop (which had been closed since the eighties), and landed upon his favorite bench. Four years ago, he had discovered Rita's frozen body upon its weathered planks, and it held a lot of sentimental value for him. That woman had been a good friend and the very best of her kind.

Unscrewing the cap from the vodka bottle, Teddy remarked, “We've got the grand tier.” Only 150 feet separated him and his spectral companion from the curb.

A broad-shouldered Hispanic officer who had a thick mustache and a clipboard emerged from the cruiser, shut the door, and walked toward the green two-seater, which was about a dozen strides off.

Bright, cold vodka filled Teddy's mouth.

“Roll down your window,” said the policeman, drawing a circle in the air with his finger as he reached the halfway point between the vehicles.

The driver's window sank. Sitting inside the green sports car was a man who had no head.

Teddy suddenly wondered if the vodka that he had pulled from the gutter pipe had gone bad.

The policeman continued forward. Something glimmered inside the sports car, and the headless driver twisted his shoulders.

The officer reached the rear bumper.

A gun flashed.

The policeman staggered backward, reaching for his pistol, and the headless driver's weapon glared twice more.

Groaning, the officer dropped to his knees, wobbled, and fell forward. His face smacked the concrete, eliciting a wince from the vagrant.

A moment later, the shooter emerged from the green sports car.

Teddy saw that the fellow was wearing a black hood, and thus possessed a head. Relieved that the vodka had not destroyed his mind, the vagrant returned the bottle to his lips.

The shooter kneeled, took something shiny from the dead man's pocket, and unfastened the fellow's belt. Teddy did not think that he should witness what was occurring, but the alcohol that he had consumed did not contain a propellant.

Steel scissors flashed. The shooter took a pink worm from the dead officer's groin and shoved it into a water bottle.

“Gross,” muttered Teddy as he swallowed his medicine.

The shooter returned to his green sports car, backed the vehicle over the corpse until it was concealed, and walked over to the police cruiser. There, he climbed into the backseat, prostrated himself, and shut the door.

The tableau was serene. Nothing moved except the spinning lights atop the patrol car.

Silent and unseen, the shooter waited.

Teddy knew that he was going to watch more policemen die tonight. It was a good thing that he had brought refreshments.

 

XXXVI

This Is Where the Titan Dwells

Scratching himself through a brown wool robe and carrying a bottle of red wine, Inspector Zwolinski walked out of his kitchen into the living room, where the shag rug cushioned the pachydermatous soles of his feet. His apartment was very orderly—there was no dust, and his 578 boxing videocassettes were alphabetized, as were his 422 books on the same subject. There was plenty to watch and read, but to its lone occupant, the place felt like a warehouse rather than a home.

Years ago, Zwolinski's honor-roll daughter had tried heroin at her graduation party, and shortly after her demise in the emergency room (the first of eleven deaths that night), the inspector's marriage had disintegrated. The Polish pugilist still loved his ex-wife, Vanessa, and she still cared for him, but they could not live together any longer. The terrible tragedy that they shared was too much for them to look at on a daily basis.

Zwolinski retrieved a corkscrew from the drawer of his lacquered wet bar and opened the bottle of red wine for Vanessa, who worked as a radiologist on the second shift (and would arrive in twenty or thirty minutes). The Malbec yielded a pleasant smell, and after the inspector set it down, he lighted two candles.

Despite their burdened history and official status as a divorced couple, Mr. and Miss Zwolinski spent the night together two or three times a month. The sexual aspect of these rendezvous was intensely pleasurable and far more exciting than it had been during the major part of their marriage. It soon became clear to the inspector that the true enemy of romance was neither the presence of a child nor a heavy workload, but simply overfamiliarity.

There were few things that Zwolinski enjoyed as much as boxing and pepperoni pizza, and when he had reclaimed his bachelorhood at the age of forty-nine, he had spent most of his nights eating slices and watching fights. Eventually, the pizza did not taste as good as it once had (even though it came from the exact same place) and the matches grew predictable.

A relationship was no different.

Zwolinski did not know what Vanessa was going to wear tonight nor what interesting things had happened to her since their last rendezvous, and he looked forward to making these discoveries. He had been in the pillbox for more than fifteen hours (after only three hours of sleep), and this tryst with his lovely ex-wife would help restore him for the coming day.

The aged hands of a ticking grandfather clock told him that it was twelve after one. Thinking about a fight that he had time to watch before his guest arrived, Zwolinski walked toward his videocassettes, all of which had blue plastic labels that he had made with a little typing machine.

The intercom buzzed.

Vanessa was early. Usually, she arrived at half past one, though sometimes—if she was running late—she skipped her trip home, came over directly, and used his shower.

Zwolinski scratched his silver pelt as he strode toward the door.

Again, the intercom buzzed.

The inspector paused.

One of the many admirable traits that his ex-wife possessed was patience, and like most radiologists, she was very deliberate in her actions. Unless Vanessa needed to use the toilet or thought that the resident had fallen asleep (which did happen on occasion), she would not press the buzzer a second time so shortly after the first.

Dark suspicions filled Zwolinski, who had been a detective until his ascendancy to the pillbox dais.

He claimed his revolver from the holster on the wall, shut off the lights, and proceeded to the intercom. Candles flickered, stirring long shadows.

Applying a thumb that resembled a deli pickle to the door button, the inspector leaned toward the panel. “Come in.”

Nobody answered.

The speaker transmitted the sounds of hinges squeaking and quiet footfalls. It was either Vanessa or Vanessa and her captors, and the pugilist intended to face whomsoever approached.

Outside on the stairwell, wooden steps groaned.

Zwolinski discarded his robe and raised his revolver. Except for his polka-dotted boxer shorts, he was naked.

Quiet footfalls resounded outside, and the inspector put his eye to the peephole. A shadow moved across the hallway floor.

It had more than one head.

Filling his lungs with air, Zwolinski prepared to engage his enemy. There was no way that he would lose Vanessa, the woman whom he loved, an amazing person who had as many precious memories as did he of the buried eighteen-year-old treasure named Patricia.

Setting his feet as if he were about to throw a right jab, the inspector thought of Gianetto and Dave Stanley, and also of Nancy Blockman, who had been better prepared and was still alive. As he reached for the ballistic vest that he kept on his coatrack, the cold barrels of a shotgun pressed into his neck.

A chill flooded his insides.

“Drop the gun.”

Zwolinski released his revolver, which clattered on the floor.

The intruder said, “Nice underwear, gramps.”

Another guy snickered.

 

XXXVII

A Wasted Bouquet

Carrying a bouquet of flowers and a smirk, Huan shut the door of his luxury car and walked toward the brown house that he and his wife shared at the eastern edge of the city. The pockmarked Asian was in a good mood.

E.V.K. emerged from the bushes and pointed his gun at Huan's larynx. “Don't make any noise,” the killer said through the fangs of his devil mask.

The detective shrugged.

With his free hand, E.V.K. claimed Huan's firearm and tossed it inside a mint green garbage pail.

The detective extended the bouquet. “For you.”

E.V.K. pistol-whipped Huan. The flowers struck the ground, and the killer kicked them into the bushes.

“Unlock your car,” ordered the Czech, whose English had become fluent during the decade that he had lived in America. “All the doors.”

Blood strolled down Huan's left cheek as he slotted a key. Four locks clicked, sounding like jackboots.

E.V.K. walked to the rear driver's side door of the luxury car. Not once did his gun waver from his target's neck.

“Get in slow. If you misbehave—” The killer pointed at the bedroom window that he had earlier visited. Behind the luminous curtain was the detective's wife, an adorable Thai woman who liked candles, silk nightgowns, and mystery novels.

Fear glimmered in Huan's eyes.

E.V.K. motioned to the car. “Slow.”

The detective opened the driver's door, and the killer flung the one behind it. Together, they climbed into the car and sat upon its luxurious (and still warm) upholstery.

E.V.K. thought that the vehicle seemed a little bit too nice for an honest policeman. “Do not slam your door,” he said as he leveled his weapon.

Huan and E.V.K. reached out, clasped leather handles, and pulled. The doors swung toward the body of the car, slowly, until they were nearly flush. Then, the men yanked hard.

Latches clicked.

“Lock it.”

Synchronized jackboots stomped.

E.V.K. surveyed the brown home and the unlighted houses on either side of it. The area was as still as a photograph.

“Back out of here,” ordered the killer. “Slow and quiet. Don't turn on the lights. If your wife comes outside, she's joining us.”

Eyes fixed on the front door, Huan started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed up until he reached the street.

Nobody emerged from the house.

“There's a construction site on the next block,” said E.V.K.

“I've seen it.”

“Go there. Do not exceed fifteen miles an hour.”

The detective toggled the gear, drove down the block, and dialed the wheel clockwise. Purring like a feline, the black luxury car crept through suburbia.

E.V.K. recalled the discarded bouquet, the acquisition of which had almost certainly delayed Huan's return home. “Were you fucking another woman?”

“Playing poker.”

“With policemen?”

“Just some guys I know. I won big.” Huan turned onto a cross street. “Let me buy your mother a fur coat.”

“Shhh.”

“How about a bazooka? Czechs love those.”

“Shhh.” E.V.K. knew that the fellow was trying to distract him.