David Levien - Where the dead lay

That’s the ole American entrepreneurial spirit, he supposed. Mom, since she wrote the checks for the household expenses, may have been bitching about their running the air conditioners night and day, her understanding of the insane electrical bills, but the old man would skin him plain and simple if he discovered the grow op and the rest of it. He’d try to skin him anyway. It was debatable whether Terry could take Charlie anymore. He wouldn’t say his father had gone soft, that wasn’t accurate-more like he’d just lost some force lately, probably due to his getting older. His age, that was what had to be behind their latest piece of work as well. The old man was getting all Godfather II and shit. Trying to prop up his ego with grand designs, cloaked in the idea that it was for Charlie and his brothers. What else could explain something like trying to corner shake houses city-wide? For profitability, nothing could beat drugs. If he wanted to secure their future, Terry should’ve supported his, Dean, and Kenny’s efforts in that department.

“You want to lose everything, dealing drugs is the prescription,” is what Terry always said, though.

Sure, there was risk, Charlie understood, but so was there reward.

Guess that’s why it’s a play for the young, he practically said aloud, locking the door behind him. And it’s not like the current project is risk-free, for fuck sake. He thought of the other night in the house on Traub with a grimace. The little man had cried and cried when the first two or three chops hadn’t done it yet. And then he’d shit himself when it was finally over. What a fucking mess.

The attic space was dark, the lamps dormant now, as he was in the curing phase. The cut plants hung upside down and had dried to a smokable state. Charlie found his scale and set about bagging the stuff into z-bags. It wouldn’t be long before he moved it all. Then he’d take a break, cut the risk profile, and decide what to do with his cash.

If Sheila Fleck, the middle-aged manager of the Valu-Stay Suites, where Ken Bigby and Derek Schmidt had been lodging while in Indianapolis, had any reaction to the abrasion across the bridge of Behr’s nose, she wasn’t showing it.

“I need to get into the rooms of a pair of our operatives,” Behr had said to her when he arrived and identified himself as a Caro employee. She was more interested in his clothes.

“Thought you boys always wore suits,” she said.

“Yeah, we do. It’s my day off, they just asked me to swing by,” he said.

“Follow me,” she said, surprising him with her pliability. “You folks are paying the bill, so I’m happy to open the door…” She used her master key card to open the first door with a swipe, and then she asked: “Your coworkers forget something?”

Behr saw immediately what she meant. Caro had already been there. Schmidt’s belongings had been packed up and rested on a dinette table in unsealed cardboard boxes. “Yeah, they forgot something important we need down at the office,” Behr said. “Schmidt and Bigby got reassigned to something new out of town,” he added lamely and unnecessarily.

“That’s what the other boys said,” she observed, stepping back into the kitchenette to wait as Behr began looking through the boxes. All they contained were folded clothes, shoes, toiletries, newspapers, and magazines. It was clear the room had been totally sanitized. Whatever had been there by way of files, notes, or a laptop had been removed by those Caro assholes, who sure liked to make things difficult.

Behr stopped what he was doing and stepped back.

“Can’t find it?” Sheila asked.

“No,” Behr said. He couldn’t see anything of use at all. He fished around in a large plastic cup from Burger King. It held about a pound of change and matchbooks from various places- Indy Dancers, Big Daddy Rays, the Tip-Over Tap Room, the Red Garter-that told him Schmidt didn’t mind spending time in a bar.

“Maybe your coworkers got it after all,” she suggested.

Behr nodded.

“You want to check the other room?” she wondered.

He didn’t feel the need to bother with another sterile room that wouldn’t say much of anything about the men he was looking for or where to find them.

“Sure,” Behr said anyway, a slave to method, and trudged after her toward Bigby’s room.

Kenny Schlegel pulled into the lot of Nick’s Chili Parlour and saw his pop’s car was already there. He walked inside to find Terry and Knute sitting over a feast that turned his stomach. The sign outside announced the special of the day, and that’s what they’d ordered: four chili dogs or a half pound of fish for $5.94. What a deal. They also had a bowl of chili in front of each of them.

“No wonder you’re fighting the spare tire-age,” Kenny said, sitting down.

“This one’s for you, funny man,” Terry said, sliding the paper basket of fish and chips toward Kenny. He looked down at it, a fried golden mess, and started picking the batter off as he spoke.

“So I was out in Muncie…,” Kenny began.

“The kid drives forty miles to roll around on a mat with a bunch of guys. Probably burns two tanks of gas a week,” Terry said.

“Can’t you find a boyfriend here?” Knute chimed in.

“Good one,” Kenny said, eating a piece of the white fish.

“Look at my sweet little girl, eating his fish filet,” Terry said, causing Knute to snort out a laugh.

“Some shit went down at the gym today,” Kenny said, spitting out a fine translucent bone. “Brody got into a real brawl. Big-time knockout.”

“Yeah?” Terry said, half interested. He turned to Knute. “This kid Brody is a real monster.”

“He dust another student?” Knute asked.

“Nope. Brody got wasted.”

“What do you mean?” Terry said, truly surprised, which was a rare thing. “Francovic?” Terry asked.

“No.”

“Who?”

“Some raw motherfucker, his jits was all rough, but he got it done.”

“What happened?” Knute asked.

“They beefed. Brody got in his face, took him down, and had him in a rear naked choke, but the guy busted a few of Brody’s fingers, got out of it, and punched his ticket. Knee strikes to the head.”

“He knocked fucking Len Brody out?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Who is this guy, Randy Couture?”

“A guy who came in asking around about some shit, and it just developed,” Kenny said.

“Cop?” Terry said, concerned, but keeping it out of his voice.

“No. Those bastards can’t wait to flash their badges around. This guy came back two times and didn’t do that. Afterward, I heard he was a private investigator asking about Santos.”

“What’d you do about it?” Terry asked. He didn’t bother hiding the concern anymore.

“Stayed out of his way.” Kenny said. “Heard he went in and talked to Francovic for a while. Then I heard he left. I’d already powdered out of there, took Brody to the doctor. Figured whatever was up, that was the best bet.”

“Yeah,” Terry said, and then he thought about it for a long moment. When he finally spoke again he said, “So what you gotta do now is, you gotta go ask Francovic who he is.”

“Yeah?”

“Fucking-A right. Just go in there wide-eyed, all ‘Hey, Mr. Francovic’ or ‘Hey, Master Francovic’-whatever the hell you call him-who was that bad, bad man who hurt Len Brody?”

“Okay,” Kenny said, not feeling too sure about it.

“Do it. Don’t make a special trip. Your next workout,” Terry said.

“All right,” Kenny said.

“Then bring back the name.” Terry tore a chili dog in half with his jaws and spoke through the meat and bread. “Tell your brothers.”

Kenny just nodded.