David Levien - Where the dead lay

Behr drove fast cross-town. After some muttered introductions and “sorry to bother you” stuff, Blanchard, the building manager, had told him that the boyfriend was back. “The same asshole used to come ’round dating Flavia,” he said.

“The one who knocked you around?” Behr asked.

“The same.”

“Did you call that cop who came out last time? That lieutenant?” Behr asked him.

“Nah, I just felt like calling you, so that’s what I did.”

“Okay. Stay inside, I’ll be there soon.”

Behr didn’t know exactly why he felt so motivated to help the old man. Maybe it was the fact that the man had received that beat-down at the hands of the boyfriend. That just didn’t sit right with Behr. He rolled up at the building a short time later, pulling right into the parking lot. After a moment, the door to Ezra’s unit opened, and he came out. Behr stood up out of his car, looking around for the guy.

“Hey, Mr. Behr-”

“Hi, Ezra, where is he?”

“He’s right over there.” Ezra pointed, and Behr turned to look just as a Dodge Magnum pulled out across the street, spraying some loose gravel. Somebody running always made him wonder, so Behr jumped into his car and gave chase.

“I’m being followed,” Dean said into his cell phone, feeling his heart going like a trip-hammer under his shirt.

“What do you mean followed?” Charlie asked.

“I mean someone’s following me,” Dean said again, his voice rising. He could hear the sounds of the bar in the background, some music, some voices. Things seemed quiet. “Is Dad there?”

Charlie ignored the question. “Are you with Knute?”

“Not yet.”

“What the fuck?”

“I was on my way…,” Dean said, embarrassed, “but I stopped by… her place-”

“For Christ sake, Deanie,” Charlie groaned. Then he half covered the phone, and Dean heard him speak to someone else. “It’s Dean. Instead of fucking heading to the fucking shake, he went to that skank’s place and now he’s being followed.”

“Negro please!” Dean could hear Kenny’s voice bleeding through. “Who’s following him, a cop?”

Charlie’s voice came through clean, “Cop?”

“Don’t know who the hell he is, but his head’s practically poking through the roof of his car like the Flintstones. Is Dad there?” Dean asked again. “He’s behind me, like three cars, riding my ass. I don’t know what to do.”

“Bring him here,” Charlie said. “Bring him here.”

Behr entered the bar, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He’d picked up the kid a block and a half away from Ezra’s building, and it had been an easy tail, weaving in and out of sparse traffic, staying around the speed limit, as they headed out toward Speedway and this bar he’d heard of somewhere before. Behr’s eye grazed the name of the place, the Tip-Over Tap Room, as he stopped his car. He thought he’d seen it on a napkin, or a match-book, or someplace. He didn’t have time to think it through, as he saw the shaggy-haired kid go in the front door. Behr went right after him, hoping the interview would be as simple as the tail had been.

Behr grew concerned as he got inside and noticed the place was empty and that there was no music playing or any other sound. He caught movement toward the rear of the place, and then there was a flash, as a back door opened and the darkness was cut by a slice of street light. He saw the shaggy-headed silhouette of the kid he was chasing exit and the bar returned to darkness. He realized he’d been suckered just as he felt an energy at the edge of his peripheral vision, almost behind him. He turned as the blow whistled in, and he was only able to hunch his shoulders at the last moment. Pain came hot and fast, and the strike skipped up off his upper arm and clipped the back of his ducked head.

Was it the 10-gauge? The disconnected thought raced through Behr’s mind as he went down. Am I going out like Aurelio? The ground came up fast to meet him, and he hit it and rolled and realized he was still conscious. Then he saw it wasn’t a shotgun, but a bat that he’d been hit with, and a blond-haired six-foot-plus young guy jacked with muscle was doing the swinging. The guy came around him, crouching low and winding up for another shot as if Behr’s head were a Clincher softball. Behr covered up with his arms, sacrificing them, as the bat came in and bit into his elbow, but he managed to wrap his hand around it and use it to pull the guy down toward him. He raised his foot and drove it into an up-kick with everything he had behind it. His foot connected low on the guy’s jaw. It would have been a clean knockout, had the guy not had the good sense to yank the bat back and start pulling away. But it landed all the same, and Behr saw the guy’s head turn and his knees sag.

Behr followed the kick up to his feet and found he was standing. The bat went back for another swing, somewhat unsteadily this time, and Behr flung himself forward, closing the distance, getting inside the range of the weapon. Behr stuffed the shot, wrapping the guy’s right arm under his own left, and clipped him in the teeth with a forearm shiver. The guy stumbled back against a chair and would’ve gone down, but Behr still had the arm clamped under his. Behr chopped up with his left leg in a very ugly, sloppy sweep that nonetheless worked and cut the guy’s ankles out from under him. The guy landed on the chair broadside, ribs first, and Behr heard the air go out of him and the clunk of the bat as it hit the floor and rolled away.

Behr leaned down to hit him again, when he felt himself double over, his neck caught in a powerful collar and elbow clinch.

Someone else, raced through Behr’s brain, but before he could see who it was, or register anything else, a series of knee strikes danced up and pounded his body and face. Behr felt his lip split, but his teeth held, and he was able to turn and get hold of his attacker’s body. Behr sucked his elbows in, blunting any more knees, then managed to lock his hands in a seat-belt grip around his attacker’s waist. Shooting his right leg straight out behind the man’s feet, Behr fell to the ground and let gravity do its work. The second attacker hit the ground hard, and Behr scrambled immediately for top position. He was dealing with another muscled young guy, a few years shy of the one with the bat. This one had dark, spiky hair, and Behr knew right away he had seen him before training at Francovic’s. He tried to keep his mind clear of such distractions as he went for knee on chest, but the younger man tucked to his side and pushed both hands against Behr’s knee, shrimping away and sliding free in a perfectly executed elbow escape. The younger man rolled in a backward somersault and came to his feet, and in that moment’s pause Behr saw a thing, beyond the prior recognition, that froze him. On a rope chain necklace around the guy’s neck hung a Christ the Redeemer.

Aurelio’s, echoed in Behr’s head.

The younger man turned and flew for the back door. Behr moved to run him down and beat answers out of him, but before he could take a step the batter, who was back on his feet, without the bat now, grabbed him from behind, trying to catch him in a body lock.

Behr turned into it, fighting into an underhook-overhook clinch. They struggled around in a half circle, each man grunting and looking for an advantage. Behr heard the rear door swing open, as the other young man fled, and then the front door opened, too. He heard feet, and voices barking guttural expletives, coming at him. Behr swung around and managed to drive the guy he was grappling with to the ground in time to see a fierce-looking man about his age coming at him from the back with a billy club in his hand. Then there was more yelling and the sound of boots on the floor. The cops had arrived.