David Levien - Where the dead lay

There was Charlie, the strong one, and smart, the most like him. Oftentimes Terry wondered what was going on behind the boy’s eyes, so cryptic already despite his being twenty-two years old. Then there was Kenny. The kids considered him the crazy one. And it was true; consequences didn’t seem to occur, much less stick, to the boy. Where’d the attitude come from? Maybe it was shades of the young Vicky. The boy was a real wild card. Terry wanted to look upon them all, his three sons, together in the bright sun. But he kept on waiting until finally Charlie and Kenny closed up the car and headed into the day’s doings.

Sleeping it off, Terry supposed of Dean. Dean. He was just muddled up right now. He thought too much and got lost because of it. That’s what got him into trouble with the Latin chick. It was a long shot turning out one winner kid these days. When it came to three, the odds just plain sucked. At least one had to be a numbnut, so he was ahead of the game, he figured. He didn’t know whether Charlie and Kenny saw him or not, or whether they were focused on registering the dogs for whatever competitions were being held that day, but one way or another, they didn’t come over to him.

Just as well, he thought. He wasn’t there to see his sons, or the dog show, but to meet. He had a sit scheduled with Campbell Do-ray. It was a little soon. He’d hoped to get a dozen or more locations up and running and turning a profit, and they’d only done that at a fraction of the locations. But they’d sure as hell put a major pinch in the shake business across town, that was for shit sure, and any businessman could see the opportunity to fill that void. So while they hadn’t done as much as he’d hoped as far as revenue yet, with all the recent attention it seemed like a good time to get out, to monetize their efforts, and to move on. He assumed Doray would be happy to complete the deal now.

But he’s late, Terry thought to himself, more than half an hour. That was when he saw Larry Bustamante, dressed in civilian clothes, trundling toward him across the parking lot.

Fuck me, Terry thought, this isn’t good. He could see by the way Bustamante’s shirt was fitting, tight around his belly, but smooth, with no telltale bulge at the hip, that his brother-in-law wasn’t wearing his gun. He didn’t have one in an ankle holster either, because the big slob was wearing khaki cargo shorts and those rubber sandals over white tube socks. After a moment, Bustamante spotted him in the bleachers and headed over.

“Vicky tell you I was here?” Terry asked.

Bustamante nodded. “Who’re you meeting?”

Terry couldn’t see the harm in telling him. “Camp Doray.”

“Yeah?” Bustamante asked. He sounded skeptical, like he knew something. “He still wants to do it, even after all the press and shit?”

Despite the stifling weather, Terry felt gooseflesh rise on his arms at Bustamante’s words. It confirmed what he suspected: Doray wasn’t coming. Terry felt his face clench into a grim mask. Things had gotten too hot.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s not supposed to get here for a while.” The day’s temperature, the pork smell and exhaust and smoke in the air, and the sun-warmed odor of dog shit wafting over him conspired to make Terry queasy. He swallowed down on it hard and forced himself to meet Bustamante’s eyes.

“And you? What do you want?” Terry asked. Bustamante fidgeted and looked around but didn’t speak.

“Out with it. What’s up? I know it’s something. It’s all over your face.”

“They found the… package down by the river.”

Fuck! Terry was sure his heart ceased pumping and his blood stopped flowing for three seconds. Already? How’d they find it? Who found it for ’em? He wanted to shout the questions into Bustamante’s stupid, fat face. But he sipped air and spoke in what he hoped was a calm voice. “Well… we figured they might, eventually. How come I didn’t see it on the news?”

“Just happened. And they’re keeping it clamped down. When I heard, I knew you’d want to know,” Bustamante said, and settled into loud nasal breathing.

“Anything else, Lar?”

“I think I… I need a lawyer, Terry.”

Are these from the box at Aurelio Santos’s house?” It was Behr’s first question to Flavia when she’d entered, closed the door behind her, and turned to see him sitting there. He watched her struggle with the impulse to run, think better of it, and then walk to a chair across from him, where she sat. There was a slight tremor to her hand as she brushed a piece of hair back behind her ear, but she was doing a fairly impressive job of controlling her nerves considering someone had broken into her apartment. She looked at the Trojan Twist condoms that rested on the coffee table like she’d never seen them, or any other, before in her life.

“No-,” she began.

“Don’t say ‘no,’” Behr said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

She fell silent and it allowed him to take her in for a moment, her tanned legs, shining under a layer of moisturizer, or perhaps their own natural shimmer that spilled out from beneath a brief skirt. She wore a tight tank top that highlighted her toned arms and her breasts. She’d lost a bit of weight since the last time he’d seen her, and it suited her, though he remembered the prior fullness had suited her, too. It looked like she’d been missing some sleep, because she had slight dark circles under her eyes, which made her appear vulnerable and oddly young. He saw her glance at her $3,800 sitting there in a folded pile next to the condoms.

“Whose money-,” she started to ask.

“Come on,” Behr cut her off. “He put you here, Aurelio did, in this apartment, didn’t he?” When she didn’t respond he continued. “Juan Aybar and Max Sanchez moved you in when you split from your old place.”

Something about the details got to her. She looked up at him. He met her gaze and she nodded once.

“Yes, Maxie,” she smiled briefly. “They were so nice.”

“Come on, time to tell,” he urged.

“I used to see Auri at El Coqui,” she began.

“The restaurant?” Behr had heard of the place, which specialized in Latin-prepared seafood.

“Yes. And I recognized him from the shake house.”

“You’re a shake girl,” Behr said, appreciating how much business she must have rung up as hostess at the betting parlors.

“Yes. I served drinks, made conversation, drew the numbers-”

“You got the players to spend more.”

“Okay, yes,” she sighed, “I was working and making nice money for a year, year and a half, but then things changed. There was some kind of fight over the business, and some new owners took over. We were closed for a few days, but then they reopened and they kept me on. Things seemed cool, but then I made a big mistake.”

“You stole?”

She shrugged. “I always took a little, they made so much they never noticed. But it wasn’t that. I started seeing one of the bosses.” Behr looked at her, but checked his questions because she was starting to roll. “He seemed so nice at first. He was the quiet one. He was sweet to me, and handsome. Then things turned to shit and I wanted to leave it, but I couldn’t go.”

“Couldn’t leave the guy or the shake house?”

“Neither.”

“This was the same guy that put the beat-down on old Ezra,” Behr said. She didn’t answer. “Which one of the Schlegels was it?” he asked. He saw blank fear whiten her face.

“Dean,” she said in voice that sounded tiny and far away. “They put him in charge of the house, and I didn’t see the others in the family much for a while, so it wasn’t so bad. I had to keep dating Dean a little to keep everything quiet. After another few months I would’ve had enough to disappear. But then this new asshole with a briefcase, Gary, started coming and checking the books all the time. He was some kind of an accountant, and he wanted to check on how the location was doing. I knew he knew when he started looking at me.”