City of the Sun

TWENTY-THREE

Stay with it, Behr urged himself early Friday morning as he humped up Saddle Hill, a road-salt-and-book-filled pack on his back, for his first rep. The middle of his week had consisted of further attempts to chase down Rooster ’ s real name, an address, or known associates. He ’ d come up empty as a bucket from a dead well. He ’ d put the question out to friends and acquaintances all over town and wondered which of them might come through with something. He ’ d toted Paul along for several hours over several evenings, and they ’ d gone through the bars in Hawthorne, where parolees and future cons drank, and the West District, where it was only safe for them because he used to patrol there, but even so, he didn ’ t linger for long. Nothing had come back to him, and the only conclusion Behr ended up with was that this Rooster kept to himself. He was on the verge of begging out of taking Paul along after the first few nights, feeling uncomfortable about having his employer watch him fail so consistently. Then, when he ’ d been dropping him off, Paul turned to him and thanked him. He ’ d said, “I appreciate how hard you ’ re trying, Frank. I know you ’ re doing everything you can. I ’ ll see you tomorrow.” The acknowledgment meant more to him than he would care to admit. He realized that he didn ’ t mind having Paul along with him. Beyond that, he liked it sometimes. Even when they weren ’ t talking, just having another body along for the ride tempered the isolation of the job. He also realized that though in the beginning finding the boy was his sole motivation, after these weeks with this staunch father, Behr knew he was doing it as much for Paul, so that he should at least know some peace.

Stay with it, Behr urged himself again on his second and third trips up the hill. For some men it was the stock market or the box scores, for others the racing form, some even found it with the weather channel, but most men, Behr thought on his way back down, engaged in the habitual consumption of some form of information. They weighed this data and considered the ramifications of it in quiet, almost Talmudic study. The result was a mastery of certain facts and sometimes a glimpse at an order, or an understanding of the larger world beyond the numbers. Behr ’ s vice wasn ’ t rotisserie league sports but rather the weekly arrest reports, the rundown on all police apprehensions that had been made, their locations, and the pertinent details. He used to read the sheets on a daily basis when he was on the force, compiling his own knowledge and sense of the city, like an instinctual human crime-tracking computer. Now the daily approach was impractical and there was little point to it, but he hadn ’ t been able to give it up altogether. He had a buddy, a young cop named Mike Carriero, who fired him a once-a-week fax through which he sifted like a medium. He still felt connected to the dark web of crime in the city when he did, as he considered the potential relationship between car thefts on the north side, drunk-driving stops on I-74, and domestic disturbances down in the mobile home parks by Stringtown. Over the course of working on the Gabriel case, however, nothing he ’ d seen on the reports seemed to hold any kind of correlation. Besides Ford ’ s killing, only the body in the park, which had quickly proved to hold no connection, and the recent beating of a female cop, had even proved newsworthy.

Stay with it, he urged himself on trips four and five up the hill. Now he referred solely to the run. Thoughts of the case momentarily dropped away as his lungs burned and his legs sizzled and he fought for the will to continue. No matter how many years he trained and to what degree of shape he banged himself into, this question never went away: Will I continue? He fought against it anew each time he worked out. As he crested the hill on his sixth trip up, he stopped. Not because the answer to his question was no this time, but because Terry Cottrell stood there waiting for him. Behr gave him a nod and proceeded to double over and suck wind for a minute. He stood up when he was able, a question on his face.

“I got something last night, Big,” Terry said without much crackle in his eyes or voice, which wasn ’ t a surprise considering that Behr had given him a few hints about the case he was working. “Had to give it to you straight, baby. Face-to-face.”

“You know to find me over at Donohue ’ s.”

“Not a friendly joint for me to wander into by myself.”

“Come on, Terry, it ’ s fine and you ’ re not shy.”

“Whatever, bro. Anyway, I might could ’ ve got a last name on the dude with the Rooster tag and that ’ s Mintz,” Terry said. Something about the name felt awfully familiar to Behr. “And I don ’ t know where he is, but I found out what he does.” Cottrell stopped talking, not the type to pause for effect, seemingly unable to say the rest.

Behr stood there sweating, his heart pounding. “Fucking tell me, Terry. Don ’ t make me beat it out of you.”

Cottrell ’ s face grew more serious. “Dude ’ s a handler. They also known as ‘ breakers. ’ ” His words caused Behr ’ s sweat to go cold. “I ’ m sorry, man.”

Behr was already unclipping his pack belt and shucking the shoulder straps. The thud of the heavy pack hitting the ground covered his “Thanks.” He was already sprinting for home. He knew where he ’ d seen the name.

“You have to take the day off,” Behr told him when he called at 7:15A.M. “The morning at least, if I can get things set by then. You ’ re coming along with me.” Paul could practically hear Behr ’ s mind churning through the phone.

“Okay,” Paul said, mentally noting the appointments he needed to reschedule or cancel.

“And wear what you usually wear when we ’ re riding. Don ’ t suit up on me.”

“All right. Where are we headed?” Behr didn ’ t answer for a moment. Paul could hear him breathing, low and measured.

“Marion County Jail.” Behr hung up.

Paul hadn ’ t expected that answer, just as he hadn ’ t expected to ever visit County. He stood in front of his house dressed in navy chino pants, hiking shoes, sweater, and windbreaker. He didn ’ t know what was coming, only that it was unusual and important. That much was clear from Behr ’ s tone. He guessed that whomever they were going to see in lockup knew something about Jamie, and he tried to keep his hope in check. It was surprisingly easy to do now that he ’ d seen what was behind his worst fears in the middle of the night. The reality there leered at him from the darkness. It stripped the meat off the bones of his expectations and had sucked the marrow from all he ’ d planned in life.

Behr rolled up and he got in. The inside of the car was brisk, the leather seat stiff and cold beneath him. Behr ’ s hair was still wet even though his place was a good half-hour drive away. He wore jeans, work boots, and a thermal shirt that was stretched tight over his forearms. Paul stayed quiet during the ride. Behr was far away; there was no one really to talk to. Finally, Behr turned toward him and said, “Rooster ’ s real name is Garth Mintz.”

“This is about Rooster?” Paul asked, anticipation flooding his chest.

“Yeah, it is,” Behr said. Paul puzzled over the ramifications of this news. They covered a few miles and were in the heart of downtown before he spoke again.

“What ’ s the deal with him?” he asked.

Behr ’ s hands clenched the steering wheel and his eyes didn ’ t leave the road. “In child trafficking docility is at a premium. For obvious reasons. Drugs are often used. But over the long term they cause sickness, you know…” Behr said, his tone strangely academic. “One method is to send in an adult who ’ ll…commit…acts…until there ’ s very little will or resistance left. They ’ re called ‘ breakers. ’ That ’ s what Rooster does.”

Paul felt he ’ d had a railroad spike nailed through his chest and into the car seat.

“But we don ’ t know if he ever met Jamie?” Paul heard the meek, horrible plea in his own voice.

“No, we don ’ t.”

Sights and sounds became muted and washy as they drove down Alabama past the blond-stone jailhouse. They circled on one-way streets around the fortresslike building for a little while — Paul lost track of how long — and they eventually found a spot and parked. Paul wondered if he was in some kind of shock, or if he was actually more acutely focused on the reality at hand than usual and this was what extreme clarity felt like.

They entered the building through the service entrance on Delaware, held open by a man in a custodial uniform, and a strong smell, foreign and unpleasant, hit Paul with force. He followed Behr, their shoes squeaking softly on polished linoleum. They passed through a door into an employee area, Behr entering without pause. Behr shook hands and then shared a back-patting hug with an older gentleman who had brilliantine-slicked steel-gray hair and emanated an odor of tobacco. He wore a brown sheriff ’ s uniform with a name tag that readSILVA. Behr and Silva stepped away from him a few feet and had a short, quiet conversation.

“Couldn ’ t believe it when you called, Frank,” Silva said, his voice rough with past nicotine. “The guy ’ s in here suspected of beating on that female officer. There ’ s videotape. You know how many requests I ’ ve been getting for alone time with him?”

“Every single County employee?” Behr asked back.

“You know it. I could be in Florida golfing and fishing on odd days with the gratuities I ’ ve been offered.” Silva allowed himself a moment ’ s departure at the image.

“Why am I so lucky?”

“I let a cop in the room with him, that cop can call it a career. State of civil liberties these days.” Silva let out a snort of disgust. “But with you…” He trailed off.

“With me, what?” Behr asked, suddenly on edge. “What do I have to lose?”

“It ’ s not that way, Frank. I ’ d be costing someone his badge if I let ’ em in there. I couldn ’ t live good with that. Besides, I don ’ t want to get well off of the situation. And then you called. I can give you five minutes.”

Behr nodded. “Been a long time coming.”

Silva nodded, too. “Been a real long time. Coming to even.”

“Yep. That ’ s where we ’ re at.”

Behr rejoined Paul, Silva didn ’ t speak another word, and they were led through a pair of man-trap doors and into a cinder-block interview room.

“We only have five minutes,” Behr muttered low as the door was unlocked. The hurry in Behr ’ s voice made Paul feel unready. He wondered exactly what kind of monster would come walking through the door. It didn ’ t take long to get his answer. The door was swung open by a guard and a red-haired man dressed in a faded County jumpsuit, rubber shower thongs on his feet, and listening to a CD Walkman, sauntered in. The guard removed handcuffs and the door closed behind him, leaving only the three of them in the room.

He ’ s small was Paul ’ s first impression. Muscled up, his second. That was all there was time for, as Behr was up out of his chair. He cuffed the man in the head, hard, slapping his headphones off.

“Hey,” the man protested. “Who the fuck ’ re you — ”

“Shut up,” Behr grunted, and grabbed at him.

The CD player, knocked loose, clattered to the floor and got kicked into a corner. Behr wrapped the headphone cord around the smaller man ’ s neck and choked him, snapping the wires and leaving red and white stripes across his throat. Behr threw the broken headphones aside and pushed Garth “Rooster” Mintz into a chair. The man rubbed his throat and wiped away the water that had come to his bulging eyes.

“You know why we ’ re here?” Behr began, anthracite hardness in his voice that Paul hadn ’ t heard before, not just from Behr but also from anyone else.

Mintz kept rubbing his throat and shook his head. “That cop thing?”

“Not the cop.” Behr slid a picture of Jamie across the desk toward Mintz, who didn ’ t even acknowledge it.

“Look at it,” Behr ordered. Mintz only held his gaze for a moment before tilting his glance down over the photo. Then he looked back up at them, his face betraying no signs of recognition.

“Okay, I scoped it.”

“Have you seen this kid?” Behr demanded.

“I don ’ t know.” The answer wasn ’ t taunting; if anything, it was respectful. For Paul ’ s money the guy actually didn ’ t know.

“You ’ re gonna come across, you son of a bitch,” Behr breathed close into the man ’ s face, causing him to blink twice.

“What do you want me to say? Cute kid.”

Behr stuffed Mintz into the chair back, moved around behind him, and pinned his arms. He looked to Paul.

“Give him one.”

Paul ’ s scrotum tightened and his bladder threatened to release. He knew what Behr was asking but couldn ’ t believe it.

“Hold up. Are we sure he even knew Jamie?” The situation felt all wrong to Paul, like he was on some insane quest and Behr had roped him into meting out punishment on a guy who ’ d hurt a cop and had nothing to do with him.

Then Paul flashed on his one fight, the only time he had hit a man in anger. It was back in college. Senior year. He and his friends were juiced up on pitchers of Milwaukee ’ s Best. They were at the Spaghetti Bender off Washtenaw, a place Carol liked to go just after they ’ d started dating. A guy from the football fraternity had touched Carol ’ s hair as he walked toward the men ’ s room. The guy ran his hand down her blond ponytail before continuing on his way. It was a proprietary gesture that caused Paul to go white-hot with anger. Despite his size, the guy never made it to the john. Paul clocked him in the side of the jaw and followed him, swinging, as he went down. He landed two or three more clean punches, then he was pulled off by the guy ’ s friends and his own. They all scraped and tussled before being thrown out by bouncers and braced by the local authorities. His friends started calling him “Clubber,” after Mr. T ’ s character in one of the Rocky movies, and Paul had felt guilty for what he ’ d done for a long time.

Behr ’ s words cut through his thoughts.

“This guy ’ s done unspeakable shit. Whatever he gets he deserves.” Behr wrestled the smaller man up out of the chair and held him. Paul stood.

Nothing smells like a jail, Behr thought when they ’ d entered — floor wax, bad cafeteria food, sweat, human filth, and hate. He ’ d been wondering if bringing Paul Gabriel there had been his biggest mistake to date. Although the man had showed some nerve so far, he had no experience in these matters or places. Or people. The second Rooster Mintz entered the interview room Behr ’ s old cop radar blipped and bleeped and bonged. The little grease ball was radioactive with bad energy. He seemed to be riding high on the respect that cop killers and cop hurters received in the joint. One look told Behr that the man in front of him lived in a world of foul darkness, and that beating the female officer nearly to death wasn ’ t the ends or depths of what he ’ d done.

Behr had hoped the unexpectedness and intensity of the father of a victim would help extract information from Mintz in a way no organized professional pressure might. At the least, Paul deserved a moment of indirect payback. Behr ’ s wisdom, or lack of it, was about to be seen. Paul got up from his chair and moved awkwardly, his arms stiff, and threw a tentative right that landed with a clop to the left side of Rooster ’ s chin.

“Not the face,” Behr corrected, and watched with growing concern as Paul redirected his attack to the body, the punches brittle and weak. He swung for a bit, to no effect, then stepped back, panting. Mintz took the shots no problem and seemed to be smirking. Paul was nervous, afraid, and Behr knew well what fear did to punchers: It sapped them of power. It made them feeble. Behr had seen it before many times, in overworked cops on high-pressure cases who suddenly began to function at a quarter of their capacity and then started to fail in important ways. He ’ d seen it in the ring, at the Police Firefighter Smokers. Strong, fit men who were suddenly unable to stop their opponents even when landing clean shots, while their respective departments cheered rabidly for them. He ’ d felt it in the ring himself, at the same smokers, but had managed to overcome it and stop the Kelly brothers two years running, one on cuts, one by clean knockout. Now Behr grew concerned. They weren ’ t getting to Mintz, and it would soon ruin their play. He was tempted to spin the con around and chop into him personally. He certainly had enough bad feeling for the task. He didn ’ t want to, though. It wasn ’ t how he figured they would succeed.

“Drop your shoulders…see your son…and hit this bastard,” Behr said sternly.

Paul ’ s eyes went distant. He swallowed a gout of air, rolled his shoulders, and waded in close. Now his blows came with more fluidity. He punched with controlled intent, with anger so old and compressed it didn ’ t flame but rather glowed like burning coal. Paul stayed with it as if he wanted to carve through Rooster ’ s abdomen and tear out his organs, which is exactly how it ’ s supposed to be done. Behr felt the man in his arms, who had been loose and active in his defensive posture at first, go tight with pain and then, finally, start to sag with damage. Behr could see that the fury had started to flow in Paul and it just kept flowing.

I can take this, ran through Rooster ’ s head, all damn day. It was a stroke of luck that the big fucker was just holding him and not beating on him. Hells, I ’ m lucky, he mused as the other guy ’ s peashooter rights and lefts rattled off his stone abs. Always been lucky. It didn ’ t look good for a minute there, when he ’ d walked in and Big Fucker had jumped up on him. He recognized them from Sebo ’ s, and then the big one had looked clean through him and fixed him with a glare of hate that made his guts slide. He felt the man ’ s power when he stretched the headphone cord across his larynx and felt it again when the man ’ s viselike hands pinned back his arms, fingers of iron squashing his biceps and cranking down on his brachial nerves. If that guy had started in with the trimming, it might ’ ve been trouble, but this shit he could handle. He took a moment to decide who they were and what they had on him. He ’ d thought they were cops, and there was something vaguely copish about them, but the way they were going on about other things and beating on him had him confused. As far as the picture went, there was something familiar about the kid in the shot — he looked like every kid he ’ d ever worked. And he looked like none of ’ em in the same way. How the hell was he supposed to remember? They were all just bodies once he was in the room. He didn ’ t bother trying to keep track. And even if he did remember, he sure wouldn ’ t tell them about it. He wasn ’ t here to make the world some better place. Nuh-uh. The world had taken a big shit on him and the way he felt about it was: Pass it on.

John B. Good stepped back off him, winded already, and it was only Rooster ’ s experience that kept him from smiling outright. He didn ’ t want to inspire them, for god ’ s sake. Then Big Fucker started coaching his buddy and things went south. B. Good rolled his shoulders like a cruiserweight when he came back in for round two. The next punches were different. The man had his weight planted and his arms were firing like pistons. Rooster felt his obliques begin to cave, and the blows started to eat him up, and then panic flooded in. He felt the breath get knocked out of him. He fought to keep down his peas and carrots. He found himself wishing it was over, silently crying out for it to Stop, just Fucking stop. But it didn ’ t stop. His abs failed him. They gave out like hammered copper. The punches were landing straight on his liver and spleen now. The blood rushed from his head and he got dizzy. If Big Fucker wasn ’ t holding him, he ’ d be weaving and staggering around the room. He ’ d give ’ em what they wanted now, whatever he had, which was nothing, if they ’ d just ask. Just please fucking ask. But they weren ’ t asking. He felt the foamy remnants of his breakfast shoot out of the corners of his mouth and his legs started to go. He sagged in the big man ’ s arms and then, Thank fucking Christ, it ended.

“Okay,” Behr said, and deposited what was left of Mintz in his chair. Black bile was running out of the guy ’ s mouth and he wasn ’ t even trying to wipe it away. Behr was tempted to allow the beating to go on until there was a knock on the door, let Mintz go to the hospital after they left, but he saw how spent Paul was. He didn ’ t want his partner passing out in the room, and he had questions to get to.

Mintz retched, two, then three times, but they were just spasms and he managed to hold his mud. Now Behr made the picture of Jamie reappear. Mintz looked at it and just shook his head weakly.

“You ’ re not protecting anything. We know who you are. We know your business.”

“I don ’ t…” Mintz ’ s head bobbed slightly in surrender. “I don ’ t…”

“We know about you and your old buddy Tad Ford.” Behr saw Mintz ’ s Adam ’ s apple bob and constrict. Son of a bitch, he thought, he ’ s got the dirt on Ford ’ s killing.

“We don ’ t give a crap about that. We want to know about the kids. This boy.” Behr pounded Jamie ’ s photo with his index finger. “Do you know him?”

“I don ’ t know” came the answer.

“You ’ ll give or I ’ m going next.” Behr saw blank fear shoot across Mintz ’ s face.

“What are you fucking with me for? Huh?” Mintz asked, his voice a high whine. He was crying. His tears and snot were mixing with the bile and sweat on his face, making him a total mess. There was a sharp knock on the door. Time was up.

“Hold that door, Paul,” Behr snarled, glad to see Paul jump up and head for it. “I know you break down these kids so they make for better companions. Now tell me something I can use or you ’ ll never leave this room.” Behr shot his hand out, grabbed Mintz around the throat, and squeezed. The sounds of a key in the lock and a hand on the knob could be heard. Paul gripped the knob, holding it still. Behr throttled Mintz as if he ’ d kill him and thought maybe he would.

“What the fuck am I? I never kept track of what I was doing. You want the guy who matters, right?” Mintz croaked. “You want Riggi. Oscar Riggi.”

The knocks had turned to banging. Paul looked back to Behr, who nodded. Paul stepped away from the door and it opened. Silva was standing there, a pissed-off look on his face.

“It’s time, goddamnit.”

Behr let go of the man ’ s throat, took out a notebook, and wrote down the name, doing his best to control a hand that trembled with adrenaline and disgust.

They all stood, looking around uncomfortably. Rooster was recuffed and they exited the room single file. Waiting in the hall was the room ’ s next occupant, a bald middle-aged lawyer holding a large briefcase. The interview room was soundproof, but the lawyer gave them a knowing look. The ugliness that had just occurred inside poured out into the hall, as palpable as a shit-house odor.

Being led down the corridor was the lawyer ’ s client, a big, strong black man with a shaved dome. Behr recognized him. Earl Powers. He could put a hand to whatever a buyer wanted, which was often guns. He was Terry Cottrell ’ s friend.

“Earl,” he said in greeting.

“What you doing down here, Behr?” Earl nodded.

Mintz turned back as he was half led, half carried away. “That ’ s your name? Behr? I ’ m gonna sue your fucking ass.”

“You know this bastard?” Behr said to Earl. “The guy ’ guls kids.” Behr spoke in a moment of rash anger, sentencing Rooster Mintz with his words.

Powers ’ s face changed. His eyes enlarged in their sockets with fury. Anyone who ’ d been inside, as Earl Powers had, knew the term. It came from Italian, from fungulo, and it meant to take someone by force.

“Bullshit,” Mintz screamed, more animal than man, because he knew how child rapers were treated inside, and now he was branded. He was still screaming his denials as he was prodded on down the hall by the guard and they turned the corner out of sight.

Behr and Paul left the jail. Troy Silva at County sure didn’t owe him anymore.