Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

66

Behr dropped Susan off at her car in her doctor’s parking lot and stood there and watched everything he loved drive off into the night. He’d been unable to convince her to do otherwise. He considered putting a fist through his passenger side window, but suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He staggered around the car and got in and drove back across the city. The downtown area felt deserted, as if everyone had decided en masse to go inside or otherwise hide.

He passed by the statehouse, big and brilliant white and lit up, the place where laws where supposed to be tended and fairness and justice meted out. Instead, it seemed to be the central nest of rot. It needed some brighter lights, Behr thought, or, better yet, turn them out altogether. He braked at North Capitol for the only other vehicle in sight-a white carriage pulled by a dappled draft horse, head nodding at each step with the effort. Behr listened to the clopping of hooves on pavement along with the rattle of wooden wheels. A man in a fleece vest and a top hat steered by and touched his brim in greeting. Behr watched for a long time and then drove on.

Before long he reached Crows Nest, one of the ritziest enclaves of high-dollar houses in the area, which Lowell Gantcher called home. He was running on fumes, but needed to get to the man. Behr drove down Sunset Lane, looking at the impressive mansions, checking the gold numbers affixed to mailboxes near wrought iron gates and wooded driveways. He spotted Gantcher’s home, regal and imposing, if not a little newly built looking next to some of its ivy-covered companions. The designer had been conscientious, though, because a ruff of thick old growth trees that circled the rear of the house had been left standing. Behr slowed at one end of a large U-shaped driveway. The news was bad once again. There were three vehicles parked in front of the house and all the lights were on. A pair of strapping men stood outside the front door, and through a large window Behr could see about three or four more men moving about in shirtsleeves and what looked like handgun shoulder rigs. It was about this time the guys at the door started noticing him and were moving down the driveway toward him, so Behr took the opportunity to motor on.

When he got home, his place smelled of pine cleaning fluid, a chilling reminder of what had happened earlier, and it was too quiet, as if the walls were mourning the deaths and departures of the expectant mothers. Behr pulled the cork on a bottle of Harlan Estate and didn’t wait before filling a Ball jar and drinking it down quickly. He sat there, still and dumb, and watched the wine go down past the label and finally to the bottom and it wasn’t enough. He pushed himself up and got a gallon slugger of Wild Turkey, the same one he and Decker had put the dent in so recently.

Gina Decker. He’d barely known her, but she was a lively little sprite. Neither she nor her child nor Decker himself, regardless of the sins he’d committed, deserved what had befallen them. Every creak in the settling house made him wonder if he-the professional contractor, or contractors plural-was coming for him. He rested his gun on the table next to him.

He’d lost Susan and it hurt, but he wasn’t sure if it was something he should be sorry over, because he and his way of life were toxic. That much was as clear to him now as ever. He was poison to everything and everyone around him. It was starting to get easy to be glad that she and the baby were gone. They were safer, better off away from him. He poured another bourbon, grabbed his phone, and moved to the couch. He set his gun on the arm of the couch and checked his lone incoming text. It was from Susan: I made it.

He punched out an inadequate text to her: Good.

When that was done he sent one more: Decker-call me if you want, Behr. At some point he fell asleep in his clothes.