Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

70

“Where are we headed?” Decker had asked as soon as they’d gotten in his car.

“Up to Franklin, take it to East Wash toward town,” Behr said, hoping to keep the information in small, digestible pellets that would prevent Decker from getting too wound up or ahead of himself.

“I mean who?” he practically snarled.

“Shugie Saunders, Kolodnik’s political adviser,” Behr acquiesced, and gave him the address.

“How’s he in this?” Decker asked, driving to the location at a speed usually reserved for a pursuit with siren.

“Like the center of a Tootsie Pop,” Behr said.

“Motherfucker,” Decker breathed, picking up the pace.

When they arrived at Saunders’s building, Decker shut the car engine off and pulled his Glock.40-caliber duty weapon.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Behr said. “You’re waiting in the car. I’m talking to him first-”

“Come on-”

“I need information on all the players before you go and put a round in him and end up in jail yourself.”

“Not in the head for this bullshit-”

“You’re waiting in the car,” Behr said, a hard edge to his voice, disturbed that Decker didn’t bother denying what he’d just suggested.

In response, Decker released the Glock’s magazine onto his lap, popped the chambered round, and worked the slide once, five, ten times and kept going and going, snapping it back and forth with rhythmic, unnerving repetition.

“Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything,” Behr said.

“Yeah, I won’t-” Decker said, but Behr cut him off by closing the car door.

Behr crossed the sidewalk and entered the building. He took the elevator six floors up, went to Shugie’s door, and began knocking. Before long he was pounding in frustration because there was no answer.

He was trying the knob, which was locked, and considered making entry when an across-the-hall neighbor’s door opened. A middle-aged woman in a business suit stepped out holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a tube of mascara in the other. Jumping and yapping around her feet was a tiny white dog, a Maltese, he believed.

“What the heck?” she demanded. “I thought someone was trying to break my door down.”

“Sorry,” Behr said, “but I really need to locate Mr. Saunders.” At a moment like this, Behr wished he were wearing his blue Caro business suit for respectability’s sake.

“Yeah, well, if you find him, tell him I’m holding these for him.” She opened her door a bit and pointed to three rolled up newspapers.

“So you don’t know where he is?” Behr asked.

“No. I’m just glad he decided to take his … nightlife activities elsewhere. Cops were here earlier, scaring the poop out of Chessie,” she said, pointing at the dog. “But, like I said, you find Shug, tell him in another day or two his papers are gonna be Chessie’s wee-wee pads.”

“Sure thing,” Behr said, stalking away down the hall.

The rain had started falling in fat, greasy splotches as Behr slid back into Decker’s car, where he found him still working the slide on the Glock like a maniacal puppet.

“Anything?” Decker said.

“Not home, hasn’t been for a few days.”

“Shit,” Decker barked, punching the dash. “What else do you got?”

“Let’s try Kolodnik’s company,” Behr said. “Maybe the asshole went to work.”

Decker put the loose round back into the magazine, which he fitted back into the gun, then worked the slide a last time, charging the weapon, which he stowed in his Kydex hip holster. Behr clicked his phone for the street address as Decker put the car in gear.

His nightlife activities … Shug’s neighbor’s words rang in his head.

“Make a left,” Behr said. “New destination. McCrea Street.”

Behr suddenly knew where Shugie Saunders would be.