Where the dead lay

THIRTY-THREE

Terry Schlegel sat on the weight bench in the back office of Rubber House. They were all crammed in-Knute, Charlie, Dean, Kenny, and Larry Bustamante-and between the heat and the adrenaline of what had just passed, the room smelled like bulls.

“The guy’s name is Frank Behr,” Bustamante told them. “He was a cop. His kid died-shot himself with Behr’s gun and the guy came apart, boozing and pissing people off until he got run. This was back eight, nine years ago. He’s a goddamn hump and a loser now. People don’t like him. He drinks down the bar from real cops, if they even let him in the door.”

The boys seemed to jump all over this description, to eat it up, and Terry saw how it boosted their confidence, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want them getting comfortable. Not now.

“You said ‘hump,’ but not a fuckup or an idiot,” Terry said.

“No. Well, he might’ve been kind of a fuckup-”

“Or maybe people are a little afraid of him ’cause he’s got nothing to fucking lose.”

“Maybe.” Bustamante shrugged.

Now silence, concerned and edgy, fell over the room. It was what Terry wanted, because concern made people careful.

How the hell could Larry and Vicky even be related? he wondered of his brother-in-law, who was the furthest thing from careful. The dark, swarthy guy was all short and bulbous, while Vicky was blond and still lanky and had been truly lithe when she was young. He’d never seen a brother and sister like them. Vicky said they had the same feet and the same space between the nose and lip, but the hell if Terry could see it.

“The question is, how did he end up here?” Terry asked the room.

“We told you,” Charlie spoke for the boys. “Dean was at the girl’s old place, the guy showed up and followed him here-”

The literal thinking was only going to get them so far. They needed to get philosophical. “I know that. I mean how did he end up here. Why’s he in it?” Terry said. Now Charlie shrugged.

“Maybe Larry can find something out?” Knute suggested.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Bustamante said, sounding as weak as a politician.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s a good fucking idea,” Terry barked.

“Maybe you should cool out for a minute. I mean if Dean hadn’t given me a call, this thing could’ve turned into a real mess.”

“Fuckin’-A it would’ve,” Terry said. “We’d be mopping out the front now, instead of sitting here.”

“No, I mean a real mess. The guy was packing-”

“Find something out, Larry. And you,” Terry turned to Dean, “stay the hell away from the damn girl-”

“I don’t even know where she is-”

“Stop looking!” Terry yelled. “If you’d have been focused on business, we wouldn’t have this problem. We gotta get these shakes open now, start some money flowing. You got your people in place?” Terry asked Knute.

He nodded. “Most of ’em. The rest are getting in place.”

“Good. We’ve come too far, done too much work to let anything fuck us up.”

“So what do we do about this asshole Behr?” Kenny asked.

“Steer clear,” Terry said, “for now. If he shows his face again, we do him up like Lyman Bostock.” There was a moment’s quiet agreement. Even Kenny, the youngest, had heard the story, though it had happened more than a decade before he was born, of the professional baseball player from Gary who got blasted in the head by some psycho with a. 410.

Terry stood. “Call Pam back in. Let’s reopen the place, keep up appearances. Besides, I need a drink.”

They stood and the meet broke. Bustamante exited first, followed by the boys. Knute hung back and looked to Terry, who spoke quietly. “You’re gonna have to get me back in touch with the guys from Chicago,” he said.

Knute just nodded.