Mean Business on North Ganson Street by S. Craig Zahler Read Free Book Online Page B

misogyny?”
    â€œRap?”
    â€œThat’s what I described.”
    The silence that followed this reply was an obvious affirmation. Gordon played rap music at home, claiming that he enjoyed it “for the beats,” but Bettinger would not suffer it at work as well.
    Ten quiet blocks later, the big fellow broke the silence. “So we just listen to each other breathe?”
    â€œWe can discuss the case.”
    Dominic ignored the suggestion, tapping the wheel with his fingers as if he were experiencing some kind of rap music withdrawal.
    Bettinger asked, “What do you think about that tattoo on Elaine James’s tongue?”
    â€œDick.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd nothin’.” There was a defensive edge to Dominic’s voice, as if he did not want to look stupid.
    â€œWhat do you think she did for a living?”
    â€œWhat’d the file say?”
    â€œShe’s been collecting unemployment for three years.”
    â€œGlad to see taxes payin’ for things like fake tits and dick tattoos on white girls.” The big fellow guided the car away from a pothole. “America.”
    â€œThat obviously wasn’t her only income. Her apartment’s in a decent area—relatively speaking—and she had fifteen nuggets in her safe.”
    Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Fifteen grand?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo what do you think?”
    â€œI think she made a living with her hide and just collected because she could.”
    â€œShe had the equipment.”
    â€œAnd that tattoo … it’s her only one, it’s vulgar, and it’s in a painful place. Not the kind of ink a girl usually gets the first time.”
    â€œShe probably just wanted a little dick to wiggle.”
    â€œSeems like something she might’ve been forced to get,” posited Bettinger. “Maybe something a pimp makes all of his girls get—like a cattle brand. A label that says, ‘This property belongs to me,’ or maybe, ‘This girl is under my protection.’”
    Dominic spun the wheel clockwise, guiding the car onto a riven street that ran north. “That’s a big bucket of ‘maybes’ you got.”
    â€œEducated ones.”
    â€œLike you, Detective.” The words were not said with any affinity. “A big, educated maybe.”
    â€œTurning maybes into yesses is what I do.”
    â€œMr. Humble.”
    â€œModesty’s a form of dishonesty I don’t subscribe to.”
    Applying the brakes and cutting the wheel, Dominic turned onto a dirt road where the pavement was kept in heaps. The silver car rattled, and a moment later, the big fellow flung the vehicle around a bent sign, which read GANSON STREET. Tires ground gravel into grit and pounded that into dust as the automobile rumbled north.
    â€œShitopia,” announced Dominic.
    Bettinger scanned the area. The sidewalks and streets were deserted, and the tenement windows were nothing but black openings, wholly bereft of glass. Vandals had not even bothered to put their initials on these buildings.
    The detective’s theory was confirmed by what he saw. “Elaine James—blond, white, pretty, with engineered cleavage and fifteen nuggets in her safe—isn’t working out here.” He tapped his index finger against the window. “This is where her abductor brought her.”
    â€œThen why’re we botherin’?”
    â€œSame reason we’re doing the autopsy.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œLooking for crumbs—things that were missed.”
    â€œâ€™Cause everyone out here’s so incompetent?”
    â€œWe don’t have anything solid right now—just a handful of maybes. Going to the crime scene and requesting an autopsy are standard procedures.”
    The silver luxury car rolled past a street that was blocked off by an overturned pickup truck, which had been torn open like a zebra on the