Free Mean Business on North Ganson Street by S. Craig Zahler Page A

launched himself at the youth, seized his left wrist, and twisted it around until the kid dropped to his knees.
    â€œDon’t talk that way to policemen!”
    â€œOkay! I won’t—I w—”
    â€œNot fuckin’ ever.”
    â€œI hear you, nigga, I hear you!” The youth’s bravado was gone. Suddenly, he was a skinny kid at the mercy of a big adult who could break his limbs and toss him in a place where people studied geometry. “Now—now—now let go. Please.”
    Dominic released the kid and kicked his skateboard across the courtyard. “Stand up.”
    The youth rose to his feet, shaking his sore arm as if it were a damp noodle. “My name’s Dwayne.”
    â€œIt’s Crabhead.”
    Bettinger joined the duo and gestured to the building. “We need to get to apartment sixteen ten.”
    â€œOkay.” The youth nodded his head. “I’ll take you there.”
    The three of them walked toward the entrance.
    Rubbing his arm, Crabhead eyed his jettisoned skateboard, which was lying on its back beside a far-off bench. “Can I grab it so nobody’ll take it?”
    â€œNobody’ll take it.” Dominic pointed at a white teenager who stood near the bench. “Watch Crabhead’s board. If it gets taken, you and me’ll have a discussion.”
    â€œA’ight,” said the skinny fellow whose bereft gums indicated that he had an addiction to crystal meth. “I’ll watch.”
    Crabhead slotted a key into a lock that was surrounded by iron bars, twisted his hand, and leaned forward, but the door did not move. Clenching his jaw, he slammed a shoulder into the reinforced barrier. Hinges groaned, and reluctantly, the door swung wide.
    â€œGets stuck in winter.”
    Led by the young guide, the policemen entered the building. Very little sunlight penetrated the bluish-gray lobby, which had an uninhabited security booth and the incomplete remains of a dozen plastic chairs, the limbs of which were still bolted to the floor. Three fluorescent bulbs flickered like wartime telegraphs as Crabhead brought his guests to the elevator bank.
    Dominic raised an eyebrow. “These shits work?”
    â€œGo up to twelve.” The youth hammered a steel button with his fist. “We can ride up there and walk the rest.”
    Gears groaned within the shaft, and the big fellow withdrew his cell phone.
    â€œThat the Phantom Sleek?” asked Crabhead.
    â€œYeah.” Dominic’s thumbs became insects.
    â€œGot sixty-four for videos and shit?”
    â€œYeah.”
    The exoskeleton nodded. “Gotta get one of those.”
    Bettinger wondered if Crabhead even knew the name of the state capital.
    Something clanked within the shaft, and the door opened, revealing two bearded white guys whose jittery red eyes were shaded by baseball caps. The smell of marijuana wafted from the pair as they walked into the lobby.
    Crabhead led the policemen into the pale green lift and fingered the eroded button that sat above the one for the eleventh floor.
    Something clanked, and the door closed. The elevator shuddered, lifting off like a rocket.
    â€œYou know who lives in apartment sixteen ten?” asked Bettinger.
    â€œNah.” The crustacean shimmied. “Ain’t hardly been up there.”
    A metallic screech echoed inside the shaft, and the elevator lurched to a stop. The door groaned, sliding into the wall.
    Crabhead exited, followed by Dominic (who was still typing on his cell phone) and Bettinger. The magenta hallway in which they stood looked like an infection and smelled like a combination of fungus and old sex.
    Yawning, the youth brought the policemen to the emergency exit and slapped the push bar, revealing a dimly lighted stairwell. Heavy footfalls echoed on another level.
    Bettinger and Crabhead walked onto the landing, followed by Dominic, who was pocketing his cell phone. As the trio climbed toward the next