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

level, the detective noted myriad graffiti tags and a vivid illustration of a black horse astride a white woman, whose bulging eyes, ecstatic hair, and curled toes indicated that she was in an orgasmic situation.
    â€œNigga’s talented,” observed the youth.
    Bettinger was not sure if Crabhead was referring to the artist or the stallion.
    The group passed doors that were numbered 14 and 15 and continued up the stairwell. Something heavy thudded, shaking the walls.
    Bettinger crossed the landing, flung the door, and looked up the hallway, which was empty. Returning his attention to the youth, he said, “Go back down.”
    â€œI wanna watch.”
    â€œGo.”
    A woman yelled.
    Dominic grabbed Crabhead’s left shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him toward the stairs. “Scamper.”

 
    XIV
    You Earned This
    The policemen hastened up the hallway, which was infected with the same viral magenta that had overtaken the twelfth floor.
    A woman yelled “You earned this!” and a child that was either a girl or a prepubescent boy shrieked.
    Bettinger and Dominic hammered fists directly below the number 1610 and shouted, “Police!”
    â€œGet away from that kid!” yelled the detective.
    â€œOpen up right fuckin’ now!” added the big fellow.
    â€œDon’t interfere with my family!” The woman inside the apartment had a wheeze and a twang, and Bettinger surmised that she was an obese redneck. “I know you ain’t real cops anyways.”
    A child began to sob.
    â€œMa’am,” Bettinger said, “you need to open thi—”
    â€œLeave me alone—this ain’t your business.”
    â€œIt is our business,” declared the detective. “Come to the door or we’ll force our way in.”
    The woman whispered something, and suddenly, the child stopped crying.
    Dominic pounded the door. “Five seconds or we break this down.”
    â€œI’m comin’.”
    Footfalls echoed within the apartment. The policemen raised their badges, and several neighbors poked their heads into the hallway so that they could better view the tableau. One white oldster appeared to be eating gumdrops.
    A shadow darkened the space underneath the door, and the peephole turned black. Inside the apartment, the woman muttered, “Oh shit.”
    Bettinger pocketed his badge. “Open the door.”
    â€œSorry about the noise. I’ll keep it down in here.” The woman sounded anxious.
    â€œLet us in or this conversation happens at the station.”
    A bolt snapped, and a chain rattled. Latches clicked, and the door swung inward. Standing in a pink hallway was a morbidly obese white female who wore a tight baby blue nightgown that revealed more bare skin than was possessed by two nude women of average size.
    Bettinger looked deeper into the apartment, but did not see the child. “Where’s the kid?”
    â€œIn the bathroom.”
    â€œTake us there.”
    The woman led the police up the hallway, which smelled like a sour combination of flatulence and cheddar cheese. Soon, they reached a closed door.
    â€œHis name?”
    â€œPeter.”
    The detective knocked on the door. “Peter?”
    â€œWhat?” The boy’s voice was dim and wet.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œYes.”
    Bettinger faced the woman. “Your name?”
    â€œLiz.”
    â€œLiz what?”
    The woman ruminated for a moment. “Smith.”
    â€œGet your driver’s license and put—”
    â€œI don’t have one.”
    â€œThen your birth certificate or social security card.”
    â€œI don’t have those either.”
    â€œGet something with your name on it—a credit card or a bill—anything—and put on some clothes.”
    â€œI’m dressed.” Liz tugged at her nightgown, disturbing breasts that resembled the eyes of an alcoholic. “Lots of women wear this around the