iron squashing his biceps and cranking down on his brachial nerves. If that guy had started in with the trimming, it might ’ ve been trouble, but this shit he could handle. He took a moment to decide who they were and what they had on him. He ’ d thought they were cops, and there was something vaguely copish about them, but the way they were going on about other things and beating on him had him confused. As far as the picture went, there was something familiar about the kid in the shot — he looked like every kid he ’ d ever worked. And he looked like none of ’ em in the same way. How the hell was he supposed to remember? They were all just bodies once he was in the room. He didn ’ t bother trying to keep track. And even if he did remember, he sure wouldn ’ t tell them about it. He wasn ’ t here to make the world some better place. Nuh-uh. The world had taken a big shit on him and the way he felt about it was: Pass it on.
John B. Good stepped back off him, winded already, and it was only Rooster ’ s experience that kept him from smiling outright. He didn ’ t want to inspire them, for god ’ s sake. Then Big Fucker started coaching his buddy and things went south. B. Good rolled his shoulders like a cruiserweight when he came back in for round two. The next punches were different. The man had his weight planted and his arms were firing like pistons. Rooster felt his obliques begin to cave, and the blows started to eat him up, and then panic flooded in. He felt the breath get knocked out of him. He fought to keep down his peas and carrots. He found himself wishing it was over, silently crying out for it to Stop, just Fucking stop. But it didn ’ t stop. His abs failed him. They gave out like hammered copper. The punches were landing straight on his liver and spleen now. The blood rushed from his head and he got dizzy. If Big Fucker wasn ’ t holding him, he ’ d be weaving and staggering around the room. He ’ d give ’ em what they wanted now, whatever he had, which was nothing, if they ’ d just ask. Just please fucking ask. But they weren ’ t asking. He felt the foamy remnants of his breakfast shoot out of the corners of his mouth and his legs started to go. He sagged in the big man ’ s arms and then, Thank fucking Christ, it ended.
“Okay,” Behr said, and deposited what was left of Mintz in his chair. Black bile was running out of the guy ’ s mouth and he wasn ’ t even trying to wipe it away. Behr was tempted to allow the beating to go on until there was a knock on the door, let Mintz go to the hospital after they left, but he saw how spent Paul was. He didn ’ t want his partner passing out in the room, and he had questions to get to.
Mintz retched, two, then three times, but they were just spasms and he managed to hold his mud. Now Behr made the picture of Jamie reappear. Mintz looked at it and just shook his head weakly.
“You ’ re not protecting anything. We know who you are. We know your business.”
“I don ’ t…” Mintz ’ s head bobbed slightly in surrender. “I don ’ t…”
“We know about you and your old buddy Tad Ford.” Behr saw Mintz ’ s Adam ’ s apple bob and constrict. Son of a bitch, he thought, he ’ s got the dirt on Ford ’ s killing.
“We don ’ t give a crap about that. We want to know about the kids. This boy.” Behr pounded Jamie ’ s photo with his index finger. “Do you know him?”
“I don ’ t know” came the answer.
“You ’ ll give or I ’ m going next.” Behr saw blank fear shoot across Mintz ’ s face.
“What are you fucking with me for? Huh?” Mintz asked, his voice a high whine. He was crying. His tears and snot were mixing with the bile and sweat on his face, making him a total mess. There was a sharp knock on the door. Time was up.
“Hold that door, Paul,” Behr snarled, glad to see Paul jump up and head for it. “I know you break down these kids so they make for better companions. Now tell me something I can use or you ’ ll never leave this room.” Behr shot his hand out, grabbed Mintz around the throat, and squeezed. The sounds of a key in the lock and a hand on the knob could be heard. Paul gripped the knob, holding it still. Behr throttled Mintz as if he ’ d kill him and thought maybe he would.
“What the fuck am I? I never kept track of what I was doing. You want the guy who matters, right?” Mintz croaked. “You want Riggi. Oscar Riggi.”
The knocks had turned to banging. Paul looked back to Behr, who nodded. Paul stepped away from the door and it opened. Silva was standing there, a pissed-off look on his face.
“It’s time, goddamnit.”
Behr let go of the man ’ s throat, took out a notebook, and wrote down the name, doing his best to control a hand that trembled with adrenaline and disgust.
They all stood, looking around uncomfortably. Rooster was recuffed and they exited the room single file. Waiting in the hall was the room ’ s next occupant, a bald middle-aged lawyer holding a large briefcase. The interview room was soundproof, but the lawyer gave them a knowing look. The ugliness that had just occurred inside poured out into the hall, as palpable as a shit-house odor.
Being led down the corridor was the lawyer ’ s client, a big, strong black man with a shaved dome. Behr recognized him. Earl Powers. He could put a hand to whatever a buyer wanted, which was often guns. He was Terry Cottrell ’ s friend.
“Earl,” he said in greeting.
“What you doing down here, Behr?” Earl nodded.
Mintz turned back as he was half led, half carried away. “That ’ s your name? Behr? I ’ m gonna sue your fucking ass.”
“You know this bastard?” Behr said to Earl. “The guy ’ guls kids.” Behr spoke in a moment of rash anger, sentencing Rooster Mintz with his words.
Powers ’ s face changed. His eyes enlarged in their sockets with fury. Anyone who ’ d been inside, as Earl Powers had, knew the term. It came from Italian, from fungulo, and it meant to take someone by force.
“Bullshit,” Mintz screamed, more animal than man, because he knew how child rapers were treated inside, and now he was branded. He was still screaming his denials as he was prodded on down the hall by the guard and they turned the corner out of sight.
Behr and Paul left the jail. Troy Silva at County sure didn’t owe him anymore.
TWENTY-FOUR
The blond wood grain of the floor at Samadhi Yoga Center was close to Carol ’ s face as she lay on her stomach and then arched up into bhujangasana, cobra pose. The sound of Indian music was in the air, harmonium, finger cymbals, and sitar, in addition to the faint traces of sandalwood incense. She dreaded what came next and struggled not to anticipate, but to remain in the moment. The instructor ’ s voice came, soothing, encouraging, and directed the class through downward dog and into pigeon pose. Carol placed her right leg in front of, and folded beneath, her and puffed her chest out like a bird. She held for a moment before folding over toward the floor and opening her hips. An advanced student in front of her moved into eka pada rajakapotasana, one-legged king pigeon pose, the sole of her rear foot bending up to touch the back of her head. Carol couldn ’ t imagine the flexibility required to do that when the preparatory position she was in already flooded her body with something approximating searing pain. The ancient wounds of her pelvis, which had spread wide to birth Jamie, began to open.
She had taken up yoga two years earlier and had hardly been a devoted student, stopping entirely when Jamie disappeared, until a few months back when she was standing in line at a supermarket checkout and saw a yoga magazine featuring a model in an extended side-angle pose. The image spoke to her heart and called her back to the mat. Now she practiced five days a week and had felt physical stability slowly returning to her through the motion and focused breathing. At first, for many months, and even now, the stilling of the mind, the quiet, was terrifying for her. Memories of sounds and images, of Jamie ’ s face, his smile and laugh, would launch in her mind when she was completely defenseless in the midst of class. The agony was profound. Where her emotional nerves had once been dead, they had begun to spike with sensation. She had, one moment and one breath at a time, found a way to not give up. She continued to attend class, unrolling her mat and lying down before it began, participating silently, and then rolling up her mat without saying a word to fellow students or the teacher. She had made progress, but still there were obstacles in the way of her body ’ s opening and she wondered if she ’ d ever develop the confidence and ability others in the class had. The teacher ’ s voice came again, urging them.
“Breathe deeply and soften your edges to the vast sea of divine grace around you.”
Carol glanced left, trying to empty her mind, and saw the large brass Dancing Shiva statue. The god stood
