Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

“Like I said, it’s not a good time to-”

“You were hedging before you lost your job.”

“Maybe I was,” he allowed.

“And you’re out careening around on this thing-”

“I was minding my damn business and got shot at-”

“You wear a gun to work,” she said. “Are you really minding your business?”

There it was, a topic they’d never broached before. She hadn’t mentioned a problem with what he did until now. Had she been holding back, or had things changed? It didn’t matter. Here they were.

“You know what I’ve realized, maybe since the baby started getting close?” she asked. “That I spend my nights alone. Whether you’re out working, or even when you’re home. You’re not focused on this baby, and you’re just … unreachable.”

It lay there, half lament, half accusation, all true. Behr cast about for a response.

“Look, it’s been a tough time. That’s my fault. But I’m trying … to focus on the baby. And I do love you, Suze. Isn’t that enough?” he offered.

“Not if you won’t let me do the same back to you,” she said, and then searched for words. “People think unrequited love is the worst fate imaginable, but the truth is: being without either half of the equation is awful. Because it just makes you feel empty.”

He felt like a child trying to process a chemistry equation. He knew what she was saying was important, but he was not capable of addressing it in a meaningful way.

“I’m not trying to shut you out. I’m just trying to put this thing down, and then …” Behr said, tapering off like a first-year French student, not sure what else to add.

“Then what? The next one? And one of them goes the wrong way and that’s it … I’m afraid, Frank. Afraid that one day the lousy Snoogler is all I’m gonna have,” she said, referencing that body pillow of hers with the silly name.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. But it wasn’t a satisfactory answer to her. The conversation became stuck in an eddy after that, and he tried to convince her to go into the bedroom and rest. But she was set on going out, to her office to talk to her boss Ed Lindsay about whether she could come back to work immediately, before the baby was born, and if not, how quickly she could come back afterward. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

“Susan,” he called feebly, but the closing door was her final response. Behr didn’t go after her. He knew she was right about all she’d said, because within a minute he felt his mind pull back to the Kolodnik case, and he let it.

The numbers associated with the tax breaks in the proposed Senate bill were huge-tens of millions, maybe hundreds. On the streets he’d seen people killed over five bucks, so what would that kind of money cause men to do? Once the fever was unleashed, values-monetary, moral, or that of human life-had a way of becoming arbitrary in a hurry.

If he looked at the thing from five miles up, it was clear enough: everyone was acting in his own self-interest. It was as simple as that and something he shouldn’t have forgotten. Forces wanted Kolodnik gone. Caro wanted Behr out of the way so things were smooth with the cops. The police wanted to be the only player on the field, as they always did. Not for any grand conspiracy for the most part but for a much cleaner reason: expediency. Behr wanted to find who’d shot at him. Mothers looked out for their babies because that’s what mattered to them. All these things only became a problem when agendas conflicted. But then it was indeed a problem.

Behr opened his notebook and pored over what he had and what he still didn’t. Then he realized there was someone he hadn’t gotten to yet, and it was time to do so. It was time to get a hold of Lowell Gantcher.

59

A Westerner’s first impulse when planning a crime is: How am I going to get away when it’s done? But Dwyer had learned an important mind-set in his days in the field in the Middle East. The first impulse in the extremist-Muslim or otherwise-is: How can I succeed? The getaway be damned. This was Dwyer’s current attitude. He needed to get it done. Then he could return home to his mountaintop and his Sandy. But a nasty secret had reared up in him as of late. The truth was, he finally had the taste for action back in his mouth after a bit of an absence. He could keep telling himself this was about walk-away money or protecting his reputation, but he knew what it was really about: the juice. And the irony that he was using the extremist approach in order to get away with the original crime was not lost upon him. He felt himself starting to stumble and shake a little like a dry drunk.

Dwyer was in the living room of Pat Teague’s house, off a small-town crossroads in the middle of the American flatlands. He surveyed the damaged hutch, the cracked mirror, and spilled dirt around the potted plant, and put it together with what he knew. Something had upset Pat Teague big-time. He had used his landline telephone to call a man with a warning, and Dwyer and Rickie had just gotten there and were sitting down the street listening.

“Hey, it’s Teague,” he’d said.

“Shit, Patty,” the voice said, “is it safe to call me?”

“It’s not safe anyway,” Teague said.

“Oh no …” the voice lamented.

“You know who he’s talking to?” Rickie asked.

“Nah,” Dwyer said, “wish we had caller capture.” On the more sophisticated version of the line tap, they’d be able to know the number he was calling, not just listen.

“The wheels are coming off this fucking thing,” Teague said. “Are you still around?”

“Yeah, the son of a bitch left me,” the voice said.

“Then we should meet and talk about what the hell we can do.”

“Where and when?” the voice asked.

“The Steer-In, first thing tomorrow, say eight,” Teague told him. “It’ll be nice and quiet.” Dwyer jotted down the information.

“Good,” the voice said.

“Keep your head down, then,” Teague advised.

“Ah, Christ,” the voice whispered, “I will.”

“You want to tail him to this Steer-In, see who he’s meeting?” Rickie asked.

“We can’t wait that long, you savvy?” Dwyer said. “We’ll find out who he’s gonna meet, but we’re not just gonna sit here and diddle ourselves while this bastard calls everyone in his address book.”

As if to confirm the statement, they heard Teague pick up and dial again.

“Hello, hon,” he said.

“Hi, Pat,” a woman, presumably his wife, said. “How’s it going?”

“I had an issue. Got into it with someone. A real prick …” Teague said.

“Oh no, you all right? Was it work related?” she asked.

“Yeah, of course it was work related. I’m pretty lumped up, it’d probably be better if the kids didn’t see me,” he said.

“They’re going up to the farm with Mom and Dad to help out after school. They were gonna stay up there for dinner,” she told him.

“Good,” he said, “I’m heading out to Stookey’s for a cocktail-”

“This early?”

“Screw it, yeah,” he said. “Then maybe I’ll go and stay in the city. You want me to bring you back an order of fried catfish before I go?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t waste the energy,” Teague said, and hung up.

Dwyer and Rickie scrambled to gear up and go in, to intercept Teague before he left, but they were too late. Almost instantly they saw him walking, with a slight limp, toward his car.

“Heading off for Stookey’s, I imagine,” Rickie said as Teague drove away.