Down Here b-15

by Andrew Vachss

  “Burke!” the teenage girl shouted, as she ran to me. Flower, the only child of Max and his wife, Immaculata.

  The girl slammed into me like a linebacker making a goal-line stop, knocking me back a few feet as I held on to her. “Hey, kiddo,” I said. “Easy!”

  She stood on her toes, gave me a messy kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so used to Daddy.”

  “Daddy?”

  “That is what she persists in calling her father lately,” Immaculata said, her voice mock-severe. “Flower’s manners have suffered greatly, now that she is so grown up.”

  “Mom!”

  “You see?” Immaculata smiled at me. She turned to her beautiful, glowing daughter. “Have you invited your uncle Burke to come into our home, child? To sit down? To share our breakfast with us?”

  “Aaaargh!” the girl said, rolling her eyes. She stepped back a couple of paces, bowed formally, said, “Uncle, please come into our home and share our meal with us. We would be honored.”

  “It would be my honor,” I said, bowing back.

  Max regarded his wife and daughter with his standard mixture of stunned amazement and fierce love.

  Immaculata was in a plum-colored robe heavily brocaded with silver. Her hair was tied in a chignon. Her daughter was wearing pink jeans and a black sweatshirt that came almost to her knees. Her hair was pulled into three pigtails, with two on the right.

  We all sat around the teak table with rosewood inlays that the family used for all its meals. I don’t know what was in the eggs Immaculata served, but they tasted wonderful.

  “Drink,” she said, putting a glass of some ginger-colored stuff she had just mixed up in front of me. “For energy.”

  “Thank you,” I said, not remotely surprised that she could tell I needed it.

  Max disappeared. Came back in a few seconds with a framed document of some kind.

  “Oh my god!” Flower exclaimed, dramatically.

  I took the document from Max, read through the glass. Flower’s PSAT scores. Verbal: 80. Math: 78. Writing: 80. Spending all that time with teenagers last year had schooled me enough to understand that those scores, coupled with Flower’s school activities, made her a mortal lock for a National Merit Scholarship.

  “Congratulations!” I said to her.

  “Oh, this is so embarrassing,” the girl said. “I mean, it isn’t a Nobel Prize, for goodness’ sake!”

  “When you win one of those, will you still throw a fit if your father wants to show it off?” I asked her.

  “Burke! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “Honey, it’s not like Max is making a window display out of it.”

  “Well, he wanted to, I think. And when he showed it to Grandmother, she wanted to build a shrine to it. I’m serious!”

  “‘Grandmother,’ huh?” I teased her. “You don’t call her ‘Granny,’ then?”

  “She wouldn’t dare,” Immaculata laughed. “This child has always been able to bully her poor father, but Mama . . .”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Mama’s like me. She doesn’t put up with any guff from the younger generation.”

  “You are so tough,” Flower said, getting up from the table. She bent forward to give me a kiss, slipping her hand into the side pocket of my jacket, as I had taught her to do when she was just a little girl. Back then, she always found candy. Later, it was the kind of junk jewelry preteens love . . . or pretend to, anyway. Now it’s a fifty-dollar bill. “I must get ready for school now,” she announced.

  “Hold on a damn minute,” I said. “I want to tell you something. Something important. You’re old enough to hear it now.”

  Flower’s eyes were rapt. There was nothing she treasured more than vindication of her status as a mature young woman.

  “I’ve known your father for a long time,” I said. “He is my brother. I love him. You know the amazing skills your father has. But I was never jealous of him. Not until now. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, Burke,” she said. She gave me another quick kiss, then fled to her room, tears flowing.

  Even though we were heading away from Manhattan, the inbound HOV lane cut down our options. That, plus the reverse-commuters and airport traffic, clogged the artery enough to keep us below the speed limit for pretty much the entire trip.

  The highways that crisscross the city during rush hour carry a United Nations of passengers. Perfect for the kind of traveling I like to do—nothing stands out. Besides, the average commuter is either talking on a cell phone, eating his breakfast, or staring blankly through the windshield like an overtranq’d mental patient. A zebra-striped stretch limo with a palm tree growing out of its sunroof wouldn’t get more than a passing glance, never mind my purposely anonymous Plymouth.

  We took the long right-hand sweeper exiting the BQE for the LIE connector to the Grand Central. Behind us, some congenital defective, in a white Mustang with blue racing stripes, decided we weren’t moving quick enough. He jumped into the service lane, shot past us, then whipped back to his left to cut us off. A gentle tap on the four-piston brakes, concealed behind the dog-dish hubcaps on the Plymouth’s modest sixteen-inch steel wheels, was enough to keep us out of his trunk.

  Max gave me a “Should we?” look. I shrugged, not expecting we’d get a chance.

  But the Mustang was going the same way we were, so we stayed right with him until the highway forked—left for Long Island, right for JFK.

  The Mustang went right. Max looked upward, then nodded in agreement. It was true—I usually don’t like to call attention to myself when I’m driving, but fate had made the decision for us.

  The Mustang cut across two rows, looking for the outside lane. As he made his move, I dropped the Plymouth down a gear and nailed it. The Roadrunner exploded past his left quarter panel like a train past a tree. By the time the full-on roar of the Plymouth’s stump-puller motor registered in his ears, the Mustang was behind us, stunned.

  I glanced in the mirror, caught the driver looking frantically to his right, trying to figure out what had happened. The ancient bucket of bolts he’d cut off so easily couldn’t have just blasted past him like that, but . . .

  Past JFK, traffic lightened up considerably. The Mustang tailgated relentlessly, flashing his brights, making it clear he wanted that left lane for himself. I glanced at the tach—3200 rpm, about 70 miles an hour. Nothing ahead for quite a distance. Even Miss Cleo could figure out what would happen as soon as the lane next to us cleared.

  I watched the mirrors. When the Mustang swung out and made his move to pass on my right, I let him get a half-length on me before I gave it the gun, keeping him pinned in the middle lane.

  At 105, the Mustang was still coming, but he was a man trying to scale a Teflon wall with greasy hands—the Plymouth had enough left to run away and hide anytime I asked.

  A fat SUV in the middle lane finished it. The screech of the Mustang’s brakes was ugly—I guessed the chump hadn’t seen the need for big brakes to go along with his giant chrome rims.

  I shot past the SUV, sliced across the highway, and disappeared into the next exit ramp.

  We circled back toward the storage facility. Once we had it spotted, I pulled over. We took out a pair of bogus Jersey plates—backed with Velcro bands so they could snap on and off in seconds—and put them in place, just in case there was some sort of surveillance cam working.

  The facility was a huge grid formed by lines of connected units, like windowless row houses. I’d been in smaller towns.

  There was no fence, just a billboard-sized warning sign at the entrance. All I caught with a quick glance was: NO LIVING OR SLEEPING IN THE UNITS.

  We motored through slowly, navigating by the alphanumeric on the piece of paper Sands had given me. A brown Chevy sedan with white doors rolled past us. The quasi–police shield decal on the doors didn’t exactly give me the tremors. All those patrols ever did was watch for people prying open the units that management sealed up when the rent hadn�
�t been paid.

  Some of the units were bigger than apartments people paid a fortune for in Manhattan. Even the smallest ones would hold anything you could stuff in a pickup.

  People keep everything in places like this, from toys to treasures. If you were evicted, you could stash your furniture while you slept in your car and tried to put together enough money for a new crib. If your collection of vintage paperback books was too much for your apartment—or your wife—one of these units could be the solution.

  For that matter, all you needed was a chainsaw and an ice chest and you could keep a body in one of them for long enough to be in another country by the time it was discovered.

  Sands’ unit was near the end of a long row. I backed the Plymouth up to the door, and Max and I got out.

  The lock yielded to the three-number sequence that was on the piece of paper Sands had slipped me. I’d brought a flashlight with me, but I didn’t need it: a switch on the wall lit the place nicely.

  The inside of the storage unit looked like the loser’s share of a divorce settlement. An old La-Z-Boy recliner, upholstered in seasick-green Naugahyde. A swaybacked couch the husband had probably spent most of his nights on before the breakup. A fold-up workbench. A set of black iron free weights. Two bowling-ball bags that looked full. A pair of metal file cabinets someone had once painted white, with a brush. A decent assortment of power tools—looked in good condition. Stacks of magazines. A nineteen-inch TV. A mid-range stereo receiver, with matching speakers.

  And seven large file boxes of heavy cardboard, designed for transport. They were in two stacks, ready to go.

  I grabbed the top one. It was full—had to weigh a good thirty, thirty-five pounds. Inside, nothing but paper. Case files; every single page a photocopy. I leafed through them quickly. As soon as I saw the name “Wychek” a dozen times in thirty seconds, I knew we were home.

  Even with the fuel cell and the relocated battery hogging part of the space, there was still enough room in the Plymouth’s cavernous trunk for all seven cartons. I kept watch while Max did the loading, the best use of both our skills.

  Before I turned off the light to the storage unit, I took a quick glance around. Removing the boxes didn’t create a visually empty space—it looked like everything else had been there for a while. I wondered where Sands lived.

  I dropped Max and the cartons in front of my building. By the time I’d stashed the Plymouth and walked on back, a quick jerk of Gateman’s head told me the Mongol had already gotten them all upstairs.

  As I walked in the door to my place, the cell phone chirped in its holster.

  “What?”

  “They’re . . . ‘producing’ her, is what the lawyer said.” Pepper, sounding more like her usual upbeat self.

  “When?”

  “Today, for sure. Probably not until late afternoon, or even tonight. But it might be quicker. It depends—”

  “—on the bus, I know. Look, I’m not going to be there this time. And you shouldn’t be, either. None of you, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “As for going out to her house, you—”

  “I got it,” Pepper said, voice edged with annoyance. “We didn’t start doing this yesterday, okay? I didn’t call for advice; I called to give you some information. Like I said. I got it. Now you got it.”

  Max had laid the cartons out on the floor, waiting for me to decide what we were going to do with all the paper inside.

  There were a hundred things I wanted to do. But I had this overwhelming feeling of stumbling blind, trying to disarm a bomb in the dark. I knew what my system was telling me. I put my palms together, held them to one side, and laid my cheek against them. Telling Max I needed sleep.

  I pointed to my watch, gestured that I wasn’t going to be able to make the meet at Mama’s. There wasn’t enough to tell anyone yet, anyway.

  Max scanned my face, a cartographer reading a map. He nodded agreement, signed that Mama would know where to find him, I should leave word when I wanted us all to get together.

  I went into the back room, took off my jacket, and . . .

  The phone buzzed, somewhere close. I reached out, flipped it open.

  “What?”

  “It took a bit longer than I anticipated.” Davidson’s voice. “Longer than it should have. The whole thing . . . Never mind. My client’s been released.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “I have no idea where she is. But I thought you and I might profit from a meeting.”

  “Say where and when.”

  “My office. ASAP.”

  “One hour, no more,” I promised.

  Where I live, most of the light is artificial. Oh, there are windows, but they haven’t been cleaned for generations. Even the skylights are encrusted, and the surrounding buildings block off direct sunlight, anyway. I knew it was late, but seeing my watch read 10:44 knocked me back a bit. I’d been out for a long time.

  A quick shower and change of clothes and I was on my way. I’d promised an hour, so the car was out of the question. I walked over to the subway on Varick, swiped my Metrocard through the turnstile, and grabbed an uptown 1-9 train. Davidson’s building was on Lex, just off Forty-second. The 1-9 is a stone local, but even with the crosstown walk when I got out, I beat the deadline with ten minutes to spare.

  All the dull-eyed “security guard” at the front desk in Davidson’s office building wanted was for me to sign the register, so he could go back to his mini-TV.

  Davidson’s office is on the twenty-eighth floor. I took the elevator to nineteen and walked up the rest of the way, on the off-chance that not everyone in the lobby was watching television.

  The door to the suite was open. The receptionist’s cage was deserted. I walked on back, past where Davidson’s own secretary would normally be working. His door was open. So was one of the windows, but the air was still thick with cigar smoke.

  “This case is dirt,” he greeted me.

  “I know it is,” I said, taking a seat. “I just don’t know how deep it goes.”

  “Me first,” Davidson said. “Once I verified the bond was in place, I was all set to spring her. Then, out of the blue, I get a call from Lansing at the DA’s Office. The little fuck tells me they’re bringing her down tonight, so I can make an application for bail reduction.”

  He leaned back, took a deep drag, face dark with anger.

  “Then he says, here’s the deal: Just make the same application I made before. Ask for something reasonable, like fifty, and his office will consent to it.”

  “Maybe the judge thought it over, had his law secretary make a few discreet calls,” I said.

  “It’s possible, but I think this was their own play. Question is, why?”

  “Because they know she didn’t do it,” I said. “And they’re afraid she’s going to find out who did.”

  “Why would they give a damn if . . . ? Wait! You’re saying they already know Wolfe wasn’t the shooter? Not that they suspect it, they know?”

  “Do I think the skell admitted it wasn’t Wolfe who shot him?” I said. “I don’t know. But here’s what I do know. Never mind Wolfe, it’s their so-called victim who doesn’t want out.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? How could he admit anything, much less ask to stay in the hospital?” Davidson said. “He’s in a coma, right?”

  “Not anymore, he’s not,” I said.

  Davidson shook his head, like a fighter who had just taken a hard shot but wouldn’t go down. “How could you possibly—?”

  I told him what Sands had told me, word for word. I can do that. Always could, even when I was a little kid. I would have made a perfect witness against the people who did those things to me. Only, back then, they didn’t bring stuff like that into court.

  “Christ on a crutch, Burke!” Davidson said, when I was finished. “That’s more questions than answers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those fucking cocksuckers. They didn’t say word on
e about this guy being out of his coma. They just consented to my application for a bail reduction.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Since I knew it was wired, I repeated the ROR app. Bail money’s just for showtime now—no reason they couldn’t just release her on her own recognizance and be done with it. But instead of just going along quiet, they weasel back with the fifty K.

  “The judge looks over at me like somebody should let him in on the joke. So I figured, fuck Lansing and his deals. I say to the judge, If something isn’t real wrong with the case, how come the DA’s Office itself had just dropped their bail demand so radically?

  “By now, Hutto’s looking at Lansing very strange. Then Lansing goes into a whole speech about needing time to develop their case in full, and since Ms. Wolfe isn’t considered a flight risk . . .

  “So I immediately start stomping on him like a fucking grape. It was pitiful. Anyway, bottom line, Hutto’s off the hook now, so he sets it at the fifty the DA asked for.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “And we don’t need that bondsman of yours,” Davidson said. “That amount, Wolfe put it up herself. In cash, from nice clean assets. That’s what took so long: getting the damn paperwork done.”

  “You’ve still got your discovery coming,” I told him. “And I’ve got some of my own to do. But so far, everything this Sands has told me has been gospel.”

  “You want me to run his name past Wolfe?”

  “I’d rather ask her myself.”

  “I don’t know if she—”

  “Ask her,” I said.

  The next day I called Big Nate on one of my cells.

  “You heard?” I asked him.

  “I heard,” his amplified voice said. “But—”

  “You and me, we’re both the same,” I said, very softly. “Sometimes, there’s things you don’t want to do, but you do them, because all the other choices are worse. You were ready to do what you had to do. So was I.”

  “Yeah. So—we’re quits?”