Down Here b-15

by Andrew Vachss

  By daybreak, we were ready to start sleeping in shifts.

  “ I say he gets here first,” the Prof whispered to me.

  “Michelle put the padlock back in place behind us,” I said. “And only the sister has the key.”

  “What time’s the meet?”

  “Midnight.”

  “I got a century to a dime the cocksucker gets here by eleven-thirty, minimum.”

  I was still considering the offer when Max slapped a ten-dollar bill on top of one of the duffel bags.

  “ Pssst!”

  “You got him?”

  “Got somebody, mahn. This scope makes everything green, but it’s a man, walking.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes,” Clarence said. “Closing now.”

  The Prof snatched Max’s ten and his hundred off the top of the duffel bag in one lightning move. Then he and the Mongol took off downstairs. Mick was already there, waiting.

  Thirteen minutes later.

  “You’re not feds,” Wychek said, despite my dark-blue suit, white shirt, and wine-colored tie. If being stripped, handcuffed to a pipe, and surrounded by the men who had choked him into unconsciousness and carried him up the stairs frightened him, it didn’t show on his face.

  “Good guess,” I said.

  “And you’re not with . . .”

  “With who, John?” I said, pleasantly, not a trace of urgency in my voice.

  “Oh no,” he said, lips twisting in a stalker’s smile.

  “When did you last take your medication, John?”

  “Just before I— What difference does that make?”

  “You know why I asked,” I said, very softly.

  “I don’t—”

  “Ssshhh,” I said, soothingly. “We’re already here. You know what that means.”

  “If anything happens to me—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, John. But we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know who else was coming.”

  “She doesn’t have it,” he said, smoothly. “She doesn’t even know where it is.”

  “One of those is a lie, John. Maybe, maybe it was true that first time, on Forty-ninth. But it’s not true now. Not tonight. So, the way we see it, all we have to do is wait. Soon as she shows up, we won’t need you anymore.”

  “The feds know where I am. If anything—”

  “You said that already, John. That’s why we took your clothes. To make sure you didn’t have any way to stay in touch.”

  Wychek watched me blank-faced, same as he had watched dozens of social workers and therapists and cops and prison guards for a lot of years. His other face only came out under a ski mask.

  He hadn’t been carrying a cell phone. No tape recorder, no body mike.

  But he had his straight razor. And a roll of duct tape.

  I walked around in a little circle, as if I was making up my mind. Finally, said, “You want to know what this is about, John? What it’s really about?”

  “Yeah. Because if you think—”

  “It’s about money,” I said, moving closer to him. “And you’re going to—”

  Clarence stepped into the room, chopped off my speech with a hand gesture. I followed him out of the room, over to where he had an observation slot.

  A silver Audi TT convertible pulled up to the front of the building. Its headlights went out. Just as Laura Reinhardt opened her door, I caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the lot.

  I gestured to Max and the Prof, pointing two fingers down, forked. They took off.

  “Big SUV,” Clarence said, watching through the scope. “Coming on.”

  “I’ll cover you from up here,” I said, and went back to where we had Wychek trussed up.

  “This is so you don’t hear or see what’s going on,” I said, a doctor explaining a medical procedure to a nervous patient. “Just breathe through your nose,” I told him, very softly.

  “Do not panic,” I cautioned him, just before I fitted a set of sound-canceling earphones in place. “We’re all going to be busy for a few minutes. You have yourself a seizure now, it’s your last.”

  I slapped a couple of turns of duct tape around his mouth, then dropped the black hood over his head, with another quick turn of the tape to hold the earphones in place.

  I heard the downstairs door open.

  A flashlight blazed downstairs for a half-second. Then it went out.

  The SUV was a moving brick, black against the gray night. It came to a shadowed stop about fifty yards from the building. The front doors opened, and a man climbed out of each side. No light went on inside the truck.

  “Can you see anyone still inside?” I asked Clarence.

  “It looks empty, mahn. But someone could be on the floor.”

  “All right. She should be out of the way by now. Go on downstairs. Remember, if there has to be any—”

  “I know,” he said, threading the tube silencer into his nine-millimeter.

  I lost sight of the two men just as they entered the building. I moved over to the top of the stairs. Looked down. Shadows inside shadows.

  The front door opened. Closed.

  A blast! of sudden light.

  “Freeze, motherfuckers!” the Prof barked.

  I heard a harsh grunt. Then the puffft! of a silenced handgun.

  “ The broad strolls in. Max takes her from behind, same as he did the freak. She goes right out, never saw a thing. We wait for the two guys following her. As soon as they come in, I light them up, give them the word. One raises his hands, the other goes for his steel. Clarence cut loose, and—”

  “Where’s the sister now?”

  “Sleeping,” the Prof said. “I gave her the hypo the Mole put together. One shot, he said she’ll be out for a few hours. Wake up with a bad headache. Be all fuzzy, too, like coming out of a bad dream. That’s why he needed you to tell him how much she weighs, get the dose perfect.”

  “We’ve got two men,” I said. “One in the room next door, one upstairs. No way to know if the guys in the SUV had backup—”

  “Not in their truck, they didn’t,” Mick said, telling us he had gone out to make sure.

  “—but they both had cells. Don’t know if they’re supposed to call in, how much time we’ve got. . . .”

  “Got to pick one and run, son.”

  “Yeah, Prof. I know.”

  “Which one?”

  “Wychek knows where. But the guys who came in after Laura, they know why, I think.”

  “We came for the green,” the Prof said, settling it.

  The man was in his late forties, tall and rangy, with leathery skin. In the soft light from the candle, his eyes were colorless.

  “I’m not with them,” he said, in that calm, deliberate voice people use when they’re trying to keep an unstable person calm. “I’m a professional. Freelance, just like you, am I right? No reason for anyone to get wild, now. Just tell me what I have to do to walk out of here, and it’s done.”

  “We want the money,” I told him.

  “Sure. Give me the book, and you can name your price.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. It would have been just like that if that fucking Yusef didn’t have to play with his toys.”

  “That’s what took Wychek out the first time?”

  “Yeah. Could I have a cigarette?”

  The Prof fired one up, held it to the man’s lips. He inhaled gratefully. “Thanks. I’m the same as you, okay? A professional. I get hired, do a job, get paid. Only they don’t trust outsiders, so they sent that degenerate psycho along with me.”

  “Yusef?”

  “Right.”

  “He came with you tonight? He’s the one—?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, he’s one of them. You had the drop on us, cold. Stupid asshole must have figured he was going straight to Mecca,” the tall man said, deliberately distancing himself from the dead body at the foot of the stairs. “After what he pulled the first time, I couldn’t b
elieve they’d ever send him again.”

  “The first time? You mean with the girl in that apartment on the Lower East Side?”

  “Right. Fucking sicko. They told me he hooked her up to a car battery. He kept jolting her, but she kept telling the same story.”

  “And later they found out it was the truth.”

  “Not from her. Or from the other one, either. Fucking scumbag morons don’t know from interrogation. All they know is torture. It wasn’t until Wychek contacted them that they knew for sure.”

  “He took the book from her apartment? After he raped her?”

  “Right. When she found it was gone, she panicked. I don’t blame her, seeing what happened.”

  “She couldn’t tell them anything but the truth.”

  “Right. But they didn’t know it was the truth until Wychek started holding them up for money. That was when he was in the joint. By then, it was way too late for her. Fucking half-wits outsmarted themselves. They figured, even if they got busted themselves, nobody’d ever think to look for the book in some white girl’s apartment.”

  “She was the girlfriend of one of the—?”

  “If you mean, was she fucking one of them, yeah, I guess. But that wasn’t why they let her hold the book. She was one of them. One of those rich little ‘revolutionaries,’ you know what I mean? Like shopping isn’t enough of a thrill for them anymore, so they need to go liberate the downtrodden masses.”

  The contempt in his voice invited me to join him, but I didn’t say anything, waiting for him to fill the silence. Maybe me holding Wychek’s straight razor helped.

  “At first, the little weasel didn’t want that much,” the mercenary said. “I handled everything for them. I was the bridge man to get him that protection contract.”

  “From the Brotherhood.”

  “Right. You know what happened next. Fucking Wychek steps it up. He wants a lawyer. Okay. Still within budget. And by then they knew he hadn’t turned the book over to anyone. So they figured, Wychek gets out, they can deal with him.

  “He gets out, all right. Only what he wants is a lot of money. Now, these sand nig—” He pulled himself up short, segued into—“assholes, they got the money,” without missing a beat. “They got all kinds of money. But instead of just paying him, they decide to get cute.

  “Yusef’s got this little pistol. A twenty-five. Custom job. Between the suppressor and the reduced-powder hand-loads, it looked bad enough, but it wouldn’t kill a fucking cockroach. Yusef promises them, no electricity this time. He’ll use fear. Figures, he puts a couple of rounds into Wychek, it won’t kill him, but it’ll scare the shit out of him, make him give up the book.

  “And that’s what Yusef does. He pops Wychek a couple of times. Then he puts the piece right between Wychek’s eyes, tells him ‘Last chance,’ and . . .”

  “Wychek goes out.”

  “Yeah. Fucking Arab assholes. Yusef swore Wychek didn’t have the book on him. Stupid amateur. He was too busy searching the body to check and see if Wychek was even still breathing.”

  The tall man took another hit off the cigarette the Prof was holding for him. “After that, they’re in a panic,” he said. “In case Wychek’s got backup—you know, someone he left it with. But the book never surfaces, so they start to breathe easy.

  “All of a sudden, there’s that story in the papers. That Wychek didn’t die. And they got this woman charged with shooting him. But Wychek’s supposed to be in a coma, and they’re not worried about him talking. Then, a couple of weeks later—bang!—they get another call. Wychek himself. He’s out of the coma. And he still wants to sell them the book. But now, behind what happened, he wants the money in front.”

  I didn’t say anything, watching the play of candlelight on the razor’s edge underline the reality of his situation.

  “They figure, pay him, okay?” the tall man said. “But they also figure he makes copies, right?”

  “I would.”

  “Sure. Look, you got the book now. And you’re not some sick-fuck amateur, like him. I could get them to go a flat million, for real. All cash. Or gold, if you want it that way. Any drop you say.”

  “Then I’m in the same place he is,” I said. “On the spot. And I don’t even know who’d be looking for me.”

  “If you’d ever looked in the book, you’d know, man. Those camel-jockeys put it all in there. Names, addresses, phone numbers, codes . . . the whole thing. Most of them are still in place. Once they realized Wychek wasn’t going to do anything but hold them up for money, they got cocky. They’re sitting ducks, man. One call, you could take them all down,” he said. “They have to pay.”

  The tall man was reciting his credentials. A mercenary to his core, keeping it real. One man-for-hire to another. Whatever was in the book he was talking about, his own name wouldn’t be. In the sociopath’s moral compass, true north is always in his mirror.

  “We understand each other, right?” the tall man said. “I’m the same as you.”

  I looked over to the Prof. He shook his head.

  “ We’re a lot smarter than the Arabs were,” I told Wychek. “If we wanted, we could keep you alive a long time. Long enough for you to tell us whatever we need.”

  I deliberately stepped back a couple of paces, to lower the threat-level.

  “But I got a better deal for you,” I said. “Fifty-fifty. That’s fair. Come on. You should have hired people like us in the first place. You know what happens if you go anywhere near those psychos yourself. This way, we collect the money for you, split it down the middle. What do you say?”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked, eyebrows raised above his reptile eyes.

  “You can trust us to hurt you bad, if you make us go that way. Go the right way and you walk, with half of the score. Call it a commission.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “We don’t have much time,” Mick said to me, tapping his wristwatch.

  “Right,” I said, catching his rhythm. “We’re up against the clock now,” I told Wychek. “So the way it works is this: no answer from you is a ‘no’ answer, understand?”

  I started counting inside my head. I was up to seven when he let out a long, thin breath. “My sister’s bringing it,” he said. “It was in a safe-deposit box. Only has her name on it. Her married name; not mine. I told her to go and clean out the box.

  “She’s bringing me my . . . other stuff in a suitcase. But the little book, you’d never find it,” he said, twisting his lips into something like a smile.

  “Just tell us—”

  “I ordered her to carry it in her cunt,” Wychek said. “In a Ziploc. She knows how to do it. As soon as she gets here, just bring her to me and I’ll—”

  I drove Laura Reinhardt’s Audi back to her place. My cloned card opened the gate. I put her over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took the stairs. Moving slowly, the .357 in one hand.

  When she woke up, she would find herself in her own bed. Alone.

  I looked down at her. Feeling . . . I wasn’t sure what.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Laura,” I whispered, gently adjusting the blanket, touching her body for the last time.

  The book had been where Wychek had promised. Boasted. “You were just another casualty,” I said. “That’s the way it is down here. The way it has to be. I’m sorry.”

  I kissed her beneath one drug-closed eye. And went out the way I’d come in.

  The newspapers said three bodies had been discovered inside a Ford Explorer in the swampland near JFK Airport. All three were charred beyond recognition. The Mole’s package would have been enough on its own; but when the fire hit the gas tank, the whole vehicle had just about vaporized. The police said it was an obvious gangland hit, a “message” of some kind. The Queens DA promised that those responsible would get the maximum sentence.

  Wolfe probably never even saw the papers. She had been somewhere off the Maine coast for the past few days. On a little sailboat, wi
th Pepper and Bruiser.

  Pepper had made all the arrangements. Used Wolfe’s credit card to rent the sailboat. And the car that they drove up in. And the motel where they stayed.

  Pepper’s a real friendly girl. Wolfe’s mostly standoffish. But lots of people saw them. Pepper had some of them take their pictures, the three of them together, for souvenirs of their vacation.

  Whenever the coroner’s office got around to doing the autopsy, all they would have to work with was bones. But if they looked close enough, they would find three .25-caliber slugs rattling around in whatever was left of Wychek’s skull.

  “ You know what was in what you gave us?” the man asked. I knew him only as Pryce, and I hadn’t seen him in years. Not since the last-minute abortion of a plot to blow up Federal Plaza by a “leaderless cell” out of the White Night underground.

  We had planted my brother Hercules in that cell. For him, it was that or go back Inside, forever.

  They had ringed the downtown building that housed everything they hated—from the IRS to the FBI—with trucks stuffed full of enough explosives to level the ground down to zero. The drivers thought the plan was for them to set the timers and run, but the boss—hiding in the van outside the blast zone—held the real detonator. He was still holding it when a close-up blast from a girl he thought was a hooker shattered his neurons.

  The pure-white sheep were still in their trucks when Pryce’s crew went into action. A surgical strike. Only one was left at the end. And when he was clued into what the real plan had been, he sang a canary aria that thinned the rest of their herd, big-time.

  Hercules walked away. I don’t know where he is now. But I know where he’s not.

  The last time I saw Pryce, he was holding out his hand for me to shake. “I’m gone,” he said quietly. “None of the numbers you have for me will be any good after today. And I won’t have this face much longer, either.”

  I took his hand, wondering if the webbed fingers would disappear, too. Watched the muscle jump under his eye. I’d know that one again.

  “I’m gone, too,” I had promised him.

  If my new face threw him, it didn’t show on his new face. The fingers of his hands were still webbed. The muscle still jumped under his eye. I wondered what he still saw in me.