Blossom

by Andrew Vachss

  "I got the ad for you," I told him.

  He looked up, waiting.

  "Got a pencil?"

  He whipped out a fat Montblanc pen, like doctors use to write prescriptions.

  "Take this down: Woman wanted. Disease–free. Self–lubricating. Short attention span."

  His face went blotchy–red. Davidson raised his hand above his head. His silent partner looked up from a law book, slapped him a high–five. The drug lawyer gave me what he thought was a hard look and walked out.

  I ground out my smoke. Handed Davidson a business card. Mitchell Sloane. Private Investments. Address, phone number, fax number too. Clean engraved printing, very classy. The address and the numbers were Davidson's.

  "I need a corporation formed," I told him. "Just like it says on the card."

  "How long is this corporation going to be in business?"

  "A month, maybe two. No more."

  "You need a sign on the door?"

  "I thought, maybe a nice brass plaque."

  "Un–huh. And the phones?"

  "The number on the card, I can bounce it to anywhere I want. Say to one of your dead–end lines?"

  "I'll have Glenda pick it up during business hours. You want a tape on the machine for evenings and weekends?"

  "Yeah."

  He spread his palm out before me. Five. I counted out the cash.

  "It's done," he said. "Glenda will sweep the tapes every morning when she comes in, okay?"

  "Okay. You licensed to practice in Indiana?"

  "I'll get a local guy to do the paperwork," he said. Davidson took cases all over the country.

  We shook hands. He was dictating the incorporation memo as I walked out the door.

  18

  BACK AT THE office, I tried to hustle Pansy into a vacation at the Mole's junkyard. She acted like she didn't know what I was talking about, so I let her out to her roof while I fixed her a snack. A half gallon of honey vanilla ice cream with a couple of handfuls of graham crackers mixed in. It was waiting for her when she ambled downstairs. Lasted about as long as a politician's promise. It would end up being worth the same too. The beast prowled a step behind me as I went through the place throwing everything I'd need into an airline–size bag.

  It's easy enough to beat the scanners they use in the security corridors at the airport, but I was traveling clean.

  A handful of loose change spilled on the floor. Pansy snarfed at it experimentally. I let her play with the coins. I wouldn't even tell a dog to drop a dime.

  19

  TERRY OPENED the gate for me at the junkyard. It seemed like he was bigger every time I saw him. He wouldn't have a kid's body much longer. His eyes hadn't been a child's even when I found him. When he was for rent on the streets.

  The dog pack swirled around Terry, growling and snapping, eyes down. Waiting. Simba bounced into the circle, his ears up, tail rigid as a flagpole behind him. "Simba–witz!" I greeted the beast. He ignored me, eyes pinning Pansy. The Neapolitan watched him from her higher perch, calm as stone if you didn't know her. But I saw the hair on the back of her neck bristle and felt her tail swish rhythmically against my leg. Terry jumped on the hood of the Plymouth and I pressed the gas. Some of the pack yapped after us, but Simba stood rooted, confident that he had faced down the new arrival without bloodshed.

  I followed the path Terry pointed out, planted the Plymouth in a spot between two gutted yellow cabs. I gave Pansy the signal and she didn't protest when Terry came close. We walked the rest of the way to the Mole's bunker.

  "I'll get him," the kid said, disappearing down the tunnel, leaving me outside with my dog.

  "You'll be okay for a couple weeks, girl," I told her. "You've been here before, remember?" She growled an acknowledgment, not bitching about it.

  The Mole shambled up to us, seating himself on the cut–down oil drum he uses for a deck chair. Greeted me the same way he answers his phone…by waiting for someone to speak.

  "Mole, I got to go away for a while. An old buddy of mine got himself in a jackpot in Indiana. You can keep Pansy for me…let me leave the Plymouth here too?"

  "Okay."

  "The Prof will be calling you. Once a day, all right? I need to get a message to him, I'll leave it with you."

  "Okay."

  "You working on anything?" I asked. Just to give him room—I couldn't understand the stuff he does if I had another life sentence to study it.

  "The Mole's teaching me about heavy water," the kid piped up.

  "I'm sure your mother will be pleased," I said to the kid, giving the Mole an opening.

  "Michelle called you?" he asked.

  "Mole, you know the deal. She said she was going to Denmark. That's a name, a name for what she wants done. Not a place. She could be in Europe, could be down to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. She'll call when she's coming home. You know that."

  "I get letters," the kid said. Proudly.

  Michelle, the beautiful transsexual hooker. The slickest hustler I ever knew. The woman who made Terry her son. The strange, lovely woman who danced for years with the Mole. Never touching. But she'd never change partners. When I was coming up, I always wanted a big sister. Big sisters, they taught you to dance, told you how to act around girls, stepped into the street for you when it came to that. Showed up on visiting days when you were locked down. Sold whatever they had to pay for lawyers. Little sisters, they were nothing but grief. You had to jump in anyone's face who messed with them. And their girlfriends, by the time they were old enough for you to play with, your little sister didn't bring them home after school. They'd get married, get beat up by their husbands. More work to do. I told Michelle once she was like a big sister to me, trying to tell her I loved her the only way I could. All she heard was "big." Like she was older than me. She told me I was a pig and a guttersnipe, ground her spike heel into the toe of my shoe and stalked out of Mama's restaurant. Didn't speak to me for weeks. Until I got in trouble and she came running.

  She'd been threatening to have the operation for years. "I'm going to lose these spare parts one day, baby. Stop being trapped. Be myself." We never took it seriously until she left. I missed her. Terry was patient. The Mole was breaking up inside. "My biological family" was the only reference Michelle made to her parents. She was the one who told me what "family of choice" meant. The Prof knew. "She don't just know how to say it, bro', she knows how to play it."

  A transsexual who could never have a child. And a solitary genius who never would. Terry was their child. Snatched from the night. Blooming in a junkyard.

  The Mole drove me over to a gypsy cab joint where I could catch a ride to the airport. He didn't wave goodbye. If it wasn't Nazi–hunting, it wasn't on his list.

  20

  I FLEW IN TO MIDWAY on a Thursday night, traveling light. Adjusted my watch to Central Time. A city snake shedding its skin, coming into a new season.

  The countergirl confirmed my reservation, asked me if I was interested in an upgrade. She made the word sound so orgasmic I went for the optional car phone.

  She didn't blink twice at Mitchell Sloane's American Express gold. It wouldn't bounce. I'd had it for years. Charged something every couple of months, paid the bills by check. Sloane was a solid citizen. Had the passport to prove it.

  I would rather have paid cash, not left so much paper behind me. But the drug dealers ruined that: paying cash is a red flag to the DEA, and everyone has a phone. I was lousy with cash. New York cash Enough to live on for years if I went back to my underground ways. After Belle went down, I went crazy. Off the track. I had the bounty money the pimps had paid me to take the Ghost Van off the streets. All the money Belle had been saving for her wedding day. But I went after more. Not for the money—just to be doing something. Cigarettes by the truckload from North Carolina. Cartons of food stamps, sold to bodegas with nothing on their shelves—you can buy TV sets with them in Puerto Rico. Extortion. Rough stuff. Scoring like a madman. Never getting square.

  Until a
dead man pulled me out of the pit. Wesley.

  21

  I KNEW WHERE to go. The Lincoln Town Car had a full tank of gas. Clean inside, but not fresh. Like a motel room where they put a sanitation band across the toilet seat.

  The road to Indiana smelled like steel and salt. Near the water it smelled like sewage. Near the mills, like rust.

  The motel was outside Merrillville, where Virgil had his house. One story, X–shaped. Mid–range: not classy enough for the desk clerk to tell me about their fine restaurant, not raunchy enough to ask me if I wanted anything sent to my room.

  I set the door chain, unpacked, clicked on the TV set. I balanced a couple of quarters on the metal doorknob, positioned a glass ashtray on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.

  When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid–innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.

  22

  THE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove–gray summer–weight silk–and–worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip–ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attaché case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.

  The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.

  Pleasant–faced middle–aged woman at the front desk. "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"

  "Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager."

  "Certainly, sir. Your name, please?"

  "Sloane."

  She tapped one of the buttons on her console. "John, a Mr. Sloane to see you." A pause. "Well, I don't know, do I?" She gave me a flash–smile, shrugged her ample shoulders. "He'll be right out."

  The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open–necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his hand. "I'm John Humboldt, Mr. Sloane. You wanted to speak with me."

  I shook his hand. "Yes, sir, I did. It's about some investments. I wonder if we could talk in…"

  "Right this way."

  He led me back to his office, stepped aside to usher me in first. "Have a seat."

  The office walls were paneled in knotty pine, covered with laminated certificates and engraved plaques. Apparently, John Humboldt was a whale of a salesman.

  I handed him the Mitchell Sloane business card. "I'm in the area to check out some potential sites. I have a number of clients…a consortium of investors with cash…who want to get in on the ground floor."

  He scratched his head, doing the country boy act for the city slicker. "Well, that's mighty interesting, Mr. Sloane. But the ground floor of what? I guess you must know heavy industry isn't exactly working overtime lately in these parts."

  I lit a cigarette, my face telegraphing the struggle. Should I trust this man?

  Hell, yes.

  "Mr. Humboldt, we both know the legislature has just given approval for pari–mutuel racing in this state. For the first time."

  "That bill hasn't passed. It was just introduced."

  "It'll pass this time," I assured him. "And once it does, they'll need racetracks."

  "And you think Lake County…?"

  "No doubt in my mind."

  "I see."

  "Sure you do. I'm going to be looking around for appropriate sites. Spend a couple of weeks. When I locate something I believe might be appropriate, would you be in a position to make the approach? We don't want anyone knowing about this…once they think there's outside money available, you and I both know what'll happen to the price."

  "You can rely on me," Humboldt said, extending his hand again.

  "I'm sure. Now, I'll be staying at different places. Low profile, you know? But my office will always know where to reach me. And I'll write the number of the car phone on the back of this business card for you, okay? I'm looking forward to us doing business."

  "Me too." As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.

  "I'll be in touch, Mr. Humboldt."

  "Call me John," he said.

  23

  I SPENT THE REST of the day driving around. Stopping occasionally, making little squibbles in a notebook. Not for me—my eyes photographed what I needed to know. In case somebody decided to take a look inside the real estate speculator's fancy car.

  I used a pay phone just off Sixty–first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.

  "Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."

  "It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"

  "Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."

  "Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."

  "Bye–bye."

  24

  EARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay–splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.

  The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly—found a booth near the back.

  The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off–the–rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.

  "Hi! You need a menu?"

  "Please."

  "Be right back."

  I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium–height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.

  She was back in a minute, a one–page plastic–covered menu in her hand. I looked it over quickly. The cook must have figured whatever was good enough for Ted Bundy was good enough for food. I slid past the burgers and the chicken to something that looked safer.

  "The tuna salad…you make it up here?"

  "You can get an individual can if you want." She leaned over again, flashed me a smile. Dot of red on an eyetooth from the carmine lipstick. "That's what I do," she said, patting one round hip. "I have to watch my weight."

  "That seems like a nice job."

  "Waiting tables?"

  "Watching your weight."

  "Oh, you!" Giggling. At home now. With what she first learned in junior high.

  "I'll have the tuna. An order of rye toast. And some ginger ale."

  "We serve beer here too. Cold. On tap."

  "Not while I'm working."

  She scribbled something with her pencil, long fingernails wrapped around the corner of her order pad, the same color as her lipstick. "I haven't seen you before. You're new in town?"

  "Just passing through for a couple of weeks."

  "You said you were working. I mean, nobody comes here for a vacation."

  "I'm looking over some property."

  "Oh. Are you one of those developers?"

  "Sort of. I…"

  "Hey, Cyndi. Shake it up, will ya? You got two blue plates sitting here!" A voice barked from somewhere behind the counter.

  She leaned forward again, shouted, "How's this?" over her shoulder, and wiggled her rump furiously. A line of laughter broke from the counter, working its way around the curve. "That what you been wanting, Leon?"
Someone laughed. Cyndi's face was lightly flushed. "The old man's a pain in the butt."

  "You're not worried about losing your job?"

  "I wish. This place isn't my idea of heaven. I used to work over at the Club Flame, you ever go there?"

  "I just got here."

  "It's a topless joint," she said, watching my eyes. "The tips aren't as good here, but at least you don't have guys trying to grab your ass all the time."

  "I guess you have to be comfortable if you're going to do your work."

  "Well, I'm not about to spend my life here. Not in this town. I…" She turned as another waitress walked past. A slim woman, lemon–blonde hair tied back with a white ribbon. Her uniform was the same material as Cyndi's, but on her it looked like a nurse's outfit. The hemline was below her knees, white stockings, flat shoes, blouse buttoned to her neck. As she turned, her body–profile was an upside–down question mark. Cyndi put a hand on the blonde woman's arm. "Blossom honey, could you grab those two blue plates from Leon while I take this man's order?"

  "Sure." The blonde walked away, shoulders squared. Something buzz–bombed my mind—then it was gone.

  "Now what was I saying?" Cyndi licked her lips like it would help her concentrate.

  "You're not about to spend the rest of your life here."

  A smile flashed. "You listen good, don't you, honey? Yeah. Not here. I like Chicago better You ever been there?"

  "Lots of times."

  "There's where I like to go. Get out of this town…like for a weekend, you know?"

  "Sure."

  "I'll get your order. Think about it."

  I lit a cigarette, looked out the window at the traffic.

  Cyndi bounced her way back to my booth, unloaded her tray. "Give me a dollar for the jukebox." She smiled. "This place is too quiet."

  I handed her a buck.

  "What d'you like?"

  "Whatever suits you."

  "Hmmm…" she said. Like she was thinking it over.