Blossom

by Andrew Vachss

  "God Bless the Child."

  The band held the fort as the singer slowly moved himself off the stage. Then it went dark.

  75

  A TAP ON MY shoulder. Virgil. I got up, followed him through the darkness to the bar. "Wait here. I'll be back for you in a minute."

  I ordered a whiskey from the bartender, left it sitting on the counter. A white man was making noise at the end of the bar, drunk, whining to his friends.

  "Why can't I sing the blues?" he demanded. "Because I'm white?"

  A factory man's dark voice answered his call. "'Cause you can't sing, sucker!"

  Virgil took me into a back room. The massive blues shouter was sitting in an armchair big enough for a meeting. "Doc, I want you to meet my brother. Burke," Virgil said, bringing me over.

  He held out his hand. I took it, felt a palm leathered from years of holding crutches. "You're the best I ever heard," I told him.

  "Thank you, brother."

  The harp man was talking on the phone, intensely. The slide–guitar man was smoking a joint. Nobody else around. Virgil moved his head a couple of inches. I followed him to another door.

  Inside, an old chrome–and–Formica kitchen table. Four chairs. One of them occupied by a featureless man in a white shirt, balding, bifocals perched on top of his head.

  "Arnold, this is my brother. The guy I told you about."

  "How ya doin'?" he piped up, in a thin voice younger than his face.

  I sat down. Lit a smoke. Bowed my head slightly to greet him. Waiting.

  "Virgil said you needed some stuff?"

  "A pistol."

  "A pistol? What's that supposed to mean, pistol? I got more kinds of pistols than you've had birthdays. Give me the specs. Or give me the job, I'll pick one out for you."

  "Revolver. No more than three–inch. Thirty–eight or .357. Blue. Something decent, a Colt or a Smith. Ice–cold."

  "You want this for…?"

  "Protection. Protection I can carry around with me."

  "Look, man, you're talking Stone Age stuff. Take a look at this little piece of perfection." He opened one of the suitcases on the floor next to him. Came out with a dull gray automatic. "This here's a Glock, ever hear of it? Designed by an Austrian. The guy's a genius, not a gunsmith. Started with a blank piece of paper. Plastic undercarriage, metal frame. Takes nine–millimeter ammo. Any nine–millimeter, see?" He held up a bullet, black–tipped. "You know what this is?"

  "Uzi."

  "Right you are, my friend. You put high–pressure submachine slugs like this in a regular semi–auto, you blow it up in your hand. But not the Glock. Holds sixteen rounds, fast as you can pull them off."

  "Automatics jam."

  "Bullshit. Some automatics jam. I do all the work myself. Custom. You got my personal guarantee."

  I didn't waste time explaining to him how I'd have trouble getting my money back if his toy jammed. "I'm not going to be in a gunfight," I told him.

  His eyes shifted but his expression didn't change. "Okay, I understand. I recommend you take the Glock, plus this Wilson suppressor I just happen to have machined for it. Instead of the Uzi ammo, we switch to subsonics. Makes a little pop, that's all. Never draw a crowd."

  "I appreciate it, but I got to use what I'm familiar with, okay? You got any revolvers in that case?"

  "Three–inch max?"

  "Yeah."

  He rummaged around. "How about this? Ruger Speed–Six. I modified the trigger pull myself. It's so smooth you won't feel it go home even in double–action."

  I took the piece from him. Black rubber handgrips, blue steel. Looked new.

  "This been around?"

  "Virgil, you tell your brother anything about me or what? The pieces of this weapon, they've been around, you understand what I'm saying to you? This little unit has been hand–assembled from a wide range of similar units. Made it myself, from parts. You finish with this one, you mail it to the ATF, they won't be able to do nothing with it."

  "How much?"

  "A piece like this, new, maybe four hundred retail."

  "But you don't sell retail."

  "Sure, I sell retail. I got me an FFL and everything. But over the counter, you know, there's a lot of paperwork. Besides, I got a lot of custom labor in this piece, like I told you."

  "So?"

  "Seven–fifty. And I'll throw in a box of Plus P, hundred and fifty–eight grain. That's about all you want to load in this baby."

  I dragged on my cigarette. Some dealers like the bargaining part. This guy wasn't that kind—all you could do was wait him out.

  "Or maybe you'd rather have an assortment. I got a few hand–loaded thirty–eights here. Mercury tips, hollow points, full metal jacket…"

  "Got some wad cutters?"

  "You got to be very close for those."

  "I understand."

  "We got a deal?"

  I ground out my smoke. "Tell you what. Why don't we make it an even grand. For the pistol, some ammo, and some advice."

  "I like it."

  I handed over the money in hundreds. He eye–counted it, passed me the pistol, sorted through his collection of shells, filled a box.

  I lit another smoke. "You hear anything about those sniper killings over in Indiana? The Lovers' Lane Killer, the papers call him?"

  "Yeah." Waiting.

  "Let's say, just for a minute, that we know something about the guy who did it, all right? Let's say he's a Rambo freak. Lives at home, don't get out much. Likes to play dress–up in camo gear, that kind of thing. He's not military, not a cop. Not a merc either. Probably no training, no contacts, okay?"

  "I'm with you."

  "So he's probably buying mail–order. He wouldn't have the cash for a really quality piece. What would he have?"

  Arnold's face flickered, computing. "Got to be one of those 'assault rifles,'" he sneered. "Which is just about anything with a Kalashnikov action. The caliber isn't the problem. Damn near has to be .223. Could be Russian, Chinese, even Brazilian. Everybody makes a knockoff of the original. But your guy, he'd want the look, okay?"

  "The look?"

  "Like high–tech, man. Dark and evil. I figure him for a Mini–14 with all the goodies. Black plastic stock, flash suppressor, maybe even a bipod on the front for prone–position fire. Maybe an AR–15 but…I like the Mini. You can get 'em anywhere, real cheap."

  "Through the mail?"

  "Hell, yes. Buy all the camo gear he wants too, boots to hats. Underwear, he wants it. The Mini, it'll take anything from twenty rounds up. Up to a hundred, he wants to go with a drum."

  "Silencer?"

  "Now that's a different game, man. You can buy books on how to make them, but a good one, one that'd work, he'd have to know somebody. That .223 stuff, it pulls a high harmonic. Like a crack, you know? Not a boom."

  "Arnold, let me ask you one more question, okay? You sell a rig like the one we're talking about here in the last few months?"

  "Oh, man. I don't sell junk."

  "But if some guy had only so much cash…?"

  "Guy like you're asking about, he wouldn't know where to find me."

  76

  WHEN WE CAME back to the table, Blossom and Rebecca had their heads together, whispering. We sat down. The waitress brought Virgil a bottle of beer, looking a question at me. I shook my head no.

  Virgil looked at his watch. "We need to pull out of here in a few minutes. There's another band coming on—we don't want to walk out in the middle of their set. Wouldn't look right."

  Blossom rested her fingertips lightly on my forearm as we walked to the car.

  Just before we crossed into Indiana, Rebecca spoke from the back seat. "Want to visit with us a bit, have some coffee?"

  "Blossom has to work early tomorrow morning," I told her.

  The blonde woman's voice was sweet and soft. "I'm a big girl now. I can get myself up in the morning."

  Virgil laughed. "You as smooth as ever, Burke."

  I caught his eye
s in the mirror. The Prof was right—once a Hoosier, always a Hoosier.

  Blossom curled in her seat, looking out the window.

  77

  A LIGHT SHONE in the kitchen as we walked up the path to the back door. Lloyd was seated at the table, a book propped in front of him. Line of fresh stitches across the bridge of his nose. Saw Blossom. Blushed. Kind of ducked his head, mumbled something that sounded like "Hi."

  She gave him a dazzling smile I didn't know she had. "You watching the kids?"

  "Sure. They're in bed, fast asleep. I figured…maybe I'd better wait up till you all got back."

  Virgil nodded his approval.

  "Any calls?" Rebecca asked.

  "Just your friend Bette. Said she'd see you tomorrow."

  "Okay, honey. Thanks. You want some coffee—we're all having some."

  "If it won't…"

  He didn't take his eyes off Blossom all the while we sat and talked. About nothing. Soft stuff. Virginia was getting to the age where she cared about the clothes she wore. Junior was starting first grade as soon as summer ended. Lloyd had cut the lawn without being asked.

  The pistol felt heavy in my coat pocket. If I was back in New York, I wouldn't have noticed the weight.

  78

  IT WAS ALMOST one in the morning when I brought Blossom back to her house. I walked her to the door. Stood outside while she put the lights on. Lit a smoke.

  She came back onto the front porch. The gull watched us from his cage, waiting his time. "When do we start?" she asked me.

  "Start?"

  "Looking."

  "I've already started. I'll fill you in tomorrow night."

  "I told you…there's things I could do. With you. On this."

  "If it's still running when you quit your job, then we'll see."

  "No night work for me on this job?"

  "Maybe. Not yet."

  "See you tomorrow night." I turned to go.

  "Burke…"

  "What?"

  "Don't be mad at Virgil. I knew your name wasn't Mitchell Sloane."

  "How?"

  "Sherwood."

  "The man opened right up to you, didn't he?"

  "Some men do."

  I tossed my cigarette away.

  "Come here," she said. Gentle.

  She stood on her toes, kissed me lightly on the cheek. "Thanks. I loved hearing your brother play."

  "See you tomorrow."

  "Okay."

  79

  I STOPPED AT a pay phone. Dumped in handfuls of quarters.

  Called the junkyard. When the phone was picked up, I said, "Tell the Prof to find Vincenzo at the library tomorrow. Bring him over to Mama's. Have him wait between eight and nine. I'll call." The phone went down.

  80

  THE NEXT MORNING, I started to look. The way it works, you draw a blank page in your mind. Fill in everything you know. See what's left. If there's too much left, too much white space, you make some guesses. Test them out.

  I had plenty of white space. I slapped the black tiles down, moving them around. Not enough. I switched the tiles, part of my mind seeing the pattern they made.

  Pattern.

  I played with it.

  81

  LUNCHTIME, I WENT to the diner. Cyndi was happy to see me. Told me about a new guy she was dating. He worked at the plant.

  "But he's going to college at night. Says he doesn't want his kids working in the mill."

  "He's got kids?"

  "No." She giggled. "The kids he's gonna have."

  I saw the police cruiser roll up. Ford Crown Vic, cream–colored, dark brown fenders. Two cops got out. Came inside, stopped at the counter. Talked to Leon.

  On the jukebox: Maxine Brown. "It's All in My Mind."

  Blossom came up to my table, her canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She leaned over. "Give it to me."

  "What?"

  "What you picked up last night. Hurry!"

  I slid the pistol into her bag. Went back to my tuna on rye. Shadow fell across my plate. Cops. Big heavy one, potbelly looming over his gun belt. Smaller one, narrow all the way up through his eyes.

  "How you doing?" the big one asked.

  "Just fine, Officer."

  "That's good," his partner said.

  "Anything I can do for you?"

  "Could tell us what you're doing around here."

  "Working for Bart Bostick. The lawyer."

  "We know who he is. Heard about your little arrangement with him."

  "So?"

  "So Sherwood don't run the department. Captain does, you understand?"

  "Sure."

  "Good. This work you're doing for Counselor Bostick…it wouldn't involve carrying concealed weapons, would it?"

  "Nope."

  "Mind if we take a look? With your consent, of course."

  "Look where? For what?"

  "In your car. Maybe in your jacket. For a gun."

  "And if I don't consent?"

  "Then we just…" the smaller one said. The other guy jumped on his lines. "Then we just ask a judge for a search warrant. You understand, we got laws here. About ex–cons carrying firearms."

  "You gonna do this every day?"

  "This isn't a roust, friend. You're clean now, we figure you're working clean, okay?"

  I handed him the car keys. "If the phone rings, take a message, will you?"

  The smaller cop's face got tight. "Think I'll just stay here. Keep you company."

  "I got a better idea. How about if I go outside to the car with you. Let you take your look. Look at me too, you want."

  The big cop nodded.

  We went outside. They took a look, patted me down. Carefully. Got back into their cruiser. The big one said "Have a nice day" through the window.

  "Same to you," I told him.

  82

  BACK INSIDE. When Blossom came back around, the canvas bag was gone.

  "How'd you know?" I asked her.

  "One day, when I was leaving the precinct, one of those cops came up to me. Sort of implied Sherwood and I had been trading something besides information."

  "He knew why you were there?"

  "No. Guess he asked Sherwood and got blown off. A real philosopher. Had a lot to say about niggers and white girls who didn't know where they belonged."

  "Revis?" Remembering the name on the smaller one's badge."

  "Yes, that's him."

  "Thanks."

  "We're partners, right?"

  I felt those turquoise eyes on me. It didn't feel like she was talking a fifty–fifty split.

  "I'll give it back to you later. Tonight. Today's my last day. I gave Leon notice—he said he had a dozen other girls with applications in, no problem."

  "Want me to wait, give you a ride home after work?"

  "No, I have to hang around. Cyndi's boyfriend's coming in. She wants me to meet him."

  "Check him out? See if he's right for her?"

  "You think I can't?"

  I nodded a disclaimer. Thinking how good she was at watching people.

  83

  I DROVE BACK over to Virgil's Picked up Lloyd. Had him take me to where he and the other boys had been prowling when he'd opened his puppy mouth and brought all the trouble down. Went over the ground, getting nothing. I don't know what I expected to find—it wasn't a job for a scientist.

  The rest of the time, I drove around, learning the streets. Lloyd at my side, filling in the blanks when I asked him where we were.

  84

  CALLED BOSTICK. "You entitled to discovery even if Lloyd's not indicted?"

  "No. He's got to be charged with something first. What d'you need?"

  "Anything the killer might have left at the crime scenes. Blood, hair, shell casings."

  "I can probably get that. Anything else?"

  "He would've left something. I'll think about it, get back to you. On the meter, okay?"

  "You're covered. Your man Davidson's handling a federal matter for me over in New York. We'll wo
rk it out."

  85

  I DUMPED QUARTERS into the pay phone. Dialed Mama's number, expecting the Prof.

  "Gardens."

  "It's me, Mama. The Prof around?"

  "Everybody around. Everybody here except you."

  "I'll be back soon."

  "Max ask…when?"

  "Soon. I told you."

  "Any trouble?"

  "No trouble."

  I heard the phone being put down on the counter.

  "Read me a poem, 'home."

  "Prof, you bring Vincenzo?"

  "I got him, bro'. Go easy. My man gets real strange when he's off his range."

  I knew what the Prof meant. Vincenzo lived in the Public Library. Main branch on Forty–second Street. Every day he showed up to do his "research." A tall, gentle–looking man, walking his own road. Carries a knapsack full of notebooks with writing only he can read. Lives on another plane from us. Vincenzo, he's one of the few guys who wouldn't know where to buy cocaine in the city. But he could tell you the precise spot in Colombia where the soil composition and annual rainfall would yield the best coca crop. If it was on paper, he could find it.

  "Hello?"

  "Vincenzo, my friend. You know who this is?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you do a research job for me?"

  "I'm very busy with my own work. Did you know…?"

  "Listen, Vincenzo, I know how important your work is. But this is kind of an emergency. And you're the only one with the ability to do it."

  Silence.

  "Okay?"

  "What do you need?"

  "I need anything you can find me on sex–snipers. Like Son of Sam. Or Zodiac, on the Coast. And there was a case in New York, within the last few years. Lovers' lane sniper. Anything, Vincenzo. Anything you can find. Okay?"

  "I don't do analysis—I just find facts."

  "That's what I need, pal. Facts. The Prof'll take care of you, any costs involved."