Terminal

by Andrew Vachss

  “We ain’t gonna get but this one shot. That’s if the man even picks up the line.”

  “He will,” I said, maybe with a little more confidence than I felt. “But he’s a wild card. We need them to come up with a lot of cash. And, from what I heard in Chicago, Bender may be illiquid.”

  “Stuck in a paper rut,” the Prof translated for Clarence, as I signed the situation out for Max.

  “Not only that, but Henricks may be out of reach, at least for a while.”

  “So you think this one guy is going to come up with enough to cover all their tabs?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t care. I know he can. And we all know that he’s still good for the murder. He was sixteen when they did it, remember?”

  “When you gonna call?” the little man said, giving in.

  “Soon as you buy into us bringing Claw in. The best I’m going to get out of a call is a meet. And it won’t be in any back alley, or waterfront warehouse. We need a man who can work close.”

  “Who’s better than Max?” the Prof demanded.

  “Who’s going to stick out more in the kind of place we want Thornton to trust?” I shot back.

  “All white is all right,” he said, giving in.

  The phone was picked up on the third ring.

  “Where are you calling from?” a voice demanded. A boss, expecting a subordinate.

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said, through the harmonizer. “I’m not who you expected.”

  He made a sound I couldn’t translate.

  “But you know me,” I went on. “I called at your office a little while back. Left my business card.”

  “If this is some kind of—”

  “You know what this is ‘some kind of,’ Reedy. This is a call from a professional problem-solver.”

  “And that’s you?” he said, coolly, fully recovered, back in control.

  “That’s me. Not the name on the business card I left. That, that was the message.”

  “Message?” Playing for time now.

  “You’ve got this…condition. You’ve had it for over thirty years. Every time you think you’ve gotten rid of it, it shows up out of nowhere. You pay the doctor bills and it goes away. But that’s just remission—there’s never been a permanent antidote. Like, say, a tapeworm. Either you get the whole thing cut out, or there’s always the chance it could go back to feeding on you.”

  “I don’t have a clue—”

  Word games. He heard the “tape” in “tapeworm” clear enough. And wasn’t going to put himself on another one.

  “Thing is, I do. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that I’ve got the antidote. The permanent antidote. And it comes with the kind of guarantee you can take to the bank.”

  “And I’d have to rob a bank to buy this ‘antidote,’ I suppose?” Just enough sarcasm in there to distance himself from anything resembling self-incrimination. You get as rich as he was, dealing with extortionists comes with the territory.

  “There’s a cost for the service, naturally. But, obviously, that cost should be split three ways.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ve got him,” I said. “Understand? Got him. We don’t want to keep tapping a vein like he’s been doing. We want a quick in-and-out. Yeah, a big one. But, like I said, a permanent one, too.”

  “Even if something were to happen to…” Still vague enough to stay on his side of the line, but he wanted whatever information I was willing to give up.

  “I said a guarantee, and I meant it.”

  “Spell it out.”

  “Over a cell phone?”

  “Leave a number; I’ll call you back.”

  “You have the number.”

  “On that card?”

  “No. The one on your screen now.”

  I hit the “end” button in the middle of whatever he was about to say.

  “Need a meet,” I told the cancer-man.

  “Just say—”

  “Northeast corner, Houston and Thompson. Two hours enough to get there?”

  “Half that.”

  “Done. One hour. Hail the cab with the Off Duty light on.”

  “He’s not going to do it,” Claw said. He was sitting next to me in the Plymouth’s passenger seat. Max was behind him. Clarence lounged against the front fender, showing the world a long black coat topped by a Zorro hat; his right hand rested inside his coat. The Prof was leaning against the trunk, facing out, his sawed-off against his chest, dangling from a rawhide loop, only half concealed by the white cattleman’s duster that came to his ankles. In this part of Red Hook, we didn’t want anyone mistaking us for DEA. Or a scouting party for a new player.

  “Sure, he will,” I assured him. “Once we explain the scam, he’ll love it.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything Inside?”

  “Just because he’s…what he is…doesn’t make him stupid. But anyone who plays him for that sure the fuck is.”

  “Now you want to rank me, too?”

  “I’ve treated you like a man from the beginning, pal. You want to do your elder-statesman number on someone, go find some skinheads. No, wait: didn’t your boy Pierce—his wife was Latina, but I guess the leader gets to make his own rules, right?—didn’t he say they were all a bunch of morons and animals?”

  “All I’m saying—”

  “You’re not here because I want your advice,” I told him, not raising my voice. “You’re not my partner. You came with a proposition. I bought in because you came with references. But you’re a role-player, got it? This is a job, not a consensus-building exercise. And where there’s a job, there’s a boss. That’s me. Not you, me. You’re out of your league here. I don’t have a green shamrock on my hand, but I already spent a lot of green on this. It’s my money on the blanket, so I get to throw the dice.”

  “It’s your money, yeah,” he said, “but it’s my life.”

  “Your life? What’s that to me? My word to my brother, that’s what means something. And if that’s not enough for you, just walk your own road. Starting right now.”

  “You know I can’t just—”

  “You can’t do anything with me and my crew. You proved yourself with a man I trust. You proved yourself with me, that last thing we did. I know your clock is ticking, okay? But think about it: whatever Silver told you about me, there’s one thing I know he said.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He told you I can get things done.”

  The AB man nodded, not arguing.

  “You’re not going to be the one to talk Thornton into the play. That’s my job. But you’ve got to make sure he carries it through.”

  “But what if he—?”

  “He’ll fucking love it,” I promised. “But I need to talk with him first.”

  “I can get—”

  “Not yet. I’m not ready. But soon, understand?”

  “I got it,” he said, holding my eyes. “I got it, boss.”

  “You own this?” I asked the green-eyed beige man behind the wheel of a dark-turquoise Maserati Quattroporte.

  “All of it,” the man said, moving his index finger in a 180-degree arc. I was looking at acres of razed land. The only building left standing was a one-story lump of cinderblock that had probably been the staging area for the operation that had done all the wrecking work on the rest of the assembly plant that once had covered all that empty ground.

  Another one of those “Enterprise Zone” projects with enough minority names on the paper to score the government contract. You know, the ones that were going to revitalize the community with jobs, vocational training, affordable housing….

  Sections of chain-link were still standing, Y-shaped at the top to hold the coiled razor wire. Looked like what was left of a demolished prison.

  The driver was a slim, elegantly dressed man, with a complexion models would kill for. Only his marcelled hair gave a clue to his age.

  “

  “Electricity
still hooked up in there?” I asked him.

  “It’s nice in there, man. Got A/C, heat, carpeting, big bathrooms. Even dish TV. Better than plenty of places folks could ever hope to live in.”

  “Or die in.”

  He tapped the custom wood wheel with pianist fingers. A heavy emerald ring caught the fading light. “This, this squares us? For real, I’m off the list?”

  I nodded, said, “You got security on this parcel?”

  “Twenty-four/seven.”

  “Patrol, or live-in?”

  “Nothing to patrol. But this neighborhood, junkies will tear up pavement just for the copper.”

  “Dogs?”

  “To keep off some junkies? No way. Dogs, you either got to keep them behind a fence, or you need a man who can handle them. Just a waste of money.”

  “How much notice would you need?”

  “About ten minutes, man. I touch the right button, that place empties like it was on fire. And nobody comes back until I touch another button.”

  “Show me.”

  “Now?”

  “Right this minute.”

  “All I got is your word that—”

  “You’ll get more than that,” I told him. “We do this thing now, you get the name of the person who paid to—”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand. A white French cuff shot out from his sleeve, displaying his initials, monogrammed in green thread. “If I was on…the list, how come I’m still…? I mean, nobody’s even tried. And word is, your…well, that he’s gone, man. I mean, it was on TV and all.”

  Wesley had been gone a long time. But nobody knew. Not for-sure, bet-your-life knew. And that’s just what you’d be doing. Even the whisper-stream current that said Wesley’s ticket had been canceled said that he’d done the job himself. Nobody else could have.

  My ghost brother. And I still had Wesley’s book. Not just the jobs he’d done—every detail, from who paid to how much to what he’d used to make it happen—but also the contracts he still hadn’t executed before he’d left.

  The green-theme man behind the wheel had been one of those. Wesley had gotten his usual half up front. Maybe whoever had paid so much for his finale was still waiting for it to happen.

  He wouldn’t be waiting much longer. I said his name.

  “Quinones?! He thinks, I’m gone, he could actually run things? Man is insane! We let him play el cacique for so long, he forgets it’s just a role.”

  I shrugged.

  “Hold up. If Quinones paid for me to be taken off, why didn’t it happen? Everyone knows—”

  I cut him off with a silent chop of my hand. I knew what he was going to say: the one crime Wesley would never be charged with was attempted murder.

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen until after the next round of elections,” I said, with a “Get the point, fool?” raise of my eyebrows as I spoke.

  “Cocksucker! That fits. That gusano always did love his dominos.”

  I said nothing.

  “So he’s not gone?”

  “Ask Quinones.”

  “I’m gonna ask him.”

  I wasn’t worried about Quinones telling the truth. I knew he’d deny everything. The man sitting next to me had another trademark besides the color green: anyone he wanted answers from got wired to a battery first. Quinones had a quadruple bypass last year, while he was “fact-finding” in Puerto Rico on the taxpayers’ dime. The first jolt would be more than enough.

  “It’s perfect,” I told the Prof. “Got everything we need.”

  “Almost,” the little man said. “But we can bring that.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You calling in a lot of markers for this one, Schoolboy.”

  “These are bad people, Prof. All wolves, no tickets.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it. But I ain’t lame enough to think all this is about a money game, son.”

  “You love me?”

  “What kind of stupid—?”

  “Just say it. I want to see if you’re still the best liar on the planet.”

  “Michelle…”

  “You won’t?”

  “I love you, honey. You’re my baby sister.”

  “Then why aren’t I in on this?”

  “I never said—”

  “I said. I said I was in on it. And you, you’ve been slipping around ever since.”

  “It’s just not time yet.”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “That would never be it. So it can only be one of two things: either you got my husband involved, or my son. I know I can’t do anything about him”—she half smiled, making it clear she meant the Mole—“but you know the rules.”

  “Terry’s a grown man, honey.”

  She slapped me so fast I almost didn’t see her hand move. When she was on the street, a tiny little tranny with nothing but herself for protection, she’d made a scorpion look slow with that same move. Only, this time, her hand hadn’t had a straight razor in it.

  “Oh!” was all she said. Then she started to cry.

  It was a long time before she let me hold her, wrapping my arm around her like when we were kids, sleeping wherever we could find shelter. “He’s not in on the hard end, honeygirl. I swear it.”

  “I…I know you wouldn’t do that, baby,” she said, as soft as a feather. “I know he’s…helped before. With his mind. But ever since he and Clarence—”

  “He’s the one teaching Clarence,” I said, quickly. Truth, when it came to computers. But the lessons had gone two-way. I warned the kid that if he ever let Michelle see how he could handle a pistol, I’d fucking kill him myself. “This is still about the pattern recognition—”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, beyond bored.

  “His piece is just about over.”

  “Just about?”

  “It’s jumping off soon. One way or the other. I set the hook, deep. If the mark calls, he’ll want a meet. And he’s odds-on to make that call—I already showed him I can find him, and that I’ve got access to what he wants.”

  “This meet…Terry wouldn’t be there?”

  “He won’t even know about it, honey.”

  “Well,” she said, flashing a witch’s smile as her long red fingernail tapped against the vein on the underside of my wrist, “I know one way to make sure of that.”

  “You!?”

  “Me,” I assured her.

  “After all this time, huh? You must want a nice quick fuck. What’s the matter, don’t have time to troll?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “How do you know I’m not with someone?”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  “Yeah.” She chuckled.

  There’s more than one way to kill time.

  Luella probably noticed the thick bulge in the side pocket of my jacket. Probably thought she knew what it was. Sure as hell didn’t care.

  “Ever going to call me again?” she said, when we finished.

  “Sure.”

  “That’s what you said the last time.”

  “And I did call, didn’t I?”

  “You’re such a bastard.” Her pout was as real as a Zimbabwe election. “You couldn’t even bring me flowers?”

  “The shops were all closed,” I said, pressing some folded bills between her two silicone mountains. “I was hoping you might be willing to shop for some tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure you got this?”

  “Cold,” Claw assured me, giving the cinderblock building one more walk-through. “You know anything about Nietzsche?”

  “You’re not going to babble some of that ‘whatever doesn’t kill you’ crap, are you? I know a lot more about your boy than you think. You know where Aryan Paradise was supposed to be? Not in Viking country, in Paraguay. That freak’s sister opened a colony there. Naturally, it failed. See, if you want true racial purity, you’ve got to breed true.”

  “So?” he said, more interested than he wanted to admit.

  “So what that means is, y
ou have to breed back, get it? Sons fuck their mothers, brothers fuck their sisters. Sound good to you?”

  “Look, all I’m trying to tell you—”

  “The colony—I think the degenerate whore called it Nueva Germania, get it?—had deep roots. You think it’s an accident that Mengele lived in Paraguay? You think he was the only one?”

  “What are you now? A Jew, too?”

  “My brother is.”

  “Silver? Get the fuck—”

  “I’ve got a big family.”

  Claw took a last drag on his cigarette, ground it out on his palm. That didn’t impress me—I’ve seen it before, too many times—but pocketing the butt did. I didn’t bother explaining that there wasn’t going to be any DNA around when we finished. “Look, man, I don’t care if you’re a nigger-kike-spic-gook super-mutt. I played it straight, down the line, and I came with references. What else do you want?”

  “I already told you. Just spare me the Nazi shit, understand?”

  “You’re the one who’s not understanding,” he said, dragging deep on his just-lit cigarette. “You said, before, that I thought Thornton was stupid. I know he’s not. I know him better than you ever could. Once he sees this”—he reached into his gym bag and pulled out what looked like a miniature version of the Jaws of Life they use to extract car-wreck victims—“he’ll be fine. You know why? Because he knows that what doesn’t kill you might make you stronger…or it might make you wish it had killed you.”

  “What the hell is that thing?”

  “It’s called an Alligator Lopper. Walk into any hardware store, they’ll sell you one. Regular old Black & Decker tool. Perfect for cutting off tree limbs with one hand. Go through bone like it was cardboard.”

  “So what’s so special about—?”

  “It’s not the tool, it’s the knowledge,” he said. “And Thornton knows.”

  “I’m still not seeing—”

  “He knows I’ll use it. I’ll spell it out for him, exactly how it’s going to work. One chop, he faints. Won’t even feel the blowtorch I’ll use to cauterize the area. When he comes around, he’ll still be a freak in his mind, but he won’t be able to do anything about it.”