Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

  Princess opened the door. They all stepped out into the elevator, pulling off the ski masks to reveal the same kind of disk the woman wore underneath.

  At the nod from Cross, the disks came off. He pressed a button on a transmitter.

  The elevator opened in the lobby. As they walked across the carpet, Ace stepped from behind the security desk and joined them.

  The anonymous gray car was waiting at the curb, its motor idling undetectably. Princess climbed in the front, Cross and the woman in the back. Rhino and Ace disappeared into the night.

  The car pulled away. Cross opened the attaché case, rifled through the contents.

  "There's something like a quarter mil here, everything included. It's 50–50 over the hundred grand, like we said?"

  "I'll take the jewels and the bearer bonds–they'll have to be discounted. You keep the cash and the gold coins, deal?"

  "Deal."

  The big car moved silently through the night. Cross pushed a button and a partition slid up between the front and back seats. Cross dimmed the interior lights, lit a cigarette, turned to the

  "He didn't come," Cross said. "After that, he probably never will."

  "I did," the woman said.

  KIDNAP

  Hey, Buddha, you seen Princess?" the giant asked, his three hundred and fifty pounds of flesh blocking the opening to the back room of the Red 71 poolroom. "He didn't come back to the spot last night."

  "Maybe he got lucky," the short, pudgy man offered, glancing up from a white tablecloth he had spread out on a desk made from a solid–core door positioned over a pair of sawhorses. On the tablecloth were arranged various parts to an automatic pistol. "Even a maniac like Princess has to score once in a while."

  "What's your problem with Princess anyway?" the giant asked. "He doesn't mean any harm–you know that."

  "He's like a little kid, Rhino," the pudgy man answered. "A little kid, playing games. I'm a professional–so are you. Fact is, I can't figure out why Cross–"

  "You want to know, why don't you ask him?" the giant responded, his voice an incongruous high–pitched squeak.

  "Take it easy," Buddha said. "What you so worried about? This can't be the first time he didn't show."

  "Yeah, it is," the big man replied. "At least, he always left word."

  "Hey, he's a grown man," Buddha said gently.

  "No," the big man said, shaking his head sadly. "You're right–he's a big kid." Rhino glanced quickly around the room. "Cross around somewhere?"

  "Somewhere," Buddha replied. "Either he's up on the roof playing with those stupid birds of his, or else he's down at the Double X checking out a new shipment."

  "I'll go check," the big man said. "Maybe he–"

  "You're on duty, right?" Buddha said kindly. "What if someone comes around? I'm not doing nothing–let me go see if I can scare him up."

  "Thanks, Buddha," Rhino said, backing out the door.

  Buddha quickly reassembled the pistol, slipped it into his shoulder holster, buttoned his khaki army jacket and went out another door.

  Buddha took the back staircase, using a key to open a heavy–braced steel door. The floors were empty, the building having long since been listed as "unoccupied" in the city's computers–the only one of several just like it to have escaped the developer's wrecking ball. The owner of the apparently empty building was a corporation. Its officers had consistently refused all offers to sell during the mid–to–late 80's. Word on the street was that the corporation had outsmarted itself, holding out for a bigger price during the yuppie boom. A developer had razed the other buildings, cleared the land for new construction and then gone bankrupt–now the building was worthless, surrounded by a huge lot choked with refuse and debris. The owners of the last remaining building had enclosed it with a chain–link fence topped with concertina wire during the construction, but now the fence guarded nothing but junk.

  Buddha made his way to the roof, musing that being a part–owner of a city building didn't make you a mogul. The poolroom in the basement was the only source of income, and that barely netted enough to pay the taxes. "We have to own our base," Cross had told the crew years ago. "Own it legit. That's the only way we can protect every square inch." Every member of the crew had chipped in to make the buy, but Buddha owned the whole thing on paper–he was the only one with an above–ground identity, complete with address in the suburbs and employment as a limo driver. He filed a tax return every year. Even collected a twenty–percent disability pension from the government for a wound he suffered in Vietnam. The building would go to his wife and children when he died–he was the only one of the crew with someone to leave anything to.

  Buddha opened the door to the roof and stepped out gingerly, scanning the terrain, his eyes sweeping over a wooden box that looked as though it had been dumped carelessly. Buddha moved carefully, showing the box the same respect he had shown jungle trails in Vietnam. A bird's head popped up from the center of the box, it's yellow eyes gleaming with malevolence. "Don't get all excited," Buddha said softly. "I'm just looking for Cross–I'm not messing with you."

  The bird's eyes tracked Buddha's every movement. It fluttered its wings briefly as though considering flight. Buddha registered the flash of blue on the wings–the male of the mated pair of kestrels Cross maintained on the roof. The kestrels were small birds, less than a foot in total length, including the long stabilizing tail feathers, but they were fierce, relentless dive–bombers. Other birds ran for cover when the kestrel's shadow darkened the sky. Kestrels are blessed with incredible eyesight and awesome dive–speed–the pit bulls of the air.

  Satisfied that Cross wasn't on the roof, Buddha carefully backed up until he was on the stairs, gently closing the overhead hatch after him.

  The Double X had the usual LIVE GIRLS! sign, blood–red neon against blacked–out window glass. Buddha opened the door, grateful for the air conditioning. The bouncer greeted Buddha at the door by nodding his head a couple of inches. He knew better than to ask for the cover charge–Buddha was the nominal owner of that joint, too. "We need a place where we can meet with people–a place we can control," Cross had argued.

  "You got a thing for topless dancers, that's your problem," Rhino had responded. "How come we gotta chip in, too?"

  "It could be a real money–maker," Cross said.

  "I'd rather do what we do–steal," Rhino replied. "I don't know anything about running a goddamned strip joint."

  "I can get someone to run it," Cross said. "Tell you what…if it's not making money in six months, I'll buy you out. Deal?"

  "Come on, Rhino. It'd be fun," Princess begged.

  The giant reluctantly agreed, shaking his head at his own stupidity. But, after a rocky start, the joint was coining money. Word got around fast–if you danced at the Double X, you didn't have to worry about the patrons getting out of hand. And if you were having trouble with your boyfriend, the joint was an absolute safe harbor. "He started it!" Princess said, explaining to the others why he had fractured the skull of a man who had slapped his girlfriend after a set. Rhino also worked the floor for a few weeks–protecting his investment, he claimed. Bruno, the bouncer they had now, was infamous–a notorious life–taker who'd already served two long sentences for manslaughter. But compared to the Rhino–Princess combo, the patrons considered him a teddy bear.

  None of the girls were paid for working the club. They rented "space" from the management and got to keep their "tips." The cover charge and the watered booze kept management in the black. The bartender was a short, thickset Mexican, improbably known as "Gringo" to everyone. An ex–boxer, he was still quick with his hands. He was quicker still with the .357 magnum he kept under the bar, as two would–be holdup men had found out last year. The deal was this: get to the Double X any way you can, and park at your own risk. But once inside, you were as safe as in church. Safer, if the stories about the local archdiocese were to be believed.

  Buddha found Cross at his table in a triangulated c
orner in the bar of the joint, watching an almost–nude brunette table–dance for three guys in business suits.

  "Whats happening, boss?"

  "Same old," Cross replied.

  "Rhino says Princess hasn't been around. He's worried out of his mind about that looney–tune–wanted to speak to you. He's on duty, so I volunteered. You seen him?"

  "No," Cross said, snubbing out a cigarette in a black glass ashtray. The smoky light in the bar was just bright enough to illuminate the bull's–eye tattoo on the back of Cross's hand.

  "Yeah. Well, he's a fucking head case anyway, right? I mean, I don't see why you–"

  "That's enough," the medium–sized man said. "Princess is one of us. Yeah, he's a stone fuck–up. But he's stand–up, too, don't forget that. Everybody in this crew has a reason to be here."

  "So what's his MOS?" Buddha challenged.

  "I haven't figured that one out yet," the man called Cross answered. "But I will." He lit another cigarette, took a deep drag and placed it in the ashtray. "There's a new girl working–she goes on in about an hour. I'll be back over to the poolroom after that."

  Six hours later, at the battered wood counter standing at the basement entrance to the poolroom, an elderly man reclined with his feet up, watching a small black–and–white TV from under a green eyeshade. A tall, handsome Latino entered, dressed in a flashy pink silk sportcoat over black silk balloon pants. The Latino tapped on the counter with the underside of a heavy gold ring. After a minute, the elderly man put the eye–shade up on his head and swiveled to have a look. "What?" he asked.

  "I got a message for Cross," the Latino replied.

  "Who?" the elderly man asked, a puzzled look on his face.

  "Cross. You know. El jefe around here, right?"

  "I don't speak Italian," the elderly man replied.

  "Hey, old man, I don't have time for your fucking humor, okay? Just give this to him," he said, sliding a folded square of white paper across the counter.

  The elderly man made no move to pick it up, readjusting his eyeshade and turning his attention back to the TV. The Latino spun on his heel and walked out.

  Cross unfolded the white square of paper in the back room. He looked at the writing for a minute, then he said, "Buddha, take a look at this."

  The note was in a flowery script, heavily serifed, obviously written with a fountain pen.

  We have El Maricon. We know he is one of yours and we know where you got him from. If you wish to have him returned, you must call 977–456–5588 tonight before midnight. If you do not call, the next package will be the head of El Maricon.

  "They got Princess," Gross said.

  "It don't sound like they know what they're doing, whoever they are," Buddha reflected. "I mean, Princess plays the role and all, but that's just to get into fights–he's about as homosexual as a fucking tomcat."

  "If it's the people I think it is, they do. I saw the light go on," he said, nodding his head in the direction of a red bulb hanging from an exposed wire. "And Rhino took off. Maybe he'll be able to tell us something when he comes back."

  "What do you think they want, boss?" the pudgy man asked.

  "Money or blood," Cross told him, closing his eyes.

  "He just rode around," Rhino told Cross later. "Fancy car. Red Ferrari, for chrissakes–I couldn't have lost him if I tried. But all he did was drive. Finally, he pulled into an underground garage…a high–rise on the lakefront. No way to tell if he lives there–the garage is open to the public, too."

  "How come you came back?" Cross asked.

  "Falls on him. I reached out on the cellular."

  "That's probably what the guy in the Ferrari did, too," Cross said. "See this note? The number they want me to call, that's a cellular number, too."

  "Fuck! If I had known…"

  "Don't worry about it. It's SOP, follow anyone who comes in here asking for me, right? You were already gone by the time the note got back here to me. Maybe Fal will come up with something."

  "I find this boy again, he's gonna tell us. Tell us anything we want to know," the giant muttered.

  "If it's who I think it is, this guy in the Ferrari, he's just a fancy errand boy."

  "Who do you think it is? Who'd want to snatch Princess, anyway?" Rhino asked.

  "It smells like Muñoz," Cross said, lighting a cigarette. "And it smells bad."

  Ten o'clock. Cross stepped out on the darkened roof of the Red 71. building. He did a rapid circuit of the roof, ignoring the large wooden box with a round opening on its side. Satisfied, he took a cellular phone from his pocket, punched in a number.

  "Yes?" said a voice in Latin–flavored English.

  "It's me," Cross said.

  "We have your boy. And we have a deal for you."

  "I'm listening."

  "A job you have to do for us. That's all. One job. You do it, you get your boy back."

  "I'm still listening."

  "Not on this phone–you know better. We need a land line."

  "Say it."

  "There's a phone booth. Just off the Drive. You know where Michigan Avenue takes that big curve? Across the Drive, on the other side, there's the phone booth. It has a big red circle painted on the side. Go there, tomorrow morning, daybreak. You'll hear from us then," the Latin voice said, breaking the connection on the last word.

  Cross looked at Rhino. "It's Muñoz all right," he said. "I guess it wasn't done. the last time."

  • • •

  5:45 A.M. The shark car swept along Michigan Avenue, Buddha at the wheel. Cross spotted the open–air phone booth. A few feet away stood a black man in his late teens, dressed in the latest gangstah chic–gleaming white hightops on his feet, an X cap on his head, the brim turned to the side. The black man was walking in tiny circles, glancing down to consult a beeper in his hand. Two members of his posse lounged nearby, leaning against a black Jeep Cherokee.

  Cross exited the shark car, walking briskly toward the phone booth.

  "Motherfucker, don't even think about it," the leader snarled. "That is my phone. Go find yourself another one, man–I got business."

  Cross turned so his back was to the phone, pulling a black semi–auto pistol from his coat in the same motion. "Me too," he said quietly.

  The leader glanced over at his crew, noticing for the first time that their hands were in the air. Buddha stood across from them, the three forming a triangle. The Glock looked comfortable in Buddha's hands.

  "This isn't a diss," Cross told the leader quietly. "Like you said, it's your phone. I'm waiting on this important call, okay? Soon as it's over, you got your phone back. Okay?"

  "Yeah, all right, man," the leader said, his eye on the pistol.

  "Only thing, I need privacy for my call, understand?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, man. Don't get crazy. We just jet, all right?"

  "Thanks," Gross said.

  The leader backed away toward the Jeep, He climbed behind the wheel, keeping his hands in sight. The other two climbed in the back. The Jeep took off, scattering gravel.

  Cross stood next to the phone booth, visually confirming the large red circle spray–painted on its side. He picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone to confirm it was working and quickly replaced the receiver. Cross lit a cigarette, took a deep drag.

  Traffic was still sporadic. The party–goers were all off the street and the commuters hadn't yet made their appearance. Cross took a second pull on his cigarette, then snapped it away.

  The sky continued to lighten. Cross and Buddha didn't speak, didn't move from their spots. A lustrous gray–white pigeon swooped down and perched on the top of the phone booth. Cross eyeballed the pigeon–it was different from the winged rats that so thoroughly populated the city–this one had the characteristic small head, short neck, and plump body, but its bearing was almost regal. Cross nodded to himself as he spotted the tiny cylinder anchored to one of the pigeon's legs. He approached cautiously, even though the pigeon showed no signs of spooking. Cross reache
d up and stroked the pigeon, pulling it gently against his chest. He opened the cylinder, extracting a small roll of paper. The pigeon Buttered its wings once, hopping back onto the phone booth.

  Cross unfurled the paper, eyes focusing on the tiny, precise writing.

  We are both professionals. A meeting must be made safe for us both. We will not come to your place, and you do not know where we are. We will meet you at noon tomorrow on State Street, at the outdoor cafe Nostrum's. You know where it is, I am sure. If you are coming, you must come alone. Write your decision on this paper and it will come back to us.

  Cross took a felt–tipped pen from his jacket, scrawled the single word "Yes" on the bottom of the note, and replaced the paper inside the pigeon's courier pouch. The bird preened itself for a few seconds then took off, climbing into the sky with powerful thrusts of its wings.

  Late that same night, the crew was gathered in the basement of Red 71.

  "You went by, right? What's it look like?" Cross asked Buddha.

  "I don't like it, boss. The tables are all outside, pretty spread out. It's only set back maybe fifteen, twenty feet from the sidewalk. I don't think they could do a drive–by…not without hitting a lot of people. But they could just walk it by. You'd never see it coming."

  Cross turned to the giant, who was standing against the wall, watching. "Rhino?"

  "The roof across the street's even worse. No way to cover it all. Fal says he could get up there easy enough. But he might not be the only player."

  Cross drew a series of intersecting lines on the pad in front of him, eyes down. He took two drags from a cigarette before he snubbed it out.