The kid nodded—he thinks I’m in organized crime, one of the few Irishmen to break through the Italian barriers. The closest I ever got to a mob was at a wrestling match—some lunatic paid me good money to learn the true identity of the Masked Marvel for him.
I looked through the newsclips the kid got me from the morgue. My man was there, all right, just like I thought—Martin H. Wilson, arrested on charges of rape and sodomy of three Puerto Rican kids. No more on that story. Then Martin Wilson arrested on rape, sodomy, and murder charges of Sadie’s kid, D.A. asks $100,000 bail at arraignment. Then later on, court orders competency hearing after Wilson’s defense attorney says he’s a victim of Agent Orange poisoning in Vietnam. Then the other clips—I had a hunch about why Wilson wasn’t in the can waiting on a trial. Yeah, there it was: Elijah Slocum, major kiddie-porn dealer, arrested at his mansion in Riverdale by detectives from the Bronx D.A.’s office following a six-month investigation by undercover operatives. Slocum posts $250,000 bail, claims he was set up by his “enemies.” Slocum moves to reduce bail; several prominent citizens testify as character witnesses; case still pending.
Good enough. There was no picture of Wilson but I didn’t expect one. A Daily News photo would never be good enough anyway. All I really wanted were the dates. I put them in my memory, shook my head sadly, and handed the clips back to the kid. “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”
“This stuff is no good?”
“You got me what I asked for—I just came up empty, that’s all. Listen, I still figure I owe you one, okay?”
The kid nodded glumly, swallowed his beer in a single throw and signaled to the barmaid for another as I was getting up to leave. I said I’d give him a call. He mumbled “God bless” and started on another brew. I walked four blocks west, caught a cab, told the driver I wanted the U.N. Building, and got off near Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. Then I walked down to the river and south to the car where Flood was sitting in front seat reading a newspaper.
I let myself in, noticing the packages piled on the back seat. So far, so good. Flood looked at me expectantly. “I’ll explain when we get to the office,” I said, eased the Plymouth into gear, and set off for downtown.
21
HALFWAY DOWN THE FDR I realized that I wasn’t acting like I’d been trained to—I couldn’t really bring Flood back to the office without showing her too much. And I wasn’t ready to do that. “Flood, is anyone using your studio this time of day?”
“Why?” She was obviously going to stay hostile until I came up with some answers for her.
“Well, I can’t bring you back to the office without deactivating the dog, and that could take a couple of hours. Besides, I don’t want to do any business with clients until we’ve wrapped this thing up. I just want to concentrate on this.”
“There’s nobody there. They only have classes two nights and one day every week. But why can’t we go to your place?”
“I live in a hotel and there’s no way to get past the front desk without a lot of people noticing. I don’t want anyone to notice you until you’ve gotten into the disguise.”
“It must cramp your style, not being able to get by the front desk.”
“It cramps everyone’s style. That’s why I live there.”
Flood didn’t seem surprised that I knew the way to her place. I told her to go on upstairs and that I’d call her in a few minutes to see if anyone had been around asking questions. She made no move to take the packages out of the back seat when she got out.
I gave her ten minutes and called. A frigid voice just barely identifiable as Flood’s informed me that everything was as it had been and that I could come up when and if I decided to.
I carried the packages in, rang for the freight elevator, and waited until I heard it start to groan its way downstairs. Then I stepped back outside. When it came down empty. I pressed the switch to send it two floors above Flood’s place, and took the stairs—quietly. There were no sounds except the elevator. Waiting in the corridor on Flood’s floor, I heard the elevator creak to a stop somewhere above me and stepped into the studio. It was empty, the same as when I was there last. I walked back to Flood’s private place where she was sitting on the floor in that lotus position waiting for me. And my story.
I tore open the packages—tanning lotion, eyeshadow and eyeliner, a lustrous-looking black wig, a pair of pink toreador pants, a black jersey V-neck pullover, a black patent-leather belt, some black mesh pantyhose, and a pair of four-inch spikes in black pseudo-leather. Cheap junk, except for the wig. Flood said nothing, watching me.
“Okay, here’s the story. You can’t change your face, not really. But you’re going to have to be seen by some people—you dress like this and people will notice everything but your face. All they’ll remember is some pink pants and maybe black hair. Besides, you have to look kind of sexy and incompetent at the same time, because you have to ask some people for help. They won’t remember what they don’t see.”
“Burke, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Flood, for chrissakes, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t raised in a convent. The average man takes one look at you shaking it down the street in these pants and that’s all he’ll remember. What’s so goddamned hard to understand?”
“I don’t care if people know who I am or what I’m looking for.”
“Yeah, that’s right, you don’t. Either you’re going back to Japan or you’ve got some kamikaze plan—you’ll do your job and then you just don’t give a damn what happens after that. That’s not me. I do care—I don’t want people looking for me. If they have to look for you, for Flood, and they connect us up, they’ll look for me too. Get it? You just look too strange the way you’re dressed now—the way you look.”
Flood held up the pink pants. “These don’t look strange?”
I tried again. “Flood, this isn’t a question of good taste, okay? People are going to notice you no matter what, see? But there’s no way a man’s going to look at your breasts bouncing around in that sweater and at your face at the same time.”
“My breasts don’t bounce when I walk.”
“Flood, I don’t care if you’re the world’s greatest martial arts expert—I don’t care if you’re fucking Wonder Woman. You wear that sweater and no bra and your goddamned breasts will bounce.”
“Burke, you’re a lunatic. No bra with that outfit? I’d look like some moron’s version of a whore.”
“Now you got it.”
“I won’t do it.”
“The fuck you won’t. I made some major sacrifices to do this job—you can too.”
“What sacrifices did you make?”
“I had plastic surgery.”
“You had what?”
“Plastic surgery. I’m telling you the truth.”
“For this job.”
“Goddamned right. Before I took this job I used to be a male model.”
Flood tried like hell not to giggle, gave it up, tried to get a straight face again. Gave that up and started laughing. It was a great laugh—peeking between her fingers at my former-model’s face, she just plain cracked up. Finally, she came over to sit down next to me and picked up the pink pants. “Burke, I’ll look like the fat lady in the circus if I wear these.”
“You’ll look beautiful.”
“Burke, I’m serious. Some women can wear these things, but I’m not built that way. It took me about fifteen minutes to get them on in the store.”
“Oh, you already tried them on.” Flood looked down, said nothing. “Flood, you vain bitch. All this crap about clothes and it’s only because you think you don’t look good in them.”
“It’s not just that.”
“So what else is it?”
“I can’t move in them.”
“Put them on and let me see, okay?”
Flood jumped to her feet, flung off her jacket, untied the sash at her waist, and stepped aside as her slacks fell to the floor. She popped open the snaps
in the crotch of her bodysuit, ripped it over her head, and grabbed the pink pants out of my hand in one vicious motion. That took about three seconds. Then she grunted and strained for about five minutes, trying to get the pants over her hips, muttering curses at me all the while, but she finally got them closed over her waist. It looked like bright new pink skin. With her hands on her hips, she glared at me, “See what I mean?”
“Can you bend over?”
“Bend over? I can’t even walk.”
“Just try, okay?”
She turned and walked away from me. It was the finest combination of sex and comedy I’d ever seen. From the ankles to the upper thighs, she was sheathed in pink metal, and from there on up it looked like pink Jello bitterly resisting confinement. Flood spun around, “Burke, if I even see so much as a smile on your ugly face I’m going to put you in the hospital.”
My face was as flat as a pane of glass. Unfortunately it was equally transparent and Flood charged with both fists clenched. Thank God by the time she made it over to where I was sitting, she was laughing herself. She laughed even harder when I tried to help her get the pants off. She struggled to her feet, and swished her way over to the bathroom with the rest of the outfit. When she came out she was perched on the spike heels, wearing the wig and the jersey top. Even trying to watch her face with all that flesh bouncing around was impossible, and I could tell she knew it too. With her face made up, we’d be home free. She pranced around in the middle of the room, making a few experimental passes with her feet, twirling them in small circles a few inches off the ground.
“I can kick in these things, but no high kicks, no roundhouses.”
“Forget about that. It isn’t a fighting outfit, Flood, it’s a damn disguise, right?”
“What if I have to kick someone?”
“Take the pants off first.”
Flood gave me a look, and started to roll the pants down over her hips. By the time they got halfway down, I knew she wasn’t going to kick me.
22
WHEN I WOKE up a couple of hours later, Flood was still out like she’d been drugged. I wish I could sleep like that—maybe it was because her conscience was so clear. We still had a bit of time so I got out my cigarettes and sat by the big window looking down at the street. I held the butt below the windowsill and blew the smoke down in case there was some freak out there looking for a tiny red light in the darkness that meant go instead of no to him. I still had to think of a plan that would get Flood her raw meat and keep me away from the government. Nothing came to me.
The sounds of the shower brought me back inside, where I waited for Flood to come out. When she did she was wearing some big fluffy white towel and walked past me to the large room where I’d been smoking. I followed her and watched while she dropped the towel, walked nude over to the wall with all the mirrors, and started her workout—a complicated kata with spinning kick-thrusts and double hand-breaks, knife-edged and clenched fist. A kata is a martial arts exercise: some of the Japanese styles use them to qualify for higher degrees, like a black belt; some use them as stylized practice. When an amateur does a kata it’s like watching a spastic robot, but Flood’s was a death dance. I watched her quietly, not moving. The only noise was the occasional hiss of breath through her nose.
Flood’s kata was steel-edged white smoke. She finished by landing into a split any cheerleader would envy. Stayed perfectly still on the floor, concentrating on something. Then she looked up at me, “Can you throw me those pants I bought?”
I went back into her space and brought them out. Flood worked them back up over her hips. Her body had a light sheen of sweat and it was still a struggle. It didn’t look funny this time. She zipped them up, snapped the front button closed, walked over to the wall, and took down a pair of heavy leather gloves, something like catcher’s mitts. She tossed them to me. I knew what she wanted me to do, so I took off my shoes and walked out onto the gym floor. Standing in a semi-crouch, I held the gloves out toward Flood, one at my right knee, the other at my left shoulder, the palms facing her.
Flood came to me with her hands open in front of her, bowed slightly. I nodded that I was ready. She approached with small, light steps, floated up on her toes and sideways into a cat-stance, and suddenly lashed out with her left foot at my right knee. She caught the open glove squarely with a harsh pop, spun on her right leg, planted her left foot, and whipped the right up at my right shoulder. It never came off—the skin-tight material held her legs together at the crotch and she fell, immediately rolling to the side, hands clasped near her head, elbows out.
I knew what she was going to say. “It’s no good. I can’t get any speed or leverage above the knee. We have to get something else.”
“Okay, Flood, I don’t want you to feel helpless.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“It doesn’t bother you to fight with no clothes on, but—”
“I had to train for a long time before it didn’t. We all have to practice like that, so that we don’t think about ourselves, just about the task.”
“So didn’t you ever train to fight wearing clothes?”
“Burke, listen to me. I could fight no matter what, yes? At least I could defend myself. But I need room to move or I can’t develop any power.”
“So when you fight this Cobra freak . . .”
“Yes.”
“Flood, I’m not promising it will end like that.”
“You just find him for me.”
I went back to the window and sat down on the floor, lit up. Flood padded over to me, floated down into a lotus position, sat there quietly for a while. Maybe keeping me company, maybe thinking too. She didn’t understand a fucking thing.
“Flood,” I said, “you know how to fight an attack dog?”
“I never have.”
“There’s just one secret, okay? When he bites you—and he is going to bite you—you have to ram whatever he bites back into his mouth as deep and as hard as you can.”
“And then?”
“And then you use whatever you have left to cancel his ticket.”
“So?”
“So the dog expects you to do just one thing—pull away as hard as you can. He’s a hunter and that’s what his prey is supposed to do. Panic and run.”
“So?”
“So there’s no such thing as a fair fight with a dog.”
“Wilson’s not a dog.”
“You know what he is, Flood?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. So you do it my way—you listen to me.”
Flood’s eyes narrowed, then relaxed with a calmness that reflected through her body as she spoke. “There’s a right way, a correct way to do anything.”
“There’s a right way to rape little kids?”
“Burke! You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean—and you’re out of luck, kid. The only way to do anything is to do it so you walk away from it.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then you walk into it alone.”
Flood’s eyes bored into my face, looking for an opening. There was none. I didn’t know why I’d even come this far, but I wasn’t going past my own limits. The only game I play is where winning means you keep playing. She smiled. “You’re not so tough, Burke.”
“Endurance beats strength. Didn’t they teach you that over in Japan?”
She thought about it for a minute, then flashed a lovely, perfect smile. “You think they make these kind of pants in some stretch material?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you check it out early tomorrow morning before you go to court?”
“We’re going to court?”
“Not me, just you. I have something to do on my own and besides, I don’t like to go to court in the daytime.”
I lay down on the floor, put my arms behind my head, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Flood leaned on one elbow and rubbed the side of my face with her knuckles while I told her how you look up
a docket number in the Criminal Court Building. It was quiet and peaceful there, but I had to make that call around six. I kissed Flood good-bye, got my stuff, then climbed the stairs to the roof, where I checked the street. Nothing. I rang for the elevator and hit the stairs down as soon as I heard it move.
The car was just as I’d left it. Must be a pretty crime-free neighborhood—this was two times running.
It was almost evening and I wanted everything secure before I called this James character, so I stopped at a pay phone on Fourteenth Street to reserve a ride for the night. I have this arrangement with the dispatcher—I call him, he gives me a cab for the night shift, and I don’t have to return it until morning. I keep whatever I earn for the evening on the meter and he gets a flat hundred bucks. I also keep a hack license for Juan Rodriguez (the same guy who makes his living working in that Corona junkyard) behind the false wall at the rear of the Plymouth’s glove compartment.
You have to be fingerprinted to get a hack license in New York. It costs you an extra fifty to bring your own fingerprint card already made out for the inspectors. I have a couple of dozen cards stashed, already fingerprinted, but with no names or other information on them. I don’t know the real names of any of the guys who would match those prints, but I know the cops would have a hell of a time interviewing any of them.
The old man who works as a night watchman in the city morgue told me how the cops sometimes fingerprint a dead body while it’s still fresh so they can make an identification. He showed me how it was done. I got the blank cards easily enough, waited a few weeks, and the old man let me make a few dozen prints from a corpse that came in on the meat wagon one night. Nasty car accident—the guy was headless, but his fingers were in perfect shape.
Driving a cab in New York is the next best thing to being invisible. You can circle the same block a dozen times and even the local street-slime don’t look twice. The cops do the same thing in their anticrime cars—only trouble is their union won’t let them work the cars alone, so when you see two guys in the front seat of a cab, you know it’s the Man. Very subtle.
Flood Page 13