Flood

by Andrew Vachss

  I felt Flood vibrating next to me but I counted to ten and rapped twice more—still nothing. I shrugged my shoulders like I’d come back another time and turned as if to go back to the Volvo, giving Flood a look when she opened her mouth to say something. I started back through the archway, reaching my hand back out to Flood to make sure she came along, and the door opened—Goldor was standing there. I could tell it was him from the shape of his body and his bald head but I couldn’t make out his face in the light that was pouring out strong and harsh from behind him. He could see us, though—the setup was no accident. Flood stepped aside to let me talk.

  “Mr. Goldor?”

  “And who are you?”

  His hands were clasped behind him so that he was standing in an almost military posture—chest out, stomach in, shoulders back. He was using an old bodybuilder’s trick to make himself look even more massive—squeezing his hands together behind his back to pump the blood through his arms and into his chest and neck. His voice was rich and full—friendly and confident, masterful, relaxed. Whatever else we’d done, we sure as hell hadn’t spooked him.

  I knew I’d only get one shot with this guy. “My name is Burke, sir. And this is Debbie. I have something I would like to discuss with you, a matter of great importance, and I didn’t want to speak on the phone.”

  No response from Goldor, he just held his pose, letting me go on. “So I took the liberty of calling on you like this. I apologize if it’s an inconvenient time and, if it is, I’d appreciate the opportunity of an appointment at your earliest pleasure.”

  Goldor stepped just slightly to the side, still holding himself erect. He nodded his bald head toward us. “I see. Please come in, Mr. Burke. And you too, uh . . . Debbie.”

  I stepped through the door with Flood at my side. Goldor bent his head forward again to indicate that we should walk ahead of him, and we stepped onto a thick carpet down a short hall. We heard “In there,” and followed his directions. I saw we were coming into a long rectangle of a room, but it was too dark to see much else and I stumbled down a couple of short steps—a sunken room of some kind. Flood followed, stepping lightly without a misfire. Goldor came right behind us and turned some kind of rheostat on the wall—a soft orange light came from the corners of the long room and I could see a black leather chair with bare wooden arms and some other blocks of furniture. The walls were hung with heavy tapestries. We turned to face Goldor, who said, “Are you a police officer, Mr. Burke?”

  “No, sir,” I said earnestly.

  “You work for them, perhaps?” still in that soft voice.

  “No. I work for myself.”

  “And you are here on business? You have business with me?”

  “Yes. And I—”

  “Are you wearing a wire, Mr. Burke?” I said no with a laugh and held open my army jacket so he could see I only had on the red T-shirt underneath. I saw his hand come from behind his back and the Buck Rogers ray gun pointed at me and I started to smile when I felt the three tiny pinpricks bite into my stomach and chest before my brain could register “Taser! . . .” I felt red-white pain tear through my gut and I was on the ground and my body was trying to be anyplace else. My nerve tips were screaming in agony and my legs wouldn’t work but I knew what I had to do and I willed my hands to pull out the wires.

  But before I could reach for them Goldor must have squeezed the trigger again and I felt another jolt and I must have screamed—something came out of my mouth and I lay there looking up at Goldor.

  He walked over to me, holding the Taser pistol—a little instrument that shoots three little darts attached to thin wires. When the darts make contact, one squeeze of the trigger and the batteries in the pistol’s butt shoot a massive load of electricity into the target. When they first came on the market they were very popular because they weren’t classified as firearms, but then the lawmakers got together and made them illegal. A lot of people thought the manufacturer went out of business, but I know that there’s no shortage of buyers—Idi Amin used to buy them by the planeload for his secret police.

  Goldor still spoke quietly, in control. “If you move or try to pull out the wires I’ll hold the trigger down for a long time. Do you understand me?”

  I groaned something that Goldor took to mean that I did, and he walked even closer to me. I couldn’t raise my head, all I could see were the polished tips of his boots. He turned to Flood—she was standing there with her mouth open. “Get over here,” he said, and Flood walked over. When she was standing next to him, Goldor bent down and spoke to me, clearly and distinctly, like you would to someone who’s not too bright:

  “Mr. Burke, you will crawl over to that black chair, and you will do it slowly. Your hands are not to come anywhere near the darts. And when you get there you will back into that chair until you are seated and facing me. Do you understand?”

  I muttered something—he hit me with a short blast and I could feel him smile when I screamed. My own voice frightened me, so high-pitched and thin. I bit into my lower lip until I could feel the blood run—some of it came out when I muttered “yes.”

  Goldor moved in and I crawled ahead of him. He stayed close, never letting the wires get taut, pausing only to tell Flood, “You stay there,” like she was a dog he was training, and I backed into the chair until I was seated, facing him like he wanted. I could feel the blood in my mouth but I couldn’t taste anything—each time my muscles contracted the pain shot around my nerves. Goldor took my right hand and put it on the arm of the chair. He reached down and snapped something with one hand and I felt myself strapped down. He did the same with the other arm, then stepped back and jerked the darts out of my body. I lurched forward like I was trying to come out of the chair at him and he smiled, stepped toward me and backhanded me across the mouth. I felt the pain still going through my guts, and I felt the fresh stabbing in my mouth where he’d hit me. Yes, and I also felt the fat lipstick cylinder slap into my right palm. My brain was screaming at me, “You have to live!” but I didn’t fire my one shot—I’d have to get him up close to be sure.

  I slumped back in the chair like I was finished, watching him through half-closed eyes. If he came back with something to finish me off I’d have to talk fast, get him next to me, fire my shot, pull what would be left of my hand out of the straps, get the hell out somehow . . .

  I must have gone under for a couple of minutes. When I came around, Goldor was sitting on what looked like a padded bar stool and Flood was standing in front of me. She looked dazed. Goldor was saying something to her. I tried to focus on his words and managed to catch the tail end . . .

  “. . . and there’s another reason for you to listen to me. Your friend isn’t hurt badly. When this is over he will be able to go away with you. I know what he wanted, and I know how to deal with him. I understand. Listen to me. He told you he’d get you a part in one of my movies, didn’t he?”

  Flood didn’t respond, just stood staring at him, but Goldor went on like she had agreed. “He told you he’d make a lot of money, didn’t he? Told you a lot of beautiful girls start out this way, true? Oh, I know him, I know people like him. They have no sensitivity, no understanding of how things really work. But I can’t help you unless you let me help you. I want to help you, Debbie, but you have to talk to me. Do you see? Do you?”

  Flood seemed to be struggling for control, trying to answer Goldor’s soft-voiced stream. “Yes. But I don’t—”

  “Listen to me. Listen to me, little girl. Those movie parts are not for a beautiful young woman like you. This man is nothing more than a flesh merchant. He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. We were going to—”

  “I know. I know. I know only too well. He doesn’t have a job, does he?”

  “He’s a writer,” Flood said with an appropriate trace of defiance in her voice, but still very shaky.

  “He’s no writer, my dear. He’s a bad man.”

  “You hurt him,” Flood moaned in a sad little gi
rl’s voice.

  “I didn’t really hurt him, my child. All I did was show him who is the master of the situation, that’s all. He has to understand. Let me ask you—is the truth evil?”

  “Well, no. No, I guess it’s not.”

  “Of course not. And, Debbie, understand this . . . pain is truth. Pain can not lie—pain is, you understand? Pain is what it is and nothing more. It can start and it can stop, but it is always real. Pain is truth, and truth is good.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me,” said Goldor, his voice getting quieter and stronger at the same time. A doctor’s voice, a father’s voice, a voice of truth and wisdom not to be denied. “I can show you the truth, and I can make you what you want to be with that truth. Your miserable little boyfriend sits there and he has no pain now. I took his pain away, even as I speak the truth to you right now. He has no pain now, only truth. And the truth is that he didn’t want you to be in the movies, only to make money for himself. He came here with you to display you, to exhibit you to me as though you were a dog or a horse. That is the truth. That is the truth, isn’t it?” he said, leaning forward on the stool.

  “I don’t know”—Flood’s voice was a whine now—“I don’t know why he—”

  “Yes, you know. Get past what you don’t know—get to the truth. Listen to me, Debbie. You want to be in the movies, don’t you? You want to have nice things, you want to be somebody, don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to live in a house like this someday?”

  “Oh, yes. I mean . . .”

  “And I can do all that for you. That is the truth too. But you have to see the truth, experience the truth for yourself. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “What are you going to do?” Flood asked, fear and suspicion in her voice.

  “I am going to ask you some questions. And if you tell me the truth, I will show you the truth. And you will get what you want. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Flood, in a doubtful little voice.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “In Minot, North Dakota.”

  “How long have you been in the city?”

  “It was a year last month.”

  “Have you ever been a prostitute?”

  “No! I never—”

  “That’s all right,” said Goldor in the same therapist’s voice, “just keep telling me the truth, Debbie. What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a dancer.”

  “And where do you dance, Debbie?”

  “In . . . in bars and—”

  “Take off your sweater,” Goldor ordered, still with his soft voice. And Flood mechanically reached to her waist and pulled the jersey over her head, stood there in front of him. Her breasts trembled in Goldor’s orange lights of pain and I could see a droplet of sweat fall over one of the high ridges and slide down toward a nipple and I knew that just surviving this wouldn’t be enough for me now.

  “Yes, I can see what kind of dancing you do, my child. Have you had any work done to them?”

  “What?”

  “Silicone, uplifts, surgery . . . you know.”

  “Oh. No, never. I wouldn’t ever . . .”

  “I see. And do you like pain, Debbie?”

  “No!” said Flood, her voice going frightened and breathy.

  “You answer too quickly, little Debbie. All girls like pain sometimes. I don’t mean pain like your miserable little boyfriend over there. I mean pain where you get something for it, where you learn something. Pain liberates, you see? It sets things free, makes things happen. Good things, rich things . . .” Goldor’s silk-and-cream voice was quite an instrument.

  “You have good things inside of you, we all do. Some are bad things, some are good. But when they stay inside of you they all hurt you. They stop you from being yourself, you see? They hold you back, they keep you from the wonders that should be your own. I know you, I know women like you. I have made much of them, made them into a greatness, into perfection. I have made them into beauty. You don’t want to dance in bars, do you? You don’t want greasy little men pawing at you. You don’t want those cheap clothes. You want only to please one man, don’t you? Not just any bum with the price of a few drinks. You know you have to reach out for what you want, don’t you?” he said as he reached his hand under one breast and bounced it in his hand. And Flood drew a harsh breath and said, “Yes,” her eyes cast down.

  “And you used to like pain, didn’t you? You can tell me. I understand. When you were younger, yes? You understand. You did wrong things and you were punished and you knew the truth and you felt better, didn’t you?”

  Flood said yes again and kind of moaned, and I wondered if there was any way to shoot him with the lipstick so that he wouldn’t die and I could finish him off myself.

  Goldor kept on. “Do you want me to help you? Help you get the things you want, be the woman you can be? A life, a life of truth and beauty and richness?”

  “How? I mean, what do I—”

  Goldor’s voice shifted pitch, got tighter and harder. “Go over to that table on your left, you see it?” Flood nodded that she did. “You’ll find something on it. I want you to bring it to me, Debbie. Bring it over here to me.”

  Trancelike, Flood walked over to the table, bent and picked up something. She turned around and walked back to Goldor, holding a short whip with three separate lashes at the end. She bent forward slightly and handed the whip to him. He looked steadily at her, said, “Do you understand?” and she said, “Yes. The truth . . . to be free.” Goldor took the whip from her and climbed off the stool. He stood to one side, holding the stock of the whip in one hand and the tips of the lashes in the other. Flood stood there watching him, hands clasped just below her breasts.

  “Now, Debbie, I want you to bend over, turn your head to the side and put your face on this cushion.” He indicated the bar stool.

  “Can’t I . . . ?”

  “Debbie, you have to do this. I have explained it to you. I don’t want to think you didn’t understand.”

  “But first . . . I mean, shouldn’t I . . . ?”

  “What?” The barest hint of impatience crept into that controlled voice.

  Flood said, “Can’t I . . . ?” and reached down and unsnapped the button to the bottle-green pants.

  Goldor’s rich, dark-toned laugh boomed out. “Of course. Debbie, my child, you understand so beautifully. Yes—most appropriate. I’m so glad you do see.”

  Goldor patiently held the whip as Flood hurriedly jerked the pants down over her hips, hooking her thumbs so that her panties came down with them. She started to walk over to the bar stool, stumbled, let out a nervous laugh, and bent to unzip the white boots. She pulled off the boots, climbed out of the pants, kicked everything away from her, and walked to the stool again. Goldor saw the fire-scar on her rump and grunted in surprise—then smiled with teeth so perfect and even that they must have been false or fully capped.

  Flood bent over the stool, flexed each leg like a ballerina warming up, and Goldor let out a moan like a man with stomach cramps and stepped toward her, raising the whip to his shoulder. I heard the whistle of the whip in the dead quiet of the room—Flood’s right leg flashed in the orange light and I saw a whitish blur and heard a thump like a boxer’s fist slamming into the heavy bag and Goldor went flying backward. He hit the floor like a bag of wet garbage.

  Flood spun with the momentum of her kick like a kid’s top gone berserk until she was almost on top of Goldor. Another spin and her foot shot into his throat, lifting his heavy body right off the ground. Then she whirled and ran over to me. She unsnapped the straps from the chair’s arms, crying and trying to talk at the same time.

  “Burke, Burke, are you all right? Oh don’t be dead, Burke. Burke . . .”

  “Flood . . . I’m okay. Just help me get up.”

  She pulled me to my feet and we walked over to Goldor. Forget it. The maggot had finally found
the truth. He was as dead as a junkie’s eyes. When I put my fingers to the side of his neck to be sure, there was no pulse, no breathing. I felt along his chest—three or four ribs on the right side were just plain gone, probably right through his lung. I felt his throat too but I couldn’t even find his Adam’s apple in the pulpy mess Flood had left.

  I had my legs back, if not my stomach. We didn’t have much time. My watch said 9:22. Flood was out of it, still mumbling to herself—or to me, I couldn’t tell. I grabbed her shoulders, made her look at me. “Flood, listen to me. He’s gone. We can’t talk to him now. Take this,” I said, pulling a black silk handkerchief out of my pocket, “and go over everything we touched, understand? We weren’t here, got it?” She moved away like a robot, mechanically wiping every surface in the place. She was out of it. I told her to put on her clothes and stand there while I wiped things myself. I didn’t know how much time we’d have.

  I ran through the house until I found the giant kitchen, grabbed a handful of cleaning fluids and some paper towels, and rushed back to the room with the orange lighting. I soaked the paper towels in the fluids, took out half a dozen cigarettes, lit them one by one, then put each burning butt inside a book of paper matches so that the fire would come in contact with the match heads when they burned down to the end. I loosely wrapped each little firebomb in the fluid-soaked paper towels, planting them all around the room. A final sprinkling of the fluid over the arms of the leather chair and the seat of the bar stool, a quick run to the kitchen to replace the fluid containers and wipe them down. I checked the room—Flood was still sitting there, a white-faced statue.

  I pulled out my pocket flash and worked my way down to the basement. I knew I’d find what I needed down there . . . a complete set of barbells suspended over a stand used for bench presses. I wrapped the silk handkerchief around the heavy steel bar and carefully pried off the weights.