Flood

by Andrew Vachss

  “That lock downstairs is a joke, Flood. Any halfass could work his way through in a couple of minutes.”

  “So how long did it take you?” sweet Flood replied.

  “Don’t be snappy, babe. When you spook a weasel out of his hole, he bites. If Wilson gets wise, he’s coming for you.”

  “I wish he would. I’m sick of this . . . this hunting. If I knew where he was he wouldn’t have to come for me.”

  “That’s not the point, damn it. If someone can get in one door they can get in another.”

  “We’re not trained to protect property, Burke. We aren’t guard dogs. We protect ourselves, a small circle around ourselves. If anyone comes into that circle, locks or doors won’t matter.”

  “And you were waiting inside the door to this place?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So if he raps and raps on the door and you don’t answer, you just let him walk away?”

  “No. If he didn’t try and work his way through the door I would answer him—I would sound scared, encourage him to force his way in and—”

  “And be ready for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That door’s made of wood, nothing but bullshit veneer over soft pine.”

  “So?”

  “So a twelve-gauge blasts it right off the hinges. That’s one barrel—the second would be for you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Go ahead, Flood, pout some more—a perfect little baby you are. Maybe. Isn’t that fucking cute. I told you before, when we find this freak, you can have your duel, okay? Until then, you just be a good soldier and follow orders.”

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “You are in this army. Be glad you’re a soldier—there’s worse things.”

  “Maybe being afraid is a worse thing.”

  “Get off that train, Flood. It’s going nowhere. Being afraid is a good thing, a smartening thing. You’re not afraid, great—but that’s not smart. We don’t have time now, you understand? We’re close to him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. That’s my work, that’s how I keep doing my work. He’s out there and he’s close.”

  She came over to where I was sitting on the floor. She sat down, put her hand on my shoulder, and looked into my face.

  “Burke, I want to do something. I’m sorry—I have most of my training but I don’t have the patience—not yet. When this is over I’ll work on it, I promise. But let me do something with you on this. I can do some things—I helped you so far, didn’t I?”

  I didn’t mention how she had helped with Goldor—what was the point?

  “There’s something you can do,” I told her. “An acting job on the phone. It has to be done in a couple of hours, and we have to find a pay phone to do it from, okay?”

  “Okay,” she answered, brightening a bit.

  “I’ll go over it with you until you get it right—we won’t get a second chance.”

  “And it will help bring him to us?”

  “Look at the wall, Flood. You see it? Don’t glare at me like that—look at it. Okay, now draw a square on the wall with your mind—a white square—the whole border is made up of tiny pieces of tile, all different colors, dark shades. Okay?”

  A short pause from Flood, then, “Yes, I see it.”

  “We are going to make a mosaic, you and me. We’re going to keep filling in the square, working from the corners in until the whole thing is tiled over, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said, concentrating.

  “But no white tiles, all right? Only the last tiny little tile is white. That’s him—that’s the Cobra—and his tile doesn’t go down until all the other tiles are on the board. That’s the way it works. He sits outside the board holding his one white tile, deciding where to put it, running out of space. But our tiles keep coming down and the more he waits, the less space he has. He won’t put it down until there’s no other space.”

  “Maybe he won’t put it down at all.”

  “He has to put it down. He’s floating in the air above the board, Flood—he has to come down—the board is his whole world. There’s no other place for him to go.”

  “If we just work from the corners in . . . if we work according to a set pattern, well . . . won’t he know what we’re doing?”

  “Not for a while. And when he does see it, when he sees the walls coming in on him, he may put his tile down fast, make his move while he still thinks he has some choices left.”

  Flood looked at the wall, speaking in a faraway voice. “Yes . . . and if he puts his tile down while he still has some room . . . that’s what you meant about him coming here?”

  “Yes, baby,” I said quietly.

  “I understand. And the phone call you want me to make . . . ?”

  “Another couple of tiles on the board.”

  “Let’s do it, Burke,” she said, turning to me with a chilling smile on her beautiful face—and we started the rehearsals together.

  47

  IT WAS ALMOST four-thirty in the morning by the time Flood and I finished our work. We left her place after the rehearsal and went to my office, let Pansy out on the roof, and gathered up some equipment. Then back into the Plymouth and over to the warehouse. I took Flood’s hand and led her to the back, where I plugged in the phone set. I wasn’t so much worried about a trace on the call, but we needed a private space to work and I didn’t want some nosy citizen blundering into a pay phone at that hour. Or a cop.

  I made the connections and switched on the microcassette to check the twin speakers for feedback. The setup worked perfectly, sounds of a nightclub at closing time filled the little room—glasses clinking, loud stupid-drunk voices, tinny disco music, a wall of noise. I played with the volume and equalizer controls until it sounded just right, slipped the encoder disc into the mouthpiece of the field phone, and punched in the number, handing the instrument to Flood.

  We heard the phone being picked up on the third ring. “FBI. Special Agent Haskell speaking. May I help you?”

  And Flood’s voice came on, sounding cigarette-raspy and scared at the same time. “Is this the FBI?”

  “Yes, ma’am, how can we help you?”

  “I work at Fantasia, you know, in Times Square?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And your name is?”

  “My name is . . . no—wait! Just listen, okay? I’m not going to tell you that. There’s a guy that was in here tonight. He was drinking, but not too much, right? But he was fucked up, you know? His eyes were crazy—not like they usually get here when they see the girls, real crazy. And he was talking to himself. People would sit down near him and then they would just get up and move away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And . . . we have to . . . like, sit with the customers, you know? It’s the job. So he grabbed me and he wouldn’t let me get up. He told me that President Reagan was a miserable traitor, you know? A Commie ass-kisser. He said Reagan promised he was going to invade Cuba and recognize South Africa and all kinds of stuff I didn’t understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the agent again, but the twin speakers finally revealed an undercurrent of interest in his voice. “Could you describe this individual, please?”

  Flood gave him a detailed description of Wilson, talking fast and breathy—we knew the feds would be recording the call. Then she hit him with the clincher. “And I’m calling you because he said he’s going to kill the president. He said people wouldn’t listen to anything else. And he has a gun. I saw it—a big black gun—and he has this book, like a notebook, you know? He said he works for the CIA and he’s on a secret mission to educate America.”

  Silence from the agent, but you could feel him willing Flood to go on, not wanting to break the flow of her words. “I’m so scared,” said Flood, “he knows my name—he asked me if I was a loyal American. I was scared to call the CIA because, like . . . maybe he was telling the truth. Is he? I mean, do you know . . . ?”

  “No, ma’am.” His voice wa
s tense but controlled now. “We know of no such individual as you describe. Did he tell you his name?”

  “He said I should call him the Cobra, like the snake on the flag, whatever that means.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We would like to have an agent come and speak with you. Are you still at your place of business?”

  “Yes—I mean, no! I mean, I’m leaving now . . . I’m leaving. I just wanted to tell you because I think he really means it, you know?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we appreciate your call. Now if we can just—”

  But Flood was already hanging up. I disconnected all the equipment, shut off the tape, and went back to the Plymouth. We drove over to Forty-second Street, but on the East Side. I wanted to drop off a new ad for the Daily News, complete with money order. If things went as planned it would run tomorrow: COBRA! I UNDERSTAND AND I CAN HELP YOU WITH YOUR PROBLEM. PLEASE CALL . . . and then there would be a phone number. Whoever dialed that number would hear the phone answered with “Major Felony Squad, Detective So-and-So speaking,” and I didn’t think the conversation would go on long after that. But its effect would linger.

  48

  I NEEDED TO go to the Bronx to see the Mole, and I also needed Michelle to work this last bit. I figured I’d ask her to go along for the ride—Flood would have made the mixture too tricky. I told her we wouldn’t be rolling until tomorrow, to get some sleep and be ready. I dropped her off and turned back down toward the docks.

  For once I was running in some luck. I spotted Michelle daintily hoisting herself out of the front seat of a dark Chrysler sedan. I watched from a distance as she waved good-bye to whoever was inside, then I nosed the Plymouth slowly over to where she was standing.

  She was fumbling in her huge pocketbook for something when I pulled alongside. She recognized the car, opened the door for herself, and climbed in next to me. I pulled away without saying a word.

  Finally she extracted a tiny bottle full of some dark liquid from her purse, took a deep pull, swished the stuff around in her mouth, and rolled down the window to spit it into the night.

  “Want some, baby?”

  “No thanks. What is it . . . mouthwash?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar, Burke. It’s cognac.”

  “I’ll pass. You want to work tonight?”

  “Baby, I am working—I just spit my last job out of your window.”

  “Something else, okay?” Sometimes I hate what she does to make a buck.

  “Don’t you snap at me, Burke. You’re not my fucking parole officer.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m your friend, okay? And I’m taking you to see another friend.”

  “Who?” Still not mollified.

  “The Mole.”

  “Oh, the poor child still can’t call up and make his own dates?”

  “Michelle, give me a break. We need to set up another office. I need Mole for the electronics and you for the phones.”

  “This has something to do with the job for Margot?”

  “I hope you heard about that from Margot herself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise the individual involved may know more than he should.”

  “Oh, Dandy knows from nothing, dear, but the Prophet’s been doing his Armageddon number so I trust whatever’s coming down will be here soon.”

  “As soon as I find this freak.”

  “Just you and me on this job?”

  “And the Mole.”

  “Oh goodie. I love the Mole.”

  “Michelle, listen—don’t drive the poor bastard any crazier than he already is, okay?”

  “Can I help it if I’m attracted to intellectuals? After all, it’s rare enough that a woman of my accomplishments can have a decent conversation with her peers.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ll be good,” she promised with an evil smile.

  We motored along sedately until we crossed the line to the Bronx. I found a working pay phone, reached the Mole, and set up a meet near the junkyard. I didn’t want to bring Michelle inside—I was afraid she’d insist on some major interior decorating.

  We sat there waiting. It was a quiet night, except for the occasional howling of a dog or a police siren.

  “I’m on a dead fucking blank, Michelle. He was here, somewhere in the cesspool, but he’s gone. I’m not going to find him now—he’s got to come to me.”

  “You have to play the cards they deal you, baby.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The Dealer,” said Michelle. And she was right.

  The Mole materialized now at the side of the car. I rolled down the window all the way.

  “Mole, I need some work done in an office building—phones, lights, stuff like that.”

  “So?”

  “So I need it tomorrow. In Moscow’s building—the little place upstairs, okay?”

  Before he could answer, Michelle draped herself halfway across my lap and fixed her luminous eyes on her target. “Well, Mole, don’t say hello or anything!”

  “Michelle—” was all the Mole got out before she was off and running.

  “Now, Mole, it’s not polite to just ignore people. Especially your friends.”

  “I didn’t see you—”

  “Mole, please. It is common knowledge that you can see in the dark. You wear some clean overalls tomorrow—I don’t want you tracking mud all over my . . .”

  I elbowed Michelle sufficiently to get her back on her side of the car, shrugged what-can-you-do? to the Mole, who just said, “Tomorrow morning,” and disappeared.

  Michelle pouted for a few minutes on the way back, then started to giggle. The Mole has that effect on her. We made all the arrangements and I said I’d pick her up tomorrow.

  Usually I don’t dream. That night I dreamt of a leering lunatic standing over a fiery pit, throwing in one child after another. I knew somehow that when enough kids hit the bottom of the pit, it would reach critical mass and explode in his face. But I woke up before that happened.

  49

  WE GOT TO the new office around ten in the morning. I had already called Moscow the landlord and confirmed that the clowns had paid him a month’s rent in front for the two-room suite on the fourteenth floor. As soon as I heard that I sent Max over to see Moscow with the additional two hundred for the little room just above the suite. Two hundred for two weeks—that was the going rate with Moscow for the setup. He periodically rents the two-room suite on the fourteenth to one group after another. He has a long list of clients—I was just one of the list. When the wiseguys pull one of their bust-out deals on a garment center manufacturer or a restaurant they rent the suite as a front and take the little room right above it to have a place to go if things get ugly. And when some dingbat radicals decide to establish a new international headquarters, Moscow rents the little room upstairs to the federales so they can eavesdrop in peace and quiet. The little room upstairs isn’t much bigger than a closet, but it has an attached bathroom and decent ventilation. You can be comfortable up there for days at a time—I know.

  Michelle and I took the stairs to the top—she bitched all the way about climbing in spike heels. I set her up in the little room and told her just to wait and be cool. She opened her makeup case, took out a clutch of Gothic novels, and sat down without another word. I took the stairs back down to the unattended lobby, checked the directory but couldn’t find Falcon Enterprises. Carrying my suitcase, I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, knocked, heard “Come on in” from James, who was at the desk in the front room—I heard Gunther rooting around in the back. Nice-looking setup, all right—a battered wood desk with an old wood swivel chair for the front, a long table on shaky legs with two more wooden chairs in the back, linoleum floors, bare whitewashed walls, two windows in the back room that hadn’t been opened since the Dodgers deserted Brooklyn. Moscow wasn’t selling decor.

  I shook hands with James. “I brought you some stuff,” I said, opening the suitcase. He l
ooked on happily as I brought out the letterhead stationery complete with cable address, envelopes, business cards, desk calendar, assorted legal pads, and ballpoint pens. Then I took out the Rhodesian army recruiting poster, and a black-and-white line-drawing of a soldier with his foot firmly planted on a mound of dead enemies. The soldier was holding a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. The poster said: “Communism Stops Here!” A couple of large maps of Africa completed the decorations, and we sat down to have a smoke. Comrades in arms.

  Gunther strolled in, gave me what was meant to be a chilling look once he saw Max was not on the set. He grunted as he looked over my supplies but his eyes lit up when he saw the business cards. He immediately stuffed a bunch in his pocket—legitimate at last. I sat in the swivel chair, put my feet on the desk. “My man will be here in a while. He’s got an in with the phone company so you won’t have to wait for an installation. You give him a yard and by the time you get the first month’s bill you’ll be gone.”

  It was okay by him—they were still playing with my money.

  Both were in excellent spirits, smiling between themselves. You could see the idea of a real office and a front appealed to them. James was walking around the place, scratching his chin like he was deep in thought. “It’s going to work—work very well indeed, I can see that. But you know . . . it lacks something, some touch that would indicate the scope of our operation. Our dedication to purpose, so to speak.”

  Before I could say anything Gunther smiled and pulled out a matte-black combat knife—the kind where the handle is a set of brass knuckles so you can break bones or tear flesh. He stared at my face, and I could see he was still hurting from what we did to him in the warehouse. He walked over to the desk where I was sitting and slammed the knife into the top so hard the whole thing jumped. He slowly removed his hand, watching me all the while, the knife stuck halfway into the desktop.