Flood

by Andrew Vachss

  Max approached the center floor, arms at his sides. He swept his hand to cover the surroundings, bowed toward Flood with an after-you-please gesture, and Flood knelt in front of her duffel bag and brought out the robes Max had given her. She shucked off her outer clothes, stuffed them into the bag, and put on the black robes.

  She sprang onto the floor, spun into a kata that vibrated with grace and power. Her kicks became hand-thrusts so smooth that I couldn’t see the transition—her breaks were as clean as surgery. She worked against the mirror as she was supposed to, finishing in a deep bow to Max. No change in breathing, like she was at rest. A lioness returned to the jungle, and glad of it.

  Max bowed in respect. He opened his hands, caught Flood’s nod and stepped onto the floor. He knife-edged one hand, blurred it toward his own neck and pulled it to a dead stop maybe an inch away. He bowed again to Flood, motioned her forward to him.

  Flood stepped onto the floor, twisting her neck from side to side to get loose. Max moved his hands in gently waving patterns in front of his face and chest—like he was carefully gathering cobwebs. He held one leg slightly in front of the other, bent at the knee.

  Flood danced in on her toes, twisted her body to the side and faked a left-handed chop, then spun into a kick from the same side, her foot darting like a snake’s tongue. Max took the kick on the outside of his thigh and moved behind her in the same motion, firing a two-finger strike at her face. Flood fell forward, her hands caught the floor and she back-kicked at knee height. Max flowed under the kick and his elbow whipped back with the power of a piston, stopping a millimeter from Flood’s temple. Finished. Real duels between top karateka don’t take more than thirty seconds—except in the movies. They move too fast and there’s no margin for error. If Max hadn’t pulled his last strike short, Flood’s skull would have been crushed.

  They both got to their feet. Bowed. Bowed again. Flood’s face was flushed with joy—Max’s eyes were bright with approval. He held out his hands, palms up. Flood put her hands in his and he turned them over, examining closely. Max drew his hand across his waist, patted his legs, nodded emphatically. Then he held out his hands, nodded again, but with reservations.

  Flood said: “I know. My kicks are better. My teachers have told me that I’m lazy. That I work with what works for me, not with what doesn’t.”

  Max pointed to my wristwatch, and Flood understood. It was too late to learn new tricks—she’d have to fight the Cobra with what she had. Flood was ready. She went back to the duffel bag and brought out the picture of Sadie and Flower, the piece of silk, and the candles. I handed over a copy of the Cobra’s mug shot, and her quick flashing smile told me I was on her wavelength. For a change.

  Max left the room and came back with a low red lacquered table that had tiny dragon’s claws for legs. He placed it in the far corner so the mirror would reflect the icon no matter where you stood.

  I left Flood and Max in the temple and went downstairs to hook up the field phone and check in with Michelle.

  53

  MICHELLE ANSWERED THE phone on the first ring, her voice all breathy and excited, not like her at all. “Burke, is that you?”

  “What is it?”

  “He hit the hook, baby. He sent a kid—”

  “Don’t say anything more. I’m on my way.”

  I ripped the phone from the connectors and sprinted for the Plymouth. Flood would be safe with Max, and if anyone hit the top floor looking for Michelle they’d have to get past the Mole. Everything was locked in place now, and phone conversations weren’t going to help.

  The Plymouth slipped through the light traffic like a dull gray shark. The smaller fish moved aside, and it took only minutes for me to get back uptown. I rolled into the parking spot, waved my arm to attract the attendant, and slipped him the ten bucks as I was locking up. The lobby was deserted—the indicator said one elevator car was on the eleventh, the other on the ninth. I hit the Down switch for both cars and charged up the stairs.

  Still quiet—still empty as I went along. I timed my breathing so I had a burst of oxygen left at the end of each flight—you don’t want to be out of breath if you meet unfriendly people. I sucked in a nasal blast before each flight, let it out as I was climbing. I stopped at the top floor, waiting for my blood to settle down and listened. Nothing. I approached the door, tapped softly. Not a sound. I tapped again, said, “It’s me, Michelle,” and the door swung open.

  I moved inside and found myself facing the Mole hunched over some kind of plastic box glowing ruby-red from its insides, a slim metal cone pointed directly at the door. The Mole looked at me, blinked, took his hands out of the box.

  Michelle was sitting in a corner, a petulant expression on her face, like she was being punished for something she didn’t do. She opened her mouth to say something and the Mole held up his hand to silence her before she got a word out. “She went out,” the Mole told me in his soft voice.

  “You what?”

  She bounded off her perch, came over to me, glaring over her shoulder at the Mole. “He sent a kid, Burke. A little kid. We got the whole thing on this hookup the Mole has here. Some little kid walks in downstairs and tells them he needs the phone number for his older brother. Like his older brother doesn’t want to come in personally, right? He says he wants to establish contact—like he memorized the words. So the jerks downstairs, they give the kid the new number for their operation and the kid just walks out. Can you believe it?”

  “And . . . ?”

  “So I ran downstairs and followed the kid when he came out of the elevator.”

  The Mole began in an injured tone, “I told her not to leave—”

  “You don’t give me orders, Mole!”

  “I could have followed him.”

  “Cut it out, Mole—you couldn’t follow your nose,” Michelle shot back. I could see the two of them were prepared to spend hours over this, so I finally asked the key question. “What happened?”

  Michelle preened her feathers before she answered, the little kid in school who had the right answer all along and had her hand up and was finally getting called on by the sluggish teacher.

  “The kid was a street boy, you know? A real chicken-hawk’s special. Sweet little face, maybe ten years old. He looked like one of those Colombian kids they sell in the adoption scams—just a baby. He stops for a hotdog a couple of streets down from here. I thought he might be going to one of the flophouses or something. I was just going to get the address, that’s all.”

  “Did he hook up?”

  “He sure did, baby—but let me tell it. The kid bobs and weaves, the little clown. Takes a bus uptown, walks around near the park, then just starts to bop down Broadway like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Never goes near a phone. Finally he goes into Happyland. You know, that videogame arcade on Broadway? So I go in there after him and he meets up with a guy at the Space Invaders game in the back. And he gives him a piece of paper—it had to be the phone number.”

  “Was it our man?”

  “Honey, there is no doubt in my mind. He’s the same freak,” she said, holding up her Xerox of the mug shot.

  “What did they do then?”

  “Wait a minute, baby, slow down. It’s him, all right, except he’s dyed his hair blond. Can you believe it? But he’s the one. I even saw the tattoo. What a freak—he just stands there patting the kid on the back of the neck and whispering something to him. He gives the kid money and the kid starts to play the machine and this creep just stands there watching the kid play. He keeps trying to pat the kid on the ass and the kid just wants to play the game. You know that place—nobody gives a shit what happens as long as you put the money in. Times Square, right? So I made sure it was the same guy and I got to a phone and called the Mole and he told me something was coming down and to get back here and I did.”

  Michelle finished her story, smugly looking at me for approval. What she got was, “You dizzy broad . . . that freak would put you down as easy as st
epping on a roach if he saw you following him. The Mole was right.”

  And before Michelle could answer that one the Mole said, “He called.”

  “What?”

  “He called. While Michelle was outside playing. I have the tape,” and he flipped a switch without saying anything else.

  I heard the ringing on the phone through the speaker, and then I heard James’s confident voice. “Falcon. James speaking.”

  In response, a voice with a threatening top edge. “I heard about your operation. You people on the level?”

  “Certainly, my friend. What can we do for you?”

  “I want some work. Overseas.”

  “You are familiar with our standards?”

  “Look, I’m a decorated combat veteran, all small arms, qualified jumper. And I’m a black belt in karate.”

  “Do you have a valid passport?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got all that.”

  “Well, my friend, we’d surely like to speak with you. Shall we make an appointment—say at four this afternoon?”

  “No daylight for me, understand? I got problems here—nothing with the law, but I just came off a special operation and I don’t want to be walking around. Tonight, okay?”

  “If you insist. Are you ready for immediate work?”

  “Mister, I’m ready to leave anytime—sooner the better.”

  “You understand that we can’t reveal the departure point until you’ve cleared our interview?”

  “Yeah, yeah, how long will that take?”

  “It depends on your references. But if all goes well you can expect to leave within the week.”

  “Good. I’ll see you anytime tonight. Meet me at the—”

  “I am sorry, my friend,” James said, “but you know how these things are. You come here. And you bring your passport and proof of military service with you. There are no exceptions.”

  A pause from the other end. Then, “Yeah, okay—about nine tonight?”

  “That will be satisfactory.”

  “You need my name?”

  “That won’t be necessary. As you know, we allow all our recruits to select the name of their choice upon enlistment. You understand the conditions?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I understand everything. I’ll be there around nine tonight. You’ll be there, right?”

  “As we said,” replied James, and rang off.

  I listened to the tape over and over. It had to be the Cobra. Who else would have the phone number? By the time it got listed with Ma Bell the operation would have folded its tents and vanished. You can get a new listing from the operator, but not the same day the phone’s installed—and the phone company wouldn’t have this one anyway. The Cobra wouldn’t wait, and he was too sly to just walk in. Nine o’clock, the scumbag had said. My watch said it was already past three. Now was no time to start alienating my troops.

  “Mole,” I said, “that was perfect. And Michelle, you shouldn’t have gone out like that but I believe you’ve made the whole thing work,” and I reached out to give her hand a squeeze.

  Michelle flounced over to the Mole, hands on hips. “See, smartass Mole,” she sang out, but the Mole just blinked at her, still annoyed.

  “Okay, Michelle. Pack your stuff—you’re leaving, okay? You did your job. If you see the Prof on the street tell him to go over to Mama’s and wait for a call. Mole, you go with her, take all this stuff with you. Make it like nobody was ever here.”

  Michelle and the Mole started to clean up, not speaking to each other but working well together. The Mole would snap together some electrical connections and box them up, and Michelle would be right behind him with the paper towels.

  “Mole,” I asked, “can you take out the elevators?”

  The Mole refused to dignify such a question with an answer, but Michelle piped right up. “Are you serious, Burke? The Mole could take out NASA if he wanted to.” And I caught the ghost of a smile crossing the Mole’s face, which immediately vanished when Michelle said, “And I’m not leaving either. Not until this is finished. I want that freak too, Burke. You should’ve seen the way he was—”

  The Mole had turned to Michelle and was speaking in his softest voice, the words coming slowly and evenly spaced, like from a talking machine with a heart. “Michelle, I am sorry I yelled at you. You were very, very brave to follow like you did. I was just . . . worried. You should go now. The work we have to do now, it’s bad work. Not for you.”

  And this got the Mole a quick kiss from Michelle, who picked up her makeup case, said, “You let me know” in a warning voice to me, and was out the door.

  “You’re a charmer, Mole,” I said, and it looked like he blushed, but it was hard to tell in that lousy light.

  The Mole said nothing, just busied himself with the rest of the equipment. I snapped out the final instructions, in a hurry now like never before.

  “Mole, hook up something so you can be signaled from the lobby. When you get the signal, take out the elevators. Where will you be?”

  “Basement.”

  “Okay, now listen. After the elevators go down, get ready to move out—don’t leave anything behind. You see this?” I showed him a tiny airhorn powered by a tube of compressed air. The Mole nodded. “You know the sound it makes?” He nodded again. “If you hear this go off it means we’ve got problems. So knock out as much of the electrical power in this area as you can in a minute or two and get out. Okay?”

  “Okay.” We shook hands. I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. If I was busted he’d hear about it and see the people who had to be seen for me. It was a lot to ask of the Mole—not blowing things up, that was just a day’s work—but talking to people . . .

  I got into the street fast. I had to see a lot of people before it got too dark. I left the Mole in the little room, his fat white fingers flying over the machinery.

  54

  THERE ARE SOME citizens who will tell you that all big cities are alike. Those people are born chumps. Where else but in New York could you find a Prophet sitting in the lobby of an empty office building in the early evening, poised over a shoebox and looking for all the world like an elderly black man just trying to pry a few coins loose from society. Or a warrior from ancient Tibet without the power of speech but with the strength of a dozen men standing still as a statue on the second-floor landing of that same building? And could you find a little round man with an underground complexion and a brain that understood the cosmos sitting in the basement of the same building, waiting to make electrical systems magically disappear? It was all there in place as I strolled into the Fifth Avenue lobby that night, dressed up for the role in a belted leather trenchcoat, soft suede snapbrim hat, tinted glasses, carrying a pigskin attache case and a .38, some anesthetic nose plugs, a can of mace, and a set of handcuffs.

  I caught the Prof’s eye as I entered the lobby, raised my eyebrows behind the glasses. He flipped the cover of his shoebox to show me the Cobra’s picture taped inside. The portable radio sitting next to him wasn’t playing, but the Mole would hear its song when the Prof sent him the message. The elevators had a neatly printed sign: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS, PLEASE USE STAIRS.

  I walked past the lobby entrance and climbed the stairs. Max was in position. I held up one finger, moved my lips like I was speaking, pulled my fingers away from my mouth to show words spilling out. Max nodded—we’d talk the freak out of the building if we could. He could come easy or he could come hard. But he was coming. Max would watch—if he saw the Cobra and me leaving together he’d wait a beat, then slip out so he’d be in the front seat of the Plymouth before us. If Wilson panicked when he saw me on the stairs and tried for the door he’d find it locked. If he smashed his way past that, the Prof would pull his just-released-from-Bellevue madman act on the sidewalk to give us another clear shot. So if Wilson, a.k.a. the Cobra, stepped into the lobby, he was going to be leaving with us one way or another.

  I checked the time—21:01 on the face of my genuine Military Assault Watch ($39.
95 from a mail-order house). I thought it was a nice touch. My mind wasn’t open to the possibility that the Cobra wouldn’t show. If that happened I’d have to use Michelle, track down that kid in the video joint . . . too much to think about and I had to get into character for the meet . . .

  I heard the Prof’s voice. “Shine, suh?” and no response. But that was the signal. And when I heard a muttered “Fuck!” I knew the Cobra wasn’t happy about the stairs. Some soldier of fortune—his idea of jungle warfare was probably blowing up a few African villages at long range and then moving in to mop up. But when I heard his footsteps coming up at me I knew he wasn’t a complete phony—he had the light, patterned steps of a martial arts man moving toward an objective, and his breathing sounded correct.

  When he came up to where I was waiting against the wall, I took a flash-second to decide—the gun or the game—and then there he was, right in front of me. The Cobra—a little taller than me, thin and hard-looking, his nose and earlobes both too heavily tipped, just like they were in the mug shot, the acne scars in place. Wearing a fatigue jacket so I couldn’t check for tattoos, but it was him. His hair was longish in the back but cropped close up front, and blond, like Michelle had told me. His mouth opened when he saw me and I saw the fear flash in his eyes. I spoke first—calm, level—reassuring. Just a man doing a job. “Sorry about the elevator, my friend. Mr. James insisted—security, you know. You’re the appointment for twenty-one-hundred hours, I assume?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name is Layne. I work for Falcon.”

  “You American?”

  “Sure. The limeys are just the recruiting end, pal. At our end it’s all the U.S. of A.”

  He stood facing me in a karate stance, slightly modified so it wouldn’t be too obvious—keeping both hands in sight. I didn’t like that—it didn’t mean he wasn’t packing a gun, just that he thought his hands were enough to do the job. If he decided to take me out, Max wasn’t close enough to stop him. He would never get out of the building alive, but that was no comfort. Revenge was Flood’s game—mine was survival. I kept both my gloved hands clasped on the handle of the attache case, holding it in front of me.