Flood

by Andrew Vachss

  Thinking about it wasn’t something I wanted to do right then.

  59

  FRIDAY WAS A muggy, dirty morning on the Hudson River docks. A Jersey smog-fog was rolling in. It was break-time for the working whores—the truck-driver traffic finished for the morning, the first citizen-commuters not yet on the scene. Peddlers were setting up their stands on the hoods of their parked cars, free of the wolf-packs who were gone now—back to their dens, the roving bands dispersed with the coming of daylight.

  The Plymouth was parked near the pier next to a standing pay phone. I was listening to Judy Henske on the tape, trying not to think about tomorrow. Flood was lying with her head in my lap. Pansy slept in the back, unconcerned.

  I looked down at Flood’s lovely resting face. She was living well within herself now, at peace finally—another fucking club I couldn’t join.

  The phone rang, I reached out the window to pick it up, and heard the Mole say, “Moving. Now,” and I knew it would take the mark only a few minutes to get on the scene.

  Soon after, the black Lincoln Town Coupe pulled up and I saw the weak sunlight glance off the sheen of nylon and the flash of a red scarf as Margot exited Dandy’s pimpmobile. Time to go to work.

  Flood knew her part. She bounced out of the Plymouth wearing some new white vinyl boots over dark stockings topped by a pair of white hotpants and a brilliant orange silk top. Her blonde hair was in pigtails on each side of her clean fresh face, a face marred by the Cobra’s fangs only a short time ago. She switched over to the highway, to all eyes a piece of juicy young stuff who had just gotten a lesson from her pimp and was now working off the debt.

  Her big butt looked even more so in the white pants, and her skin looked too small for all the flesh underneath. Heels clicking on the pavement, her body swayed and bounced like it was moving slower than her feet. She reached into her little plastic clutch-bag and pulled out a big pair of dark glasses.

  The timing had to be right—we had been watching Dandy and we knew he didn’t hang around long after he dumped Margot off every morning. But Flood was right on the money—her path crossed Margot’s and she walked just in front of the Lincoln’s hood like she was going back to work. I watched Margot keep on walking and disappear into the shadows—and Flood stop and whirl around, hands on hips. When the Lincoln crept slowly forward, I knew Dandy had taken the bait. It’s not every day a quart of vanilla ice cream falls into your lap. I couldn’t see much from where I was, but the Lincoln was standing in place, smoke still burbling from its exhaust.

  Then Flood swivel-hipped her way around the front of the black car and climbed into the passenger’s seat. The Lincoln slithered away and the game was on.

  I didn’t have much time. Flood would keep him talking for a bit, maybe ask him to buy her some coffee, but sooner or later Dandy would try to make her end up in his crib. I fingered the key to his lobby and the key to his apartment that I’d gotten from the Mole. Margot had supplied us with the plastic impressions from the kit I’d given her, so I was sure they’d work.

  As the Plymouth pulled away Pansy momentarily stuck her head up, saw there was no work to do, and rolled over on the backseat. I only had to get to the West Twenties, a short run. The Plymouth swung into a lazy U-turn, split the shadows over the highway and picked up speed. I reached over and rolled down the passenger-side window. As I slowed for the turn onto the uptown road, a canvas bag came flying through the window, immediately followed by a moving shadow. Max. The fucking showoff—there was plenty of time for me to have stopped the car.

  Pansy sat up, sniffed the air briefly, growled. Max put his hand into the backseat. Pansy sniffed again, licked his hand, and went back to sleep.

  Dandy’s block—quiet and peaceful. I drove its full length until I saw the white Dodge parked where it should be, Michelle at the wheel. She spotted the Plymouth, kicked over her engine, and pulled out, leaving me an ideal escape space. I reversed into the spot, hit the protection systems, and we all climbed out. Pansy bounded out to me and I snapped on the short leash, handing it to Max. The Prof was working the front, picking through a week’s worth of trash in a curbside dumpster. When he saw Max and Pansy move toward the back where the Mole would be waiting to let them into the basement, he shouldered his collection bag and followed.

  I opened the front door, saw a couple talking in the lobby, and lit a cigarette to wait them out. Finally I walked in, pushed Dandy’s buzzer, and used my lobby-key without waiting for a response. I knew where he lived—second floor, rear. The Mole’s key opened the lock.

  I went through the place quickly. A small bedroom used as a giant closet for all Dandy’s threads, a larger bedroom with a round bed, built-in stereo, giant-screen Sony complete with Betamax. Huge collection of records and tapes. On the dresser, a vial of cocaine, a gold coke spoon with a diamond chip in the handle, half a dozen Krugerrands. Inside top drawer, a pearl-handled .32-caliber Colt Astra. The bottom of the closet revealed a bunch of shoeboxes full of Polaroid pictures. Some of Margot, some of women I didn’t recognize. Three pairs of leather handcuffs. A thick leather belt with holes punched all through it, no buckle.

  No more time to search. I pocketed the Krugerrands and picked up Dandy’s green Princess phone. No dial tone. “Mole?” “Here.” “Let’s go,” I said, and hung up.

  The door opened and Max walked in, holding Pansy’s leash. The Prof was with him. “Time’s short,” I said, and everybody went to work: Max opened his bag, started pulling out his gear. I took the phosphorescent paint and the thick brush, called Pansy over to me, and generously lathered her fangs with the stuff—I opened the container of pork fried rice I’d brought with me and left it on the floor so she wouldn’t notice the taste of the phosphorus. In the dim light of the apartment her teeth took on an unearthly, menacing glow. Pansy seemed to relish the thought, letting loose a few experimental growls that rumbled against the plaster walls until I told her to shut up and go lie down behind the plush purple velvet couch.

  Max was exchanging his faded jeans and sweatshirt for a set of green silk robes. He checked himself in the full-length mirror in the second bedroom, nodded in satisfaction, and then took a hideously carved teak mask from his bag. The mask was hinged on each side of the jaw, an ugly thing with slits for eyes and a slash where the nose would fit—the eyes tipped with dark green paint and the rest just a shiny, smooth surface of dark wood. As Max fitted the mask to his face his ancestors smiled in approval from somewhere in the mountains of Tibet.

  The Prof pulled off his ragpicker’s clothes. Underneath was a pristine white linen suit, the kind plantation owners used to favor years ago. He looked dazzling.

  We worked together in silence, even Pansy. I got out the leather belt from Dandy’s drawer, showed it to Max. He took one end in each hand and gave it an experimental tug, nodded behind his mask to show me it would be okay, no problem.

  I set up my instruments on the kitchen table. It wasn’t really clean enough for an operating room, but then again, I wasn’t going to be working on a human being. The syringe was full of liquid Valium, the fresh new hypodermic spike still in its plastic case. I screwed them together, squirted a bit of the Valium to make sure it was working. Next I checked the anesthetic nose plugs—and the gym sock full of fresh aquarium sand just in case we wanted to do the job quickly. The bedroom window opened easily onto an alley in the back of the apartment, just like Margot had told us. Finally I checked the three smoke canisters the Mole had left behind in the apartment, spaced equally around the bedroom. I worked rapidly in the thin rubber surgeon’s gloves—fingerprints weren’t going to be an issue in this case.

  The phone rang once. Stopped. Rang again. They were on their way up. Pansy stayed where she was in response to my hand signal, the rest of us deployed like we had rehearsed.

  A key turned in the lock, and Flood came walking through the door, Dandy right behind. A tall thin dude sporting a short afro, early to mid-forties. He was clean-shaven with a mouth full of good te
eth. Flood strolled over to the purple couch and perched on the edge of the cushion. Pansy smelled Flood on the other side and gave out the tiniest of growls, inaudible unless you were listening for it. Flood stayed on the couch while Dandy paced the floor, rapping his rap. “Baby, if you choose in New York you choose for good. That’s the way it is. You working those tricks by yourself, you was bound to get yourself hurt. You need a man. That’s the Life, that’s the trade, that’s the deal. Only way to deal is to be for real.”

  “You said you had some dynamite blow,” Flood piped up.

  “Baby, I got the best coke, the best of everything. I don’t be like some of those halfass simps. I’m a player, you understand? I don’t work a string, got no bottom woman. In fact, I been thinking about letting my woman go for some time now. Saved enough money for her to open her own boutique.”

  “Really?” said Flood in a voice full of wonder, her dreams coming true.

  “Square business, girl. I ain’t lying. Of course, she was willing to run the fast track, do what she had to do. There’s got to be some pain in the game, little girl, some pain in the game. You got to pay the cost to be the boss, you understand?”

  “I don’t like pain,” said Flood in her little girl’s voice. “I like to party but I don’t like that other stuff.”

  “Bitch,” said Dandy, walking over to Flood, “you don’t know what pain is.”

  “Hey,” gulped Flood in a soft frightened voice. She jumped off the couch and ran into Dandy’s bedroom, the pimp strolling calmly behind—taking his time, all the time in the world. After all, where could the little bitch go?

  Flood dashed into the bedroom, saw there was no escape, and whirled like a doe at bay before the hunters. Dandy was right behind her, reaching out a languid hand for her arm—when Flood’s white-booted foot slammed into his solar plexus like a dart of lightning. As the air exploded from Dandy’s lungs Max leaped from behind the door and had the pimp’s throat in his hands before he hit the ground—a quick squeeze of his hands and Dandy went limp.

  I came out from under the round bed, holding the needle at the ready. Max ripped the pimp’s jacket from his shoulders, tore away his shirt, snapped off the gold chain with the heavy medallion and tossed it to me. Max’s steel fingers closed on Dandy’s flaccid bicep, causing the veins in his forearm to stand out in bold relief. I tapped a nice one near the inside of the elbow, slipped in the needle and gently fed him the liquid Valium. Then we all stepped back to check on our work. Dandy slumped to the floor, his breathing shallow but regular. He was in no danger—from the Valium.

  We propped him up in a chair in the corner of his bedroom, moved the smoke canisters into place, and summoned Pansy. It would take about twenty minutes for the Valium to begin to wear off. We only wanted him dopey for the second act, not unconscious.

  Flood went into the other bedroom to change her clothes while I searched the rest of the apartment. If Dandy was working the bondage-photo racket he had to have some money someplace, and it wouldn’t be a safe-deposit box.

  It took me almost a full twenty minutes, and all I could come up with was about a thousand or so in bills, some more coke (which I scattered all over the place to throw the dogs off the scent), and some more jewelry. I tried thinking—the Krugerrands kept popping into my mind. Sure. I went over to Dandy’s limp body and started the search. It didn’t take long—the thick moneybelt came off his waist without a struggle, and I found myself looking at forty perfect pieces of South African gold, each one individually wrapped. More than fifteen grand, even with the exchange problems. I put back the empty belt. If pimps were getting into gold coins, I could see the makings of a lovely scam somewhere down the road . . . but Dandy was ready for business.

  When I saw he was coming around I snapped the tops off the smoke canisters and stepped out of the way. It wouldn’t do for him to see my face. I took up my position behind him and watched the thick greenish smoke fill the room. I had left the windows tightly closed, so none of it would get out until we were ready. Dandy moved his head, grunted something I couldn’t make out, and then his neck went rigid as he saw Max the Silent standing in front of him, wearing the teak mask and holding the broad leather belt. Dandy lurched to his left, looking for a way out. Pansy snarled, her fangs glowing in the green haze, and lunged at his waist. Dandy fell back into his chair—obviously none of this nightmare was adding up. To his left was an unknown horror in a warrior’s mask, to his right was death in a beast’s body. And through the middle came the Prof, clad in his white linen suit. Standing between the mad dog and the masked man, with the green smoke billowing—the Prophet’s finest hour. And then he spoke:

  “You have offended God. You were warned and you ignored the warning. You trade in the Devil’s work. In pain. It shall be no more.” Max then stepped forward, holding the leather belt before Dandy’s glazed eyes. Max took one end of the thick belt in each hand and pulled it apart like it was wet Kleenex, tossed the two ends contemptuously to the floor, and stepped back, his hands disappearing beneath his robes.

  And the Prophet now said, “Your life in filth is finished. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, garbage to garbage. I have spoken.”

  Max advanced slowly on Dandy—Pansy could barely restrain herself from burying her fangs in his flesh. The pimp didn’t resist when I stuck the nose plugs into the sockets. Two more gasping breaths and he was out again.

  Max pulled off his mask and the green robes, the Prof donned his ragpicker’s outfit over the white linen suit, Flood packed everything away, including her whore-clothes. The smoke canisters were almost empty, warm to the touch—all went into the big suitcase. One last quick spin around the place to check everything, Pansy lumbering after me, growling her frustration. I’d have to take her down to the training compound and give her an agitator or two to play with.

  All done. From the back pocket of his jeans Max pulled a green plastic garbage bag, the super-giant size. He snapped it open, gave one end to Flood and the other to me. We held it open and Max picked up Dandy like a load of rags and dropped him inside. I pulled the nose plugs out of Dandy’s face and we twisted the top closed, using three of the wire tags. The pimp would be out another minute or two—long enough.

  I pushed the heavy curtains aside to check the back alley. It was still empty. Flood and I stood on either side of the window and shoved it open, then watched as Max tossed out the garbage bag. It sailed through the air, then hit with a dull thud. Green smoke started to billow out of the window and we slammed it shut.

  I phoned the Mole that it was time to go. Max and the Prof went to the basement—the Mole had his own car parked nearby and he would take care of dropping them off. We walked to the Plymouth, me now wearing a different hat and Flood looking like a different woman in her pleated slacks and wool jacket.

  Pansy went back to sleep, half on the floor and half on the seat. Flood held my hand in both of hers, and we drove back to my office.

  60

  WE WERE IN Flood’s studio, she was packing. There had been nothing in the morning papers or on the radio about yesterday’s action, but the afternoon edition of the Post had the coverage. Flood perched on the arm of the chair as I read aloud:

  PIMP SAYS HE SAW GOD IN PLASTIC GARBAGE BAG

  A man with a history of convictions for pimping was discovered early this morning unconscious, injured, and wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag, police said.

  The man, whom police identified as James Tyrone Simmons, 41, was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he reportedly told doctors a bizarre story of how God and several fiery devils appeared to him inside the bag. He could not explain, however, what he was doing there.

  Simmons was listed in good condition, suffering from a broken ankle and wrist and multiple contusions. He was being held for observation, according to a hospital spokesman.

  “Except for some broken bones, he’s fine physically,” said Dr. Ito Kumatso, the hospital’s chief psychiatric resident. “But the story he told us is somethi
ng else.

  “He talked about having a vision from God. He said God told him to change his ways, and then sent down monsters and wolves with fiery fangs. There was also something about green smoke.

  “It sounds like a TV horror movie, but his terror seems genuine enough,” Dr. Kumatso said, adding that Simmons will remain in the hospital under observation for at least several days.

  Simmons’s only request, Dr. Kumatso said, has been for a Bible.

  Sergeant William Moody of the 10th precinct said that it was unclear whether Simmons had been assaulted. If there was an assault, Moody said, robbery was not the motive.

  “There was money in his wallet and he was wearing jewelry when we got to him,” Moody said.

  Simmons was discovered by neighbors in an alley behind his apartment at 704 West 26th Street.

  “I hope they find him a psychiatrist who talks English,” I said to Flood.

  “What are you talking about, Burke? If the doctor doesn’t speak English how could he work with patients—?”

  “Flood, this is New York City, not Disneyland. Half of the shrinks they use in the city hospitals are from out of country. They can’t get a license to practice over here so they either work in some Medicaid mill or work for the city. I was investigating a case once for this Puerto Rican family. Their kid was bopping down the street listening to his new portable radio. You know, the giant-sized jobs the kids carry today? Anyway, a couple of punks tried to rough off the kid’s radio and one of them got himself stabbed. So they had this kid in detention and we’re working on a self-defense case. Meanwhile, they send the kid to see this Pakistani psychiatrist—to interview him and make his report to the court. When I come into the court there’s this doctor up on the stand telling the judge that the kid is sexually disturbed. He says that the kid has a fantasy that he has a woman’s vagina on his shoulder—and that his reality-testing is so bad that he keeps insisting on it. So the judge asks the psychiatrist how he came to that conclusion, and the Pakistani tells the judge that the kid keeps saying, “I was bopping down the block with the box on my shoulder . . .” and he goes on in that upperclass Paki accent of his: