Blossom b-5

by Andrew Vachss

  "What?"

  "Mr. Morton."

  "Who wants him?"

  "Burke. I got an appointment."

  He must have been told in front. In one-syllable words. I stepped back as he shoved the iron gate open, stepped past him as he stood aside.

  "Upstairs."

  I heard him behind me on the steel steps, breathing hard by the second flight. Bodybuilder.

  "In here."

  Bars on the windows, gray steel office desk, stacks of army-green file cabinets against the wall. The man behind the desk was younger than I expected. Deep tan, expensive haircut, heavy on the gel. Diamond on one finger, wafer-faced watch on his wrist. Manicure, clear nail polish. White silk shirt, tie pulled down. Suit jacket on a hanger, dangling from a hook on the wall.

  "Mr. Morton?"

  "Yeah."

  "My name is Burke. We have an appointment."

  "You got what you're supposed to have?"

  "Yes."

  He looked sideways at the bodybuilder. "You pat him down?"

  "No, boss. I thought you…"

  Morton glanced across at me, tapping his fingers. "Never mind," he told the bodybuilder in a disgusted voice. To me: "Put it on the table." Hard edge in his voice, looking me right in the eyes. Tough guy, projecting his image.

  I had his image: lunch meat, on white bread. I reached in my pocket, laid the thick envelope on the desk.

  "You got this straight from him? You look inside?"

  "Yeah."

  "How come? You don't trust the senator?"

  "I didn't want to come up short. It wouldn't be respectful."

  He nodded. "You know how much this costs?"

  "I know what he told me. Twenty-five K."

  "That's what's in there?" Gesturing at the envelope.

  "In hundreds. Used, no consecutives."

  "Okay." He took a nine-by-twelve manila envelope from the desk drawer. "You want to look?"

  "No."

  His head tilted up. "No?"

  "I agreed to bring you an envelope, bring him an envelope."

  "What if this one's empty?"

  "It wouldn't be."

  "Or else what?"

  "You have to ask the man. It's not my business."

  He lit a cigarette. "I know you. I know your name. I wouldn't want you to come back if the man was unhappy."

  "Sure."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means, you know my name, you know I'm not a chump. Like the senator, right? Don't jerk my chain. The pictures are in there. And the negatives. Not because you're worried about me coming back."

  "Then why?"

  "Only a fucking sucker buys pictures. We both know that. You got more. Or copies of the negatives. Maybe you'll never do anything with them, maybe you will. But it won't be soon."

  "That sounds like a threat."

  I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth-breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef— couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight-by-tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine-grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf-length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side-shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light-colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"

  White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty-five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"

  His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.

  "Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room— maybe he wasn't so stupid.

  The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"

  "Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty-two, twenty-three by now. She came to you, right?"

  He nodded.

  "Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"

  "Sixteen."

  "Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty-five, that's good-faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up-front payment, he sends you the rest."

  He nodded again.

  "I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"

  "Half."

  "How'd she do it? You first?"

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"

  "Sure."

  "She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."

  "She didn't threaten you?"

  "No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."

  This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"

  "Yeah."

  "So you're not going to be stupid."

  "No. Not twice."

  "I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"

  "You won't tell him?"

  "Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."

  An oil-slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.

  I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.

  "Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"

  "This is the toll," I said.

  14

  SOME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.

  I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags— the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.

  The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out of a bottle of Night Train.

  I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty-five grand under the front seat.

  Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.

  A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot-high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.

  "Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.

  We always know each other, those of us miss
ing some parts.

  I got out at Seventy-seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co-op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.

  "We're alone," he said. Like I cared.

  His study was just what you'd expect if you read a lot of magazines that never leave the coffee table.

  He gestured to a leather chair, took one himself. I lit a smoke. He frowned. "My wife doesn't like smoking…I'm afraid there's no ashtrays anywhere in the house."

  I took out a metal Sucrets box, popped it open, tapped my cigarette into it. Handed him the envelope.

  "Did you look inside?"

  "No."

  He was a tall, thick-bodied man, graying hair carefully coiffed to hide a receding hairline. Light brown eyes held mine. His famous "anti-corruption stare" the TV cameras liked so much. On me, it was as useful as an appendix. He dropped his eyes, opened the envelope, held the pictures so I couldn't see them. Leafed through them, one by one. I watched his face. Melissa's rightful prey: he'd never want a woman grown enough to judge him.

  He put the pictures away. Five to one he wouldn't burn them. "You do good work, Mr. Burke."

  "That's what I'm paid for," I reminded him.

  "Oh. Yes." He handed me a #10 business envelope. Heavy, cream-colored stock. "You want to count it?"

  "I trust you, Senator," I assured him.

  He stroked his chin in a gesture so practiced it had become habit. "I never did anything like this before." Meaning deal with thugs like me, not fuck underage girls. "It seems to have worked out well. Perhaps I'll have something for you to do in the future."

  "Anytime."

  "You came highly recommended. I didn't want to deal with…you know…"

  I knew.

  "I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…" Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.

  I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.

  15

  THE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush-faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper-scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind-the-back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.

  Another leaflet-dealer at the next corner. Look down or look hard. I grabbed his eyes as I closed in, my hands clenched into fists. "Don't look so angry, chief. I saved one for you," he sang out. Fuck it, I took one. Jews for Jesus.

  A derelict combed his hair, holding a rearview mirror from a car in one hand, adjusting his look. Fancy running shoes on his feet— you can always pick up a pair in the homeless shelters. The yuppies donate their old models every time a new style comes out. Tax-deductible relevance.

  A blissed-out dude with long hair and Star Trek eyes sat on a blanket, jet-lagged from time travel. A hand-lettered sign propped up next to him: Wind Chimes. Empty pint bottles of wine all around him. A woman stopped in front of him. Asked, "Where are the wind chimes?" He held up one of the bottles, admiring the play of sunlight on the glass. Tapped it gently with a tiny hammer. The bottle cracked, tinkled as the glass fell onto the blanket. His smile was pharmacological.

  Something white under my windshield wiper. As I came closer, I saw it was a business card. A tiny black&white photo of a woman in bra and garter belt, red lipsticked imprint. Dial 555-PAIN slashed across the top. I read the small print. Press (I) Submissive Sarah; (2) Two beautiful bisexual girls; (3) Adventures of Lady Whiplust. Smaller print: $1.50 first minute, $0.50 for each additional minute.

  16

  NOTHING ON the all-news station. Pushed the buttons. Found some sports-talk program. So sad to listen to callers desperate to stay on the line, prolong the contact. Mike, I've got a couple of quick questions, and then a comment, okay?" Not all Dumpster-divers are homeless— the city's a giant cellblock, stuffed with humans who never see each other. As lonely as masturbation.

  You make your bed, you have to sleep in it. Some people smoke in theirs.

  I opened the newspaper. In the Personals: hand-drawn picture of a little girl, pretty bow in her hair, licking a lollypop. A child's rounded scrawl: "Call me, please." It was signed Bridgette. The phone number said: $3.50 a call, max. Adults Only.

  Virgil had called at the right time. New York was always hard, but now it was ugly.

  Full of checks that bounced and women who didn't.

  A good time to go.

  17

  BUT FIRST, I had to see my lawyer. Davidson was in the conference room, surrounded by a mountain of books, arguing with two other guys. One was about my age, the other a rookie.

  "But the law clearly says…" the young guy was saying.

  "Says to who?" Davidson challenged him. "You think the jury's going to be a bunch of smartass law students?"

  "But your defense…it admits guilt."

  The older guy smiled. "He is guilty, Denny. But the State has the burden of proof. The cases all hold…"

  Davidson cut him off. "This isn't a bar exam, kid. Vega shot Suarez. Four fucking times, okay?"

  "But if you put him on the stand…"

  "Yeah, yeah. The DA will bring out that this isn't the first time Vega used a gun on somebody. But my man gets to tell his story."

  "Some story."

  "Hey! The dead guy, Suarez, he gets into an argument with our guy Vega in the club. Vega slaps him. Suarez walks out. He tells every hombre in the place that he's going home, get his shit, and make a comeback. All right? Couple of hours later, the door opens. Suarez rolls in, puts his hand in his pocket. Our guy shoots first. Self-fucking-defense."

  "Suarez didn't have a gun. All he had in his pocket was a knife."

  Davidson shrugged. "You threaten a man in a South Bronx social club, you come back inside and reach for your pocket, you're supposed to get shot. That's the law, kid."

  I shook hands with Davidson. Lit a cigarette. It didn't make a dent in the fumes from Davidson's bratwurst-sized cigar. He introduced me around. As Mitchell Sloane, a lawyer he was working with on a Jersey case. With Davidson, confidentiality goes a long way.

  He didn't ask the other two guys to leave. Even though his partner knew the score, we talked obliquely. Habit. I asked him if he ever got paid on the last matter we covered and he nodded. Meaning: my credit was good if I got popped again.

  The kid stepped out. Came back with another guy. I knew him from the courts. Drug lawyer. Good-looking boy, nice rap. Took his cash in paper bags, put some of it back into his wardrobe. Ruby ring, diamonds around the bezel of his watch. Very stylish.

  The new guy ignored me. "You going to handle the Simpson trial?" he asked Davidson in a flea-market voice.

  "Yep."

  "I got a piece coming."

  "How so?"

  "Goldstein referred it to you, right?"

  Davidson shrugged.

  "Simpson came to me too. Same day as Goldstein. I guess he didn't like the fee— so he went shopping."

  Davidson raised his eyebrows.

  "I quoted him seventy-five. Too rich for his blood— he went for the lower-priced spread— that's how Goldstein got called."

  "So you figure…he doesn't go to Goldstein, I don't get the case?"

  "That's about it." The guy smiled, looking over at me, including me in his slice-of-the-pie bullshit. One lawyer to another.

  "How much you figure it's worth?" Davidson asked him.

  "Well, Goldstein gloms a third, right? I figure I should…How much is he paying you
anyway?"

  Davidson puffed on his cigar. "A buck and a quarter."

  The guy's face went white. "A hundred and twenty-five fucking thousand dollars?"

  "Yep."

  "Why?"

  "That's what I charged him."

  The guy sat down, wondering what went wrong with the world. His ruby ring dimmed.

  Davidson ignored him, turned to me. We have something to discuss? Some new matter?"

  "No rush," I told him. "I got plenty of time."

  We smoked in silence for a minute.

  The other guy made a face. "You ought to start working out," he said to Davidson. "Give up those weeds."

  "I can kick your ass on the basketball court," Davidson sneered at him.

  "Please! You got to be fifty pounds overweight."

  "A little bulk's good for you." Davidson truly believes that. His son is two years old— kid looks like a sumo wrestler.

  The drug lawyer shot his cuffs, looked at his watch. Total self-absorption was the one commitment he never failed to keep. "I was thinking…maybe being married isn't such a bad thing. Ever since I got divorced…this AIDS thing…really puts a damper on your social life. You ever read the Personal ads…like in the Voice?"

  "No," Davidson said.

  "I read them all the time," I told him.

  "Yeah? You think it's a good idea?"

  "What?"

  "Putting an ad in…maybe meet something really good?"

  I shrugged.

  "You ever met anybody you wanted to meet that way?"

  "Sure," I said.

  Davidson smiled. He knows what I do.

  The guy rubbed his chin. "The wording…that's tricky. I mean, you don't want to say too much, but…"

  "I got the ad for you," I told him.

  He looked up, waiting.

  "Got a pencil?"

  He whipped out a fat Montblanc pen, like doctors use to write prescriptions.

  "Take this down: Woman wanted. Disease-free. Self-lubricating. Short attention span."