Andrew Vachss - Hard Candy

"And you know her?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever work as a bodyguard?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not what I do. A bodyguard does his job by getting hurt. Or dead."

His lower lip flickered. "And you're afraid of getting hurt?"

"Or dead."

The concrete chair was comfortable. I lit another cigarette. Train shifted his weight, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "Do you feel safe? Here, with me?"

"No."

"Why is that? Your… brother , you called him…seems very powerful. Is that why you brought him?"

"He's gone," I pointed out.

"That confused me. It seems that you told him to go as a gesture of faith. As I told my men to leave. We are the only ones here. Are you afraid of me?"

"Not especially."

"Then…?"

"I'm sitting in this chair. Your chair. It could be stuffed full of low-yield explosive. Wired for electricity. Sitting under a sniper's rifle…like that."

"But you don't think so."

"No. I don't think so."

"Would you feel more comfortable if we switched chairs?"

"No. It doesn't matter."

"Are you armed? You have a weapon with you?"

"No."

He leaned back in his chair. "Have you ever been arrested?"

"Yes."

"In prison?"

"Yes."

"Were you innocent?"

"Which time?"

A smile came and went so quickly I couldn't be sure I'd seen it.

"Do you mind if one of my people joins us for a minute?" he asked.

"Why?"

"She has a special skill. Something that would help our dialogue."

I shrugged.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"We have a contract."

"Ah…yes." He snapped his fingers, a brittle crack in the empty room. The door behind him opened and a woman stepped through. Long, thick dark hair gathered into a heavy braid hanging down the front of a pale violet robe. She stood next to Train, her eyes on me. Big eyes, tropic skin, a slash for a mouth. Dark polish on her nails. "This is Reba," he said.

I lit another smoke. Train rested the fingertips of one hand on the back of the woman's wrist. She was a statue.

"Have you ever taken a lie detector test?"

"Sure."

"Did you pass?"

I felt the ghost of a smile, thinking about it. "The cops never tell you."

"I will."

I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

"Reba has the gift. You know how a polygraph works, yes? Galvanic skin response, heartbeat, pulse rate?"

"Sure."

"Reba does that. With your permission…?"

"Okay."

The woman walked toward me, stepping out of the robe without moving her arms. She was naked, barefoot. I kept my eyes on Train as she crossed the room, the violet puddle of silk at his feet. She came to the right side of my chair, dropped to her knees, her breasts spilling against my forearm, pinning it to the chair. Her right hand slipped inside my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, hovered over my heart, gently came to rest. I felt two fingers of her left hand against the back of my neck. My eyes flicked to the right. The dark hair disappeared over her shoulder, smooth line of her back down to the swell of her butt, the soles of her feet were calloused, deeply arched.

"You know how it works," he said. "Just answer yes or no."

I dragged on my cigarette, flicking the ashes with my left hand.

"Have you ever been in prison?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever killed anybody?"

I just looked at him, no expression on my face. He went on as if I'd answered.

"Have you ever broken the law?"

"Yes."

"Are you a professional assassin?"

"No."

"Do you pay taxes?"

"Yes."

"Did Elvira's mother hire you?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever hear my name before you spoke to her?"

"No."

"Do you mean me any harm?"

"No."

"Have you ever met Elvira?"

"No."

"Are you working for anyone now besides the woman who says she is Elvira's mother?"

"No."

I tossed my cigarette into the metal bowl. I let my eyes follow the arc of the smoke, swept them back across Train's face, let the sweep carry me to the right. A clear droplet of sweat ran down Reba's spine. Her head came up, lips against my ear. "You told the truth," she whispered. Her hand came away from my heart, brushed smoothly across my crotch as she rose to her feet. She walked over to Train, her back gleaming with sweat. His eyes shifted up to her face as she passed. She went through the door without picking up her robe.

Train's hand went back to his temples. "What do you think of my security here?"

"What security?"

"I don't understand."

"Security against break-ins? Telephone taps? Firebombing? What?"

"Oh, I see. I mean my personal security…say, if somebody wanted to injure me."

"Seems easy enough to me."

"How so?"

"I walked in here with my brother. We wanted to do it, you were a dead man once you came in the room."

He dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. "Forget that. What if you wanted to kill me without getting into the house."

"You ever leave the house?"

"Sometimes."

"That'd be the time."

"How?"

"There's too many ways to even talk about. Shooting, stomping, stabbing…"

"What if I had bodyguards. True bodyguards."

"Bullet-catchers?"

"If you like."

"So somebody pops you from a rooftop. Or blows up a car with everybody in it."

"If I stayed in this house?"

"Set fire to it, you'd come out quick enough."

Train rotated his head on the column of his neck, working out the kinks from sitting so stiffly. A glaze over his eyes. Maybe it was the rainbow. Finally, he nodded. "Do you know what we do here?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you care?"

"No."

"When we were talking before…about assassinations? You seem to be saying that if someone wants to kill you, there's nothing you can do about it…no way you can protect yourself. Is that right?"

"No."

"What can you do, then?"

"Hit them first."

He bowed his head over clasped hands. Like he was praying.

Looked up. "You are a man of your word. I will honor our contract. Come back tomorrow. Anytime after seven o clock in the evening. The girl you call Elvira will be ready to leave with you then."

He snapped his fingers again. The door behind him opened. One of the guards came out. I got to my feet. Bowed to Train and walked to the door I'd come in, the guard at my heels.

The street was dark as I stepped outside. I didn't look back.

I found the Plymouth, started the engine, waited.

The door opened. Max slipped inside. Shook his head. I hadn't been followed.

BACK AT the restaurant, I explained what had gone down to Max. His face didn't change, but I could feel the sadness. Wishing Train had refused me the girl. I made the sign of a rifleman on the roof, watching Train through a sniperscope. Max pointed his finger at me, questioning. I shook my head. I left the symbol of the rifleman in place with my left hand, walked the fingers of my right hand up behind it. Knife-edged the right hand, chopped at the symbol, flattened my left hand. Max pointed at me again. Did Train want us to do the job? No.

I didn't know what he wanted. We'd pick up the girl tomorrow and it would be over.

I FOUND THE PROF working the Living Room- what the army of homeless humans who live in the tunnels and work the corridors call the arena-sized waiting room at Grand Central. He was propped against the wall by the gourmet bakery, a thick blanket beneath his legs, single wooden crutch standing next to him, a paper plate half full of coins in front of him. I bought him a large cardboard cup of black coffee. Hunkered down next to him, back to the wall. Street people stopped by the Prof's station, talking their talk, dealing their deals. Cops strolled past, eyes working from the ground up. Drugs moved in and out faster than the trains. It felt like being back on the yard in prison.