Andrew Vachss - Hard Candy

"We both know it wasn't. So you got a sniper in your stable too."

"He was a loaner. From a friend. I can't use him again."

"Okay. They won't dime you for the Sutton Place thing. It won't fly."

"How d'you know?"

"I dress in a nice suit, nice trench coat. Eight-hundred-dollar brief-case, Rolex, diamond ring. I'm a lawyer, right? I tell the doorman I got a package for Mrs. Swanson in 21A. From Mr. Torenelli. He makes the call, I go up. No problem. Maid's day off. I know. Ring the bell, she answers it herself. Starts right in on me. 'I told my father I didn't want to have anything to do with his…' I cut her off, tell her I just got a couple of papers in my briefcase for her to sign and I'm out of there. She treats me like a servant, turns her back on me. I close the door behind her, follow her to the living room. Open the briefcase. She's still yakking at me when I hook her in the stomach with a set of brass knuckles. She's out- can't get a breath. Anesthetic nose plugs and she goes right to sleep. I take off my clothes, lay them in the briefcase. Talcum powder on my hands, surgeon's gloves. Carry her to the bedroom. Piano wire until she's spread out. I find a chopping block and a set of those Ginsu knives in the kitchen. All those rich assholes have fancy kitchens. I put the block under her neck, pull her hair back, and take the head off. Half a dozen shots is all it took. Blood spurts out all over the back wall. I stick the head into her cunt, facing out. Say hello to her husband when he comes home. I write the number two on the wall in her blood. That's the polygraph key the cops'll use when freaks start confessing. I take a shower. Pop open the drain. Pour three bottles of that Liquid Plumber stuff down, leave the hot-water tap on. I get dressed, put everything back in the briefcase. I go downstairs, tell the doorman the package is too big to lug through the lobby. Mrs. Swanson wants it through she service entrance. Wants him to handle it personally , right? Slip him a pair of twenties. I'll drive around into the back alley with the box, he'll meet me there, take it up to her. I drive out back. He opens the door. I put three rounds into him. Pop, pop, pop. Drive away. The papers don't have that body either. But the cops, they know they ain't looking for a maniac. They ain't looking for an amateur like you either. They know."

His voice wasn't chilly, just flat. Not quite bored.

"Why?" I asked.

"I was going to spook them. Kill a few the same way. Make 'em think a freak was after their women. Get them all together in one place to figure out what to do. And blow the place up. But this is quicker."

"They got your message."

He wasn't listening. "I was going to beat off onto the body but with that DNA fingerprinting they use now…"

"Cut it out, Wesley. You don't give a fuck about blood types, or fingerprints either. They drop you for this, you're not going to jail…You just couldn't do it."

"Couldn't do what?"

"Beat off on a dead body. I came up with you, remember? I know what you do for a living, but you're still a man."

"I'm a bomb," the monster said. "I'm tired of this place. When I check out, you'll hear the sound."

My body was rigid with the strain. He wasn't going to pull the trigger. I stepped away from him, carefully.

"Yeah, go ahead," he said. "I was going to waste you, I'd take the Chinaman first. Always take the hard man first. That's the rules."

"Look…"

"You're not a hard man, Burke. Maybe you was once, but you let things get in the way. There's a way out of this. For you, not for me. I don't care. I'm tired. I got to do Train first. I took the money. And the don. Then I'm gone."

"What's my way out? What d'you want from me?"

"You're the link. Like I knew you'd be, remember I told you? I need a cop."

"What?"

"A big cop. High-ranker. The don's gone to ground. I'll never find him. The cops and the mob, they're all in the same bed. You find out where he's at, I'll do the rest."

"I don't know any top cops."

"You know how to do things. Talk to people, work around. I can't do that. Nobody knows my face, but they can feel me coming."

Survivors can, I thought.

"They'll want to set up a meet, tell me I'm getting my money", he said. "I want my money, right? It's going to take a little bit of time. Use it. When I finish my work, everybody's happy…the cops'll have their bodies and you'll be off the hook."

"You can't hit them all. They'll always come for you."

"No. I'm going to kill their seeds. And then I'm going where they can't come after me."

"The Program? You can't…"

His voice didn't change. You can't insult a monster. "The Witness Protection Program? I already hit two guys that was in the Program. I told you, I'm tired. Don't worry about it."

"Same deal- I call you?"

"Yeah." He looked over at Max. "You think he's close enough to take me out, don't you?"

"He is."

"No he's not," said the monster, as he stepped away from me into the dark.

THE MEAT MARKET is a triangular slab hacked out of the West Village with the wide end opening onto the West Side Highway. Before they opened a bigger version in Hunts Point, all the city's butcher shops got their supplies down there. Every morning, way before the traffic stream thickens with citizens bound for City Hall and Wall Street, the streets are clogged with refrigerated trucks. By noon it's pretty quiet. In the evening, some of the city's best steak houses do a booming business. Yuppies can walk there from their million-dollar lofts. When they close, the meat market is home to the army of kids who spend the night selling the one thing they have left. To buy drugs to make them forget what that is.

The shelter is a clapboard shack the kids built out of abandoned packing crates. Scraps of carpeting on the floor, discarded mattresses, sometimes an old broken chair. The street kids drift out of Times Square like vampires being chased by daylight. They made this place for themselves. The cops leave them alone as long as they're back on the street by the time the truckers are gone. Nobody turns tricks in daylight down here. I found more than one runaway there over the years, especially when the winterhawk drops down.

Waiting for Morehouse. An abandoned window fan sat upright in the street, plugged into nothing, its blades rasping as it turned in the night wind.

The reporter's battered Datsun rolled around the corner. Spotted my Plymouth, pulled in behind. We got out to meet him. A dark-skinned man about my height, wearing a khaki jacket over a bulky sweatshirt, unpolished combat boots under a pair of chinos. Subway outfit. He'd been around for a while, but his face was unlined, hair cut close. Morehouse has an athlete's build, rangy. Next to Max, he looked like a stick. He held out his hand, smile flashing. The Island way. He ignored Max- the meeting was with me. The City way.

"This is all on the record, right?" he said. His idea of a joke.

"The Sutton Place killing…you cover it?"

"I write a column, man. I can't cover every breaking story."

"That means no?"

"That means I know the facts, but there's no column in it."

"How about this for a lead? Mafia don's estranged daughter snuffed. The number two written in blood on the wall. Head chopped off the body and stuck between her legs. Building doorman found dead. Cops cover up mob connection."

He blew a sharp breath through his teeth. "This is on the street?"

"Not yet."

"So you spoke to the cops. Or the killer."

"I don't just know how it went down, I know why . Want to trade?"

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Torenelli. He's holed up. And he's working with the cops. One of them knows where he is. Probably brass."