Andrew Vachss - Hard Candy

Max hooked two fingers under the desk. It came off the Astroturf I use for carpet like it was floating.

I shook my head. It wasn't a weight someone could lift for me.

He spread his hands. "What?"

I drew an hourglass figure in the air. Made my right forefinger rigid, poked it into an opening I made in my left fist. Again and again. Okay?

He nodded, watching.

I pointed at my chest. At my heart. Stiffened the forefinger. Approached the opening in my fist. The forefinger went limp. Wouldn't go in. Pointed at myself again.

Max pointed at me. Smiled. I was joking, right?

Wrong.

He made an hourglass sign of his own. Made a "no good" gesture. Drew another in the air. Opened his hands. Try another woman.

I drew another woman. Another. One more. Pointed at myself again. Stiffened the forefinger- let it sag limp. It was me, not the women. Me.

He pointed at his groin, shook his head. Tapped his skull. That's where the problem was.

I nodded. Yeah, so?

He pointed at an old calendar on my wall. Since when?

I made the sign of a pistol firing. Looked at the ground. Blew a goodbye kiss. Since Belle.

He made an "it's okay" gesture. Tapped my wristwatch. It would get better.

No.

His face closed. He went off somewhere inside himself, looking. I smoked, watched my dog, let my sad eyes play over this miserable little place I lived in. The last time Belle was there, it had sparkled.

Max got up, went by himself into the back room. Pansy tracked him. Once you got in, you could move around. You just couldn't leave until I told her it was okay. Nothing back there but a hot plate and the refrigerator. Toilet, sink, and stall shower. I waited. He came back with two paper packets of sugar, the kind they give you in diners. Put them both on the desk, side by side. Tapped one closed eye. Pay attention.

He pointed at me. Tore open one of the packets. Emptied it into his palm. Tossed the sugar into the air. Wiped his hands. All gone. Looked at me.

I nodded. Yeah, that was it.

He shook his head. No. Took the other packet and put it in my desk drawer. Pointed at the desk top. Nothing there. Still gone?

I opened the drawer. Took out the other packet.

The warrior nodded. Took it from my hand. Slipped it into my coat pocket. Patted me down like a cop doing a search. Pulled out the packet, held it up to the light. Made a gesture, "get it?"

No.

He took the packet, walked over to the couch. Stuffed it under one of the cushions. Looked around the room, confused look on his face. Where is it?

I pulled it free from under the cushion, held it in my hand.

Watched my brother, watched his eyes. He'd said all he could.

Then I got it. Hell of a difference between something lost and something missing. It wasn't gone- I just didn't know where I'd put it.

I bowed to Max.

He took the packet from my hand. Pointed to my chair. I sat down. He made frantic searching gestures, opening drawers, looking under stacks of paper, rapping the walls with his knuckles, looking for a hiding place. Shook his head. No. Not that way. He leaned back, put his feet on the desk, closed his eyes, folded his hands over his stomach. Pointed at me. I imitated him. It was peaceful lying there. Safe and peaceful. I wondered if the fear-jolts would come back someday too. I hated them so when I was young and doing time. Wished them away. It never worked. Back then, when I wanted to be somebody I couldn't be. Something Candy always knew I wasn't.

Something brushed my face. I opened my eyes. The packet of sugar was lying on my chest. Waiting.

Which is what I had to do.

It would come to me.

I held a clenched fist in front of my face. Yes!

Max tapped my fist with his own.

Sparking flame to light the way.

WHEN I got back to the office after dropping Max off, I let Pansy out to her roof. Turned on the radio. A car bombing out in Ozone Park, Queens. A soldier and an underboss splattered. I had some rye toast and ginger ale, thinking I might like to bet on a horse when this was all over.

Pansy came back inside. I worked on her commands for a half hour or so, just to keep her sharp. Like oiling a gun. Then I went to sleep.

The radio was still on when I woke up around ten o'clock that night. Another bombing, this one in Bushwick, Brooklyn. The wise-guys would be paying people to start their cars for a while.

I went into the street. Called Strega. She was right by the phone, like she knew.

"It's me. You find out?"

"I think so. I'll be sure by tomorrow night."

I hung up. Called Mama. Nothing from Morehouse, the lazy bastard.

Dialed the Mole. Heard the phone picked up. The Mole never speaks first. "I need a car," I said. "You got one?"

"Yes." Terry's voice. The connection went dead.

Terry let me into the junkyard. I slid over and he took the wheel, guiding the Plymouth through the maze to a resting place.

"They still fighting?" I asked the kid.

"Mole says Mom has to make her own decision."

"He tell her that?"

"No. But she knows."

The Mole was working in one of the Quonset huts he has scattered around the place. No windows, but it was as well-lit as an operating table. A tired-looking Ford four-door sedan was in pieces on the floor.

"What're you doing, Mole?" I greeted him.

"Working." Mr. Personality.

I remembered the counsel the Prof had given me when I was a kid first learning to do time. Watch. Watch and learn. Pay attention or pay the price. I sat down on an old engine block, lit a smoke.

Terry worked with the Mole like gears meshing. Nothing wasted, quick and clean. Each of them took an end of the Ford's back seat. They slid it back into place. I heard a sharp click. The boy shoved harder, using his shoulder. Another click. The rocker panels were off. I saw what looked like a long, thin shock absorber running parallel to the ground. Where the running board would be if they still used them on cars. The Mole fitted a short length of track between the back and front seats. Fiddled around in the trunk. A sound like something being released. I went closer, peered over his shoulder. The back of the front seat was a solid-steel plate, ugly welds slashed across the corners. The front seat was welded to the chassis around the bottom seams. A brick wall.

The Mole signaled to Terry. They each took an end of the back seat, slid it back and forth on the runners. It reached all the way to the welded steel plate. Terry sprayed the runners with silicon.

"We'll test it," the Mole said.

Terry pointed to a pile of green plastic garbage bags stacked against the wall. "Give us a hand, Burke."

I picked one up. Heavy. Maybe sixty pounds. "How many you need?" I asked.

"Six?" the boy said, looking at the Mole. He nodded, absorbed.

I took a sack in each hand, brought them over to the car. Terry wrapped both arms around one sack and followed me. The Mole watched. One more trip each and we had them all.

"What now?" I asked.

The Mole pointed at the back seat. "Four there, two in front."

I loaded them in. Terry struggled until he had one sack on top of another. Two big lumps in the back, one in the front, behind the wheel. Driver and two passengers.

The Mole threaded a wire from the dashboard through the open car window. Backed up until we were against the wall. He stripped the wire, wound it around a terminal on the workbench.

"Stand back," he said.

The back seat shot forward like it was fired from a rocket launcher, slamming into the steel wall. The car rocked on its tires. The back seat bounced off the steel plate, floating listlessly on the siliconed tracks. We went to take a look. The four green plastic bags were plastered to the steel wall like paint on canvas. It smelled of old smeared death. In the front, the top bag had hit the steering wheel and ripped open. White suet mess inside, blood-streaked.