Andrew Vachss: Hard Candy

She couldn't come back to me that night.

Not Strega's fire, not Wesley's ice.

I found my way.

Survive.

I WOKE UP the next morning by myself. The way I always do. Belle was still gone. The pain in my chest was still there. But now I recognized it for what it was- a tourniquet around my heart, not a stranglehold.

The Plymouth found its way over to Mama's. Judy Henske on the cassette. Singing just to me. An old gut-bucket blues number came through next. I didn't remember the man's name but I know he died young. And hard.

Too sick to go to the doctor

Too tired to go to sleep

Too broke to borrow money

And too hungry to eat

And then a sweet girl singer, fronting off some doo-wop group that never had a hit record.

Your tears in my eyes

Your heart in my heart

Defeat and disguise

Can't keep us apart

The weight wasn't off, but I could carry what was left.

Mama had the Daily News . The story about the bombed-out car on Wards Island was buried on page six. The paper had it down to more mob homicides. Couldn't find a word about Julio. It would take a day or so for the Queens cops to run his prints. And they'd throw the body into the same garbage bag with the rest of the mess Wesley made. Morehouse's column would be out tomorrow.

Max came in. I showed him the story about the firebombed car. He drew his X on the table. Wesley's work. He made a questioning sign. I pulled an imaginary cord a couple of times, made the sign of something rushing past. Train. He bowed.

My brother was right. I'd pulled the switch, but it was Wesley's work. Mine was done.

Almost done.

MAX PULLED the racing form from his pocket. I kicked back to read. The horses' names all looked unfamiliar to me. Soon I was lost in a stakes race for three-year-old trotters. There was a shipper from Illinois. Gypsy Flame. An Arsenal filly out of a Noble Hustle mare. Good lines. Her trainer was bringing her along slowly, but she was tearing up the home tracks. A 2:01 at Sportsman's Park in Chicago in the cold weather- that was flying. I went over her last eight races. She always ran off the pace, charged hard going home. She'd be at a disadvantage at Yonkers with the tight turns and the short stretch, but she always ran clean. No breaks on her record. Morning Line had her at 8- 1. Yes.

I looked over at Max, to tell him what our selection would be. His seat was empty. I glanced at my watch. Damn. I'd been lost for almost two hours.

Mama was up front, by the cash register. I went back to the pay phones. Dialed my broker. Maurice snatched it on the first ring.

"What?"

"This is Burke. Give me the four horse in the second race at Yonkers. Two to win."

"Horse number four, race number two. Yonkers. A deuce on the nose. That right?"

"Right. You miss me?"

He hung up.

THE PHONE RANG before I could go back to my table. I picked it up myself.

"Yeah?"

"Friday, be sure you're watching TV. It don't matter which channel long as it's a network. Try NBC. They got the fastest crew. 'Live at Five.' That's the best show. Don't wait for the late news- watch it go down."

"All right."

"That car. Last night. In my spot?"

"Yeah, the papers made it sound like a train wreck."

"I'm gonna take a trip. Out to the Island. Pick up my money. Then Friday. Watch TV. I'll wave goodbye to you."

"I…"

"Don't say my name. I'm leaving you something in my will. Remember what I said. About kids. Don't let the hunters see the soft spot."

"I won't."

"Goodbye…"

The machine sputtered- I couldn't make out the last word as the phone went dead.

"THIS IS real nice, Burke. Just like the joint, except for the food," the Prof said, sneering.

We were in Mama's basement. At a long table we made out of an old door. I was playing gin with Max, the scorepad to his left. He owed me almost twenty grand. A nineteen-inch color TV stood on top of a couple of barrels we had piled up. Max brought it with him that day, carrying it in one hand like an attaché case.

Max reached for a card. "Nix on the six, chump," the Prof barked, slapping the Mongol on the arm. Max ignored him. I grabbed it. Turned my hand over. Gin.

"Why you waste time playing cards with this fool, Burke? Just take out a gun, tell him to empty his pockets."

"He wins sometimes."

"Yeah. Whenever a cop gives mouth-to-mouth to a guy who faints in a gay bar."

I lit a smoke, sipped at the cup of clear soup standing next to me. Pansy snarled in the corner- she wasn't used to color TV. And she wanted pro wrestling, not soap operas. She's only a dog- she thinks she can tell the difference.

Max took out a racing form, still pumped up with our last success. Gypsy Flame had destroyed the field, powering overland on the back stretch, clearing the others by the paddock turn, driving home with room to spare- $17.20 to win, more than seventeen hundred bucks to the good on our first bet in months. I waved it away- I couldn't concentrate. Max had picked up the cash from Maurice. Like old times. Moving money, not bodies.

"When's this gonna go down?" the Prof asked.

"I don't know, brother. I told you a dozen times. He called, said to watch the tube. So I'm doing it. You don't have to stay."

"He wasn't my friend, but I'll see the end."

"Okay, then. You want to sit in for Max?"

"No way. Fucking Wesley. You always could pick 'em, Burke."

He acted it out for Max- some of the characters I'd hooked up with in the joint. The Prof had a gift for it- he used to be a preacher.

Time passed. Like it does inside the walls. Except it was safe where I was. Working on my alibi. Mac was upstairs. Lily was going to drop over later. Hell, I was hoping the cops rolled by too. Whatever Wesley was up to, I wanted to be on another planet.

MAX SAW it first. Rapped the table to get our attention. A trailer running at the bottom of one of the soap operas. HOSTAGE SITUATION IN RIVERDALE SCHOOL… ARMED TERRORISTS SEIZE ST. IGNATIUS…POLICE AND FBI ON THE SCENE…STAY TUNED.

"No way," the Prof said.

But I knew.

The soap opera played on. At two-fifteen, they broke in for a live report. Guy in a trench coat, hand-held microphone, sound truck behind him.

"We have no details yet. Apparently, an armed team of terrorists has captured the school. The doors and exits are blocked. The terrorists arrived in a rental truck and entered the school disguised in some way. The police were alerted by a phone call from inside. There was machine-gun fire. If the camera will just pan over…you can see the truck on the edge of the school yard. This is as close as the police will allow us to go. We understand there has been a telephone hookup to the terrorists, and the Hostage Negotiation Team is in place."

The anchorman from "Live at Five" cut in. I guess they told him to report to work early. Wesley would have been pleased. And the anchorman asked the right question. "Tom, you say shots were fired. Were they fired by the terrorists?"

"We just don't know. The police have a tight ring around the school."

"Tell us something about the school."

"St. Ignatius is an exclusive private school here in Riverdale. One of the oldest prep schools in the area. Grades nine through twelve. Some of the most prominent families in the city send their children here."

I clicked on the radio. They had a crew at the scene too. The reporter said something about a media demand, whatever that meant.

Back to the TV. The field reporter was on camera. "It seems that the terrorists have herded the children into the gymnasium. One of them just broke a window. We can see somebody attaching a bullhorn of some kind. I think they're going to make their demands…"