Andrew Vachss - Flood

“And then there’d be no subpoena?”

“No, sir-there’d be no need for one.” First the pressure-then the grease. “Of course, I realize you probably have no interest in such things, but it is the policy of our office to award governmental commendations to those who assist us as you will be doing. If you are shy about the media we could avoid all publicity, but our office does feel you should have official recognition in some way.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” chanted the bureaucrat, “I just do my job.”

“And we appreciate it, Mr. Leary-rest assured that we do. Our man’s name is Martin Howard Wilson.”

“What’s his service number?”

“Sir, I’ll be frank with you. We only have an old number, and we’re fairly certain he’s been collecting under a new one. We assumed your computer network-”

“Well, we are fully computerized. But searching for just a name takes longer.”

“Would his last known address help you?”

“Certainly,” he snapped back, now officially on the job.

“We have Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, but we understand he’s long since departed that location.”

A sly note crept into Leary’s civil servant’s voice as he said, “This will take just a few minutes to check-can I call you back?”

“Certainly, sir, please take down our number,” and I gave it to him.

We said good-bye on that note. I smoked another couple of cigarettes and Michelle went back to her Gothic romance novel, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. In about fifteen minutes, the phone box buzzed.

Michelle threw the switch, bit down on the wad of gum. “United States Attorney’s Office,” she said in a pleasant, bouncy receptionist’s voice.

“Could I speak with Mr. Patrick Wayne, please?” asked Leary.

“I’ll connect you.” Michelle flipped a switch, silently counted to twenty on her fingers, flipped the switch open again, and said, “Mr. Wayne’s office” in the earlier voice.

“Could I speak with Mr. Wayne?” asked Leary again.

“Who is calling, please?”

“Mr. Leary, from the Veteran’s Administration.”

“He’ll be right with you, sir, he’s been expecting your call.” She flipped the switch and handed the phone to me.

“Patrick Wayne here.”

“Oh, Mr. Wayne. This is Leary. From the VA?” he said, like I might have forgotten him already.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for getting back to me so promptly.”

“Mr. Wayne, we have a problem here.”

“A problem?” I asked, my voice taking on an edge.

“Well, not a problem exactly. But you said that this Wilson picks up his check here every month. But our records show that it’s being mailed to his home address.”

“His home address…?” I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “Perhaps it’s a different Wilson.”

“No, sir.” assured the bureaucrat, now on familiar ground. “It’s the exact same name you gave me, and the address is the same too.”

“You mean…”

“Absolutely. Martin Howard Wilson’s checks are mailed to him at Six-oh-nine West Thirty-seventh Street, Apartment Number Four, New York City, New York One-oh-oh-one-eight. He’s on three-quarters disability, as you know. That address has been used for… let me see… the past nine checks. He would have received the last one only last week or so.”

“I see.” And I was beginning to-and cursing myself for a fool as I did. “Well, sir, our information leads us to believe he has abandoned that address. Let me ask you this, Mr. Leary-will you agree to hold his check one extra day if he should appear in person? You don’t forward those checks to new addresses, do you?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Wayne. In fact, it says Do Not Forward right on the envelope. If he has moved the check will be returned to us. We don’t change the address unless we get a formal notice from the veteran himself.”

“All right, sir. Now, assuming the check is returned, couldn’t he just come to your office and pick it up-assuming he had proper identification, of course?”

“Yes, he could do that. Some of them do.”

“Well, sir-will you agree to hold his check one extra day if it is returned to you? All we want you to do is tell him to come back the next day and give us a call here at the office. Will you do that for us?”

“Well, it’s a bit irregular-couldn’t I just stall him for a while and give you a call?”

“Well, sir, we would prefer the course of action suggested to you. But we do appreciate your efforts and I believe the solution you devised would be more than satisfactory.”

“Yes, that would be better-I mean, those guys are used to waiting for their checks, you know? Another few hours won’t make any difference. But a whole day… well, I’d have to get approval all up the line for that.”

“Would a letter on official stationary from my superiors be of assistance to you, sir?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wayne. That would be perfect.”

“Very well, it will be sent out to you later this week. You know how it is getting the boss to sign anything.” I chuckled, one-on-one.

“Don’t I,” he agreed, now at ease with a fellow schlub.

“All right, sir, shall we leave it like this? If Wilson shows up before our letter arrives, you stall him for a couple of hours and notify my office immediately. And if your letter arrives first, I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty securing approval to hold the check for a day or so.”

“That would be fine, Mr. Wayne.”

“Sir, on behalf of our entire office, I appreciate your assistance. You’ll be hearing from us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leary,” I said, and rang off.

I SAT THERE for a minute, absorbing the impact of my own stupidity. Some blonde bimbo comes into my office and tells me she spooked a heavyweight freak by kicking a building superintendent in the chops and I take her word for it. It was like when I was back in the joint-all the young guys wanted to know what being on parole was like: how to get over on the P.O., what you could get away with, how close they checked on you… all that stuff. So who would they ask? Naturally, the only guys inside with us who knew anything about parole were chumps who were back inside on a parole violation. All over this world we keep confusing repeated failures with lots of experience. Maybe this Wilson slipped the super a few bucks and told him to tell anyone who came around looked that he’d moved out a few days ago. But maybe he was still there.

I didn’t want to brace a character like that without Max for backup, but I didn’t know where he was and there was no time to find him. I told Michelle to pack up the place and make herself scarce. If Wilson was still there, he might be on his way out the door right this minute.

It was only a couple of miles to the address the VA gave me, but that was a couple of miles through the city and it was nearly one in the afternoon. Michelle would call Mama and tell her to have Max come to the Thirty-seventh Street address, but I didn’t know when she’d make contact. Max can do a lot of things, but he can’t use a phone.

The big Plymouth hummed along, eating up the streets, moving through the packed traffic like a good pickpocket at work. Maybe Wilson was there all along-sitting in some furnished room surrounded by kiddie-porn magazines and take-out food containers and thinking he was safe. Or maybe the address was never any good-maybe he had the brains to use an accommodation drop or he had a forwarding address permanently in place. Or maybe he was packing his bags even as I was heading over to him. Too many maybes, and no time to sort them out. I’d have to hit alone-no Max, no Pansy. It’d have to do.