Andrew Vachss - Flood

The Plymouth wheeled crosstown onto Eleventh Avenue and past the giant construction site where another multimillionaire was building another building for his brothers and sisters. I found Thirty-seventh Street and nosed down the block looking for a place to park-I might have to get out of there quickly. Nothing. Back to Thirty-eighth, the parallel block, where I finally found an empty spot.

I put the car into reverse and started to back in when I heard a horn blasting at me-some miserable piece of garbage wanted the spot for himself. I ignored him, but the scumbag shoved the nose of his Eldorado into the spot ahead of me. Stalemate-he couldn’t fit all the way in but it was enough to keep me out. Ram him out of the way or talk? I jumped out of the Plymouth like I was mad enough to waste him, grabbed the gold shield from my jacket pocket, and fingered the.38 with the other hand. I charged the Eldorado-the driver pushed the power window button and sat there in his pimp hat smiling, showing me a gold tooth with a diamond set in its center.

“Police! Move that fucking car! Now!”

And then I caught a break as the pimp raised his hands in a calm-down gesture and backed out without another word. Bad move on my part-maybe I called too much attention to the Plymouth, but it looked close enough to the unmarked cars the Man used in Midtown South. I put the Plymouth into the space and hit all the switches in case the pimp decided to return and act stupid. It would be a bad idea-I had his license number.

I hit the street. The block was dead at that hour-the working people were gone, the thieves were still asleep, and the welfare cases were watching television. Number 609 was on the corner, just where Flood said it was. Six-story tenement, brick front. Two glass-paneled wood doors, unlocked, a row of mailboxes inside, most of them with no names-no buzzer either. The inside door was locked. One bell was marked Super so I pushed it. Waiting for an answer, I was thinking how to play this next part. If it was a more middle-class joint I’d be tempted to come on as Detective Burke of NYPD. I looked enough like it, I was dressed right for a middle-class mind, and I could talk that talk. But any citizen of this neighborhood would see right through it.

Detectives never work alone anymore-the department won’t let them. And they don’t dress as well as I was either if they’re not on the take-I had left the double-knit disguise home in the closet where it belonged. If I had time I could have taken one of the quasi-cops with me-you know, one of the badge-freaks who likes to pretend he’s a real cop. He joins some bullshit organization, gets an honorary badge, and immediately goes out and buys himself a set of handcuffs and a blue light for his car. He hangs out in the cop bars and talks like he’s on television. I’m the founder and sole beneficiary of the Metro Detectives Association, which has enrolled dozens of these losers. We don’t charge a fee, of course, since all our men are doing important volunteer law-enforcement work. But you’d be amazed at how many of them purchase the optional framed certificate, bumper plaque, laminated plastic photo I.D. card complete with their picture, gold badge in genuine leather case-all that. It costs them an average of a grand per man. You tell a card-carrying disturbo that he’s a genuine “peace officer” and he goes straight into major orgasm, maybe for the first time. Not a bad deal for me, but this time I didn’t have one of them around when I needed him.

I rang the bell-and waited. I rang it again-it was probably as dead as my chances of finding Wilson sitting upstairs. The door lock was almost as tough as cottage cheese. I was inside in a few seconds. I walked down the corridor, looking for the basement where the super would be. If he took money from Wilson to lie, he’d take more money to tell the truth. The hall lighting was as dim as a subway tunnel-more than half the bulbs were missing.

I found the right door, knocked, got nothing. I hit it again, putting my ear to the door. Nothing-no radio, no TV, no voices. In a dump like this they wouldn’t use the super to collect the rent.

If I had stopped to think about it I wouldn’t have gone any further. I could have tried to find a pay phone where I could watch the door and called Mama to have her send Max over. But there was no sense in spoiling a perfect record.

Where the hell was Apartment 4? Fourth floor? Fourth apartment on the second floor? Okay-six stories, figure four apartments to each floor from the layout, total of twenty-four units. There was no elevator. I found the center stairway, listened for a second. Nothing was moving. It smelled bad-not dangerous, just the way these buildings smell after enough years of abuse. On the second floor landing I saw I was right-two apartments to the right, two more to the left. I spotted the number 3 in what was left of a faded gilt decal on one door. On the other side, the number 6, again on a decal, black number on gold background-very classy. If the numbers went all the way to 6 on this floor, with four apartments in all, numbers 1 and 2 had to be downstairs. So number 4 had to be on this floor-right next to 3.

I put my ear to the door-nothing. I slipped on my gloves and rapped softly-still nothing. Pick the lock? No-try the other apartments first. Number 3 was a no-show too. It was still quiet when I crossed the hall to 5 and 6. As I raised my hand to knock I heard the sound of an open hand on human flesh and a yelp-I moved closer and heard a young black man’s voice, rapping in that hard-edged ghetto whine that the players think distinguishes them from the citizens. “Who’s your daddy?” (slap) “I can’t hear you, bitch” (slap). A mumbled sound from someone else. “Bitch, I’m not playin’, you hear me? I’m serious-you understand?”

More mumbling. Another sharp slap. Sounds of crying.

“You run away from home, you find another home, right, little bitch? You got a new daddy now, right?” And some more slaps. I knew what was behind that door, and it wasn’t Wilson. I walked back to Number 4, pulled my tools, and worked the lock. I stepped inside like I belonged there.

One glance told me nobody belonged there. It was just like I had pictured in my mind-a convertible couch opened into a bed with grayish stained sheets, a round Formica-topped table in one corner, two padded chairs with the seats torn, fast-food cartons all over the place. There was a moldy stack of magazines in one corner- Nymphets at Play, Lolita’s Lollipops -like that. Nothing in the closet but some dirty jersey underwear thrown in a corner.

Tacked to one wall was the Cobra’s collage of socially acceptable porn-ads for bluejeans with little girls sticking their little butts into the camera, underwear ads from the catalogs with children strutting their undeveloped stuff for the photographer. Some of the photos had been scissored out-maybe there were also some adults in the ads and the Cobra had been offended at their intrusion into his maggoty fantasies.

On the bathroom wall was one of those pressure-point charts of a human figure showing the correct spots to kill with a single blow. There was a filthy tub, no shower-a can of shaving cream was the only thing left in the medicine cabinet over the sink. Plaster covered the walls, sweating in the heat from the radiators-he must have split very recently or the super would have been up to shut them off.

I moved through the Cobra’s den, but it was no go-he was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back here. Flood had spooked him away somehow and he was running. I checked the whole apartment again, cursing myself-if I had just listened to my experience instead of that damn blonde, I might have had him on a plate. A waste-it told me nothing I didn’t already know.