Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Today it is seven-twenty-seven. That’s the plain truth, and that’s no pun.”

“How’s business, Prof?”

“Do you hear the word, Burke? The number today must be seven-twenty-seven.”

“Why?” I asked, not looking up. The Prof was standing to one side, not blocking my view. No matter how he talked, he knew how to act.

“Not what you think, Burke. Not what you think. Not the airplane seven-twenty-seven, but a doom dream in reverse.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Do not mock the Word, Burke. Last night I dreamed of cards and death. Not the Tarot cards-gambler’s cards. You know the Dead Man’s Hand?”

“Aces and eights?”

“This is true. Aces and eights. And death means time, and time means hope, and to hope is to reject death, is it not?”

“Time don’t mean hope when you’re doing it, Prof.”

The Prof doesn’t like to be challenged when he’s talking nonsense.

“Who you talking to, chump? A tourist? Hear what I got to say before you go on your way.”

“Okay, Prof. Run it down,” I told him. That was a cheap shot about time anyway: small as he was, the Prof had stood up when we were inside.

“See the face of a clock in your mind, Burke-the reverse of one is seven, and the reverse of eight is two. The Death Number is one-eighty-one-so the Life Number must be seven-twenty-seven. And today is Life.”

“And you know this how?”

“Every man has a life sentence, brother. I know because I know. I know things. When I appeared, you were listening to a song in your mind.”

“So? What song?”

“A song of aces and eights.”

“I was listening to ‘Raining in My Heart.”

“By Slim Harpo?”

“The very one.”

“And some mock the words of the Prophet! I know what I see, and what I see others do not know. Play seven-twenty-seven today, Burke, and be wealthy for a week to come.”

I reached in my coat pocket and came out with a five, slapped it into his upturned palm. The money vanished.

“You may count on me, Burke. For it is written: those who cannot be counted on, may not be counted in. I will hold the proceeds for you until next we meet.”

“May it be in a better place,” I said, bowing my head slightly.

The Prof said nothing, just stood there sniffing the air like we were back inside, on the yard. And then, from the side of his mouth: “You working?”

“Just waiting for the library to open up so I can do some legal research for a client.”

“How’s Max?”

“The same.”

“I heard your name a couple of nights ago.”

“Where?”

“In a pub near Herald Square-two men, one with a loud voice and a red face, the other better-dressed, quiet. I didn’t get everything they said, but they spoke British.”

“British? You mean English?”

“No, Burke. Like British, but not quite the same. Like with a British accent or something.”

“Hard guys?”

“The loud one, maybe, and only if you let him. Not city people.”

“What’d they say?”

“Just that you were being cute with them, and that they had to meet with you to do some business.”

“How’d you get so close?”

“I was on my cart.” He meant a flat piece of wood with some roller-skate wheels on the bottom. When he kneels down on this and propels himself along wearing his long coat, you’d think he had no legs. It’s a living.

“If you run across them again, I’d like to know where they live,” I said, handing him another bill-a ten.

The Prof took the money, but more slowly this time. “I don’t like those folks, Burke. Maybe you should stick to your legal research.”

“It’s all part of the same case, I think.”

The Prof nodded and put his hand on his forehead as if he were getting a message. Instead, he gave me one: “If there’s a reason; there’s a season,” he said, and flowed back into the crowd.

I watched him disappear into the murk, checked both sides of the street, and got up to meet Flood.

FLOOD WAS STANDING right where she was supposed to, just inside the doors past the entrance guarded by stone lions. She had her back against the wall, pocketbook over one shoulder, left hand in front of her, right hand holding the left wrist. She was wearing another one of those loose jackets with a bodysuit underneath, pale gray this time, with floppy wide-legged pants so loose at the cuffs I couldn’t see her shoes underneath. Her hair was piled into a chignon at the top of her head but it didn’t make her look any taller.

She didn’t see me and I stayed in the doorway a minute to watch her. I still hadn’t figured out how she could breathe without moving her chest. Flood had her eyes nailed to the door I was supposed to use. Human traffic flowed around her, but she never moved. Some professorial-looking person with an open book in one hand stopped and said something to her. He might as well have been talking to one of the stone lions out front-her big dark eyes never flickered. The professor shrugged elaborately and moved on.

I went in the door and Flood spotted me but stayed where she was. “Nice disguise, Flood,” I said, and reached down to take her hand. She pulled it away but rose up on her toes and kissed me quickly on the cheek to show she wasn’t telling me to get lost. Then she moved her hand toward her waist so fast I only saw the vapor trail, smiled like a little girl who’d just done something clever and held her hand out for me to take. She had small, chubby hands, not what you would expect if you’d seen her use them.

We walked down the lion-guarded steps hand in hand, me being careful on the steps and Flood bouncing along like she was on level ground. Maybe we looked like some graduate student who had stayed in school too long and his date. Hard to tell what we looked like but I guess we didn’t look like a survival expert and a deadly weapon. So maybe the disguises weren’t so bad after all.

It was good walking with Flood in the sunshine, so I made a complete circle of the block just to make it last-and to see if anyone was more interested in us than they should have been. As we turned into the park, I dropped Flood’s hand and slipped my arm around her waist, squeezing her side to get her attention. She looked up at me. Quietly, out of the side of my mouth, I said, “What did you have in your hand?”

Flood looked at me, shrugged, and opened her closed hand. I hadn’t seen her hand move back to her waist, but that was where she must have stashed it-a flat piece of dull metal shaped like a five-pointed star with a hole in the middle, about the size of a half dollar. When I reached for it, it sliced into my finger so cleanly that I didn’t feel the pain until I saw blood-the goddamned thing was nothing but a star-shaped razor. Flood pulled it out of my finger, bent over to look at the wound, put my finger into her mouth, sucked sharply for a second, spit some blood onto the ground. “Hold it closed with your other hand for a few seconds and it’ll stop bleeding. It’s a clean cut.” The star went back into her waistband someplace. I squeezed Flood’s waist again to see if I could make her body bounce a little bit. She was so much fun. “What the fuck is that thing?”

“It’s a throwing star. A defense tool when your opponent is beyond your hands and feet.”

“You throw that thing?” By then we were walking toward one of the old trees that somehow had managed to survive the steady diet of wild dog urine, alcoholic upchuck, and junkie blood for which the park was justly famous. She rolled her shoulders slightly and I heard a faint whistling noise and then a tiny snick like when a knife snaps open. Flood tilted her chin toward the tree and I could see the throwing star sticking out of the mangy bark. We walked over and I tried to pull it out without defingering myself-no go. Flood put her thumb against the side of the star, pushed hard to the right, then shifted her hand and carefully removed it with two fingers. It disappeared again. I didn’t know what the future was going to be for Flood, but I was reasonably certain she’d never be a battered wife.