Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Yes, I have some.”

“Here’s what you need. A good black wig, about medium length, some instant-tanning lotion, any kind you want, some gold eyeliner and eye shadow, some dark lipstick, the darkest you can find. Then either a low-cut blouse or a V-neck sweater, some spike heels with dark stockings or pantyhose, and the tightest pair of bright-colored pants you can squeeze yourself into. Oh yeah, and a wide belt with a buckle in front. Get a cap that’ll help you hold the wig on, some color that matches the rest of the outfit.”

“Forget it.”

“Flood, there’s no forget it going down here. I thought you said we’d work together on this.”

“Where do I get to work, some massage parlor?”

“Hookers in massage parlors don’t wear junk like that, Flood-they wear cheesy nightgowns and body powder.”

“I’m sure you’re a real expert on the subject.”

I slowed down to light another cigarette. Opened my mouth to explain the reasons to Flood, who said, “You smoke too much,” and slapped the butt out of my mouth. She turned away so I couldn’t see her face. We both stopped in the middle of the block. She said nothing, just kept looking away from me. I was about ready to give up. “You’re a goddamned baby.”

She whirled around to look at me. Her eyes were almost bright enough to have tears in them. “I’m not a baby. But I’m not going to just do things. You have to explain them to me.”

“Flood, there’s a good reason for every single damn thing I told you to get. But we don’t have to fight about it out here in the street, okay? I’ve got to see this guy to get things ready. You can do one of three things: go and buy the stuff and meet me at the car; go and wait for me in the car so I can fucking convince you to buy the stuff; or go back to the Land of the Rising Sun.”

“I could find him myself.”

“You couldn’t find this freak if he was listed in the Yellow Pages.”

Flood faced me, held out her hand, palm up. I gave her the spare key to the door (it won’t work the ignition), told her how to work the lock, and she about-faced and marched off. I went up the block to the News Building and dialed the guy I wanted from the pay phone on the corner. He was in. I told him what I wanted on the phone-there’s no way I’m walking into a newsroom with all those nosy clowns around. Most of the younger reporters do all their investigating over the phone, but there’re a few veterans around who’d make my face and have it filed away forever. I told the guy I’d meet him in his favorite Irish bar in an hour and hung up.

I called Mama and told her to tell Mr. James that I’d be calling him that evening at the number he’d left, unless he wanted the number changed. Then I sat down with the racing form again for a half hour before calling Maurice with twenty across the board on a trotting mare I fancied, just to let him know I hadn’t left town. When I strolled into the Irish bar I found the reporter in a booth with a folder full of newsclips. I like this kid. He graduated from Harvard, has two master’s degrees, makes fifty grand a year, and talks like a mildly retarded working-class dropout with a philosophical bent. Maybe it works on women.

“Burke, here’s the dope you wanted. What’ve you got for me?”

“Got nothing now, kid” (he hates to be called kid) “but I’m working on a real scandal over at the courthouse.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I gave you that habeus canine piece, right?”

“Big fucking deal.”

“What do you mean, big fucking deal? I bet you copped a raise for such a sensitive piece of investigative reporting.”

“Look, Burke, don’t jerk my chain. You wanted the clips, I got you the clips. I know there’s a story in this someplace, so all I’m asking is that I get in first.”

“Kid, you know I don’t talk to reporters, right?”

The kid nodded-he thinks I’m in organized crime, one of the few Irishmen to break through the Italian barriers. The closest I ever got to a mob was at a wrestling match-some lunatic paid me good money to learn the true identity of the Masked Marvel for him.

I looked through the newsclips the kid got me from the morgue. My man was there, all right, just like I thought-Martin H. Wilson, arrested on charges of rape and sodomy of three Puerto Rican kids. No more on that story. Then Martin Wilson arrested on rape, sodomy, and murder charges of Sadie’s kid, D.A. asks $100,000 bail at arraignment. Then later on, court orders competency hearing after Wilson’s defense attorney says he’s a victim of Agent Orange poisoning in Vietnam. Then the other clips-I had a hunch about why Wilson wasn’t in the can waiting on a trial. Yeah, there it was: Elijah Slocum, major kiddie-porn dealer, arrested at his mansion in Riverdale by detectives from the Bronx D.A.’s office following a six-month investigation by undercover operatives. Slocum posts $250,000 bail, claims he was set up by his “enemies.” Slocum moves to reduce bail; several prominent citizens testify as character witnesses; case still pending.

Good enough. There was no picture of Wilson but I didn’t expect one. A Daily News photo would never be good enough anyway. All I really wanted were the dates. I put them in my memory, shook my head sadly, and handed the clips back to the kid. “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”

“This stuff is no good?”

“You got me what I asked for-I just came up empty, that’s all. Listen, I still figure I owe you one, okay?”

The kid nodded glumly, swallowed his beer in a single throw and signaled to the barmaid for another as I was getting up to leave. I said I’d give him a call. He mumbled “God bless” and started on another brew. I walked four blocks west, caught a cab, told the driver I wanted the U.N. Building, and got off near Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. Then I walked down to the river and south to the car where Flood was sitting in front seat reading a newspaper.

I let myself in, noticing the packages piled on the back seat. So far, so good. Flood looked at me expectantly. “I’ll explain when we get to the office,” I said, eased the Plymouth into gear, and set off for downtown.

HALFWAY DOWN THE FDR I realized that I wasn’t acting like I’d been trained to-I couldn’t really bring Flood back to the office without showing her too much. And I wasn’t ready to do that. “Flood, is anyone using your studio this time of day?”

“Why?” She was obviously going to stay hostile until I came up with some answers for her.

“Well, I can’t bring you back to the office without deactivating the dog, and that could take a couple of hours. Besides, I don’t want to do any business with clients until we’ve wrapped this thing up. I just want to concentrate on this.”

“There’s nobody there. They only have classes two nights and one day every week. But why can’t we go to your place?”

“I live in a hotel and there’s no way to get past the front desk without a lot of people noticing. I don’t want anyone to notice you until you’ve gotten into the disguise.”

“It must cramp your style, not being able to get by the front desk.”

“It cramps everyone’s style. That’s why I live there.”

Flood didn’t seem surprised that I knew the way to her place. I told her to go on upstairs and that I’d call her in a few minutes to see if anyone had been around asking questions. She made no move to take the packages out of the back seat when she got out.

I gave her ten minutes and called. A frigid voice just barely identifiable as Flood’s informed me that everything was as it had been and that I could come up when and if I decided to.

I carried the packages in, rang for the freight elevator, and waited until I heard it start to groan its way downstairs. Then I stepped back outside. When it came down empty. I pressed the switch to send it two floors above Flood’s place, and took the stairs-quietly. There were no sounds except the elevator. Waiting in the corridor on Flood’s floor, I heard the elevator creak to a stop somewhere above me and stepped into the studio. It was empty, the same as when I was there last. I walked back to Flood’s private place where she was sitting on the floor in that lotus position waiting for me. And my story.