Andrew Vachss - Flood

I tore open the packages-tanning lotion, eyeshadow and eyeliner, a lustrous-looking black wig, a pair of pink toreador pants, a black jersey V-neck pullover, a black patent-leather belt, some black mesh pantyhose, and a pair of four-inch spikes in black pseudo-leather. Cheap junk, except for the wig. Flood said nothing, watching me.

“Okay, here’s the story. You can’t change your face, not really. But you’re going to have to be seen by some people-you dress like this and people will notice everything but your face. All they’ll remember is some pink pants and maybe black hair. Besides, you have to look kind of sexy and incompetent at the same time, because you have to ask some people for help. They won’t remember what they don’t see.”

“Burke, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Flood, for chrissakes, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t raised in a convent. The average man takes one look at you shaking it down the street in these pants and that’s all he’ll remember. What’s so goddamned hard to understand?”

“I don’t care if people know who I am or what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, that’s right, you don’t. Either you’re going back to Japan or you’ve got some kamikaze plan-you’ll do your job and then you just don’t give a damn what happens after that. That’s not me. I do care-I don’t want people looking for me. If they have to look for you, for Flood, and they connect us up, they’ll look for me too. Get it? You just look too strange the way you’re dressed now-the way you look.”

Flood held up the pink pants. “These don’t look strange?”

I tried again. “Flood, this isn’t a question of good taste, okay? People are going to notice you no matter what, see? But there’s no way a man’s going to look at your breasts bouncing around in that sweater and at your face at the same time.”

“My breasts don’t bounce when I walk.”

“Flood, I don’t care if you’re the world’s greatest martial arts expert-I don’t care if you’re fucking Wonder Woman. You wear that sweater and no bra and your goddamned breasts will bounce.”

“Burke, you’re a lunatic. No bra with that outfit? I’d look like some moron’s version of a whore.”

“Now you got it.”

“I won’t do it.”

“The fuck you won’t. I made some major sacrifices to do this job-you can too.”

“What sacrifices did you make?”

“I had plastic surgery.”

“You had what?”

“Plastic surgery. I’m telling you the truth.”

“For this job.”

“Goddamned right. Before I took this job I used to be a male model.”

Flood tried like hell not to giggle, gave it up, tried to get a straight face again. Gave that up and started laughing. It was a great laugh-peeking between her fingers at my former-model’s face, she just plain cracked up. Finally, she came over to sit down next to me and picked up the pink pants. “Burke, I’ll look like the fat lady in the circus if I wear these.”

“You’ll look beautiful.”

“Burke, I’m serious. Some women can wear these things, but I’m not built that way. It took me about fifteen minutes to get them on in the store.”

“Oh, you already tried them on.” Flood looked down, said nothing. “Flood, you vain bitch. All this crap about clothes and it’s only because you think you don’t look good in them.”

“It’s not just that.”

“So what else is it?”

“I can’t move in them.”

“Put them on and let me see, okay?”

Flood jumped to her feet, flung off her jacket, untied the sash at her waist, and stepped aside as her slacks fell to the floor. She popped open the snaps in the crotch of her bodysuit, ripped it over her head, and grabbed the pink pants out of my hand in one vicious motion. That took about three seconds. Then she grunted and strained for about five minutes, trying to get the pants over her hips, muttering curses at me all the while, but she finally got them closed over her waist. It looked like bright new pink skin. With her hands on her hips, she glared at me, “See what I mean?”

“Can you bend over?”

“Bend over? I can’t even walk.”

“Just try, okay?”

She turned and walked away from me. It was the finest combination of sex and comedy I’d ever seen. From the ankles to the upper thighs, she was sheathed in pink metal, and from there on up it looked like pink Jello bitterly resisting confinement. Flood spun around, “Burke, if I even see so much as a smile on your ugly face I’m going to put you in the hospital.”

My face was as flat as a pane of glass. Unfortunately it was equally transparent and Flood charged with both fists clenched. Thank God by the time she made it over to where I was sitting, she was laughing herself. She laughed even harder when I tried to help her get the pants off. She struggled to her feet, and swished her way over to the bathroom with the rest of the outfit. When she came out she was perched on the spike heels, wearing the wig and the jersey top. Even trying to watch her face with all that flesh bouncing around was impossible, and I could tell she knew it too. With her face made up, we’d be home free. She pranced around in the middle of the room, making a few experimental passes with her feet, twirling them in small circles a few inches off the ground.

“I can kick in these things, but no high kicks, no roundhouses.”

“Forget about that. It isn’t a fighting outfit, Flood, it’s a damn disguise, right?”

“What if I have to kick someone?”

“Take the pants off first.”

Flood gave me a look, and started to roll the pants down over her hips. By the time they got halfway down, I knew she wasn’t going to kick me.

WHEN I WOKE up a couple of hours later, Flood was still out like she’d been drugged. I wish I could sleep like that-maybe it was because her conscience was so clear. We still had a bit of time so I got out my cigarettes and sat by the big window looking down at the street. I held the butt below the windowsill and blew the smoke down in case there was some freak out there looking for a tiny red light in the darkness that meant go instead of no to him. I still had to think of a plan that would get Flood her raw meat and keep me away from the government. Nothing came to me.

The sounds of the shower brought me back inside, where I waited for Flood to come out. When she did she was wearing some big fluffy white towel and walked past me to the large room where I’d been smoking. I followed her and watched while she dropped the towel, walked nude over to the wall with all the mirrors, and started her workout-a complicated kata with spinning kick-thrusts and double hand-breaks, knife-edged and clenched fist. A kata is a martial arts exercise: some of the Japanese styles use them to qualify for higher degrees, like a black belt; some use them as stylized practice. When an amateur does a kata it’s like watching a spastic robot, but Flood’s was a death dance. I watched her quietly, not moving. The only noise was the occasional hiss of breath through her nose.

Flood’s kata was steel-edged white smoke. She finished by landing into a split any cheerleader would envy. Stayed perfectly still on the floor, concentrating on something. Then she looked up at me, “Can you throw me those pants I bought?”

I went back into her space and brought them out. Flood worked them back up over her hips. Her body had a light sheen of sweat and it was still a struggle. It didn’t look funny this time. She zipped them up, snapped the front button closed, walked over to the wall, and took down a pair of heavy leather gloves, something like catcher’s mitts. She tossed them to me. I knew what she wanted me to do, so I took off my shoes and walked out onto the gym floor. Standing in a semi-crouch, I held the gloves out toward Flood, one at my right knee, the other at my left shoulder, the palms facing her.