Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Mr. James’s wire.”

“This is Burke.”

“One moment please.” I was supposed to think I was calling an office. James came on, another voice, so at least two of them were in on the game. “Burke. I’ve been trying to reach you. You’re a hard man to catch.”

“Why didn’t you just stop by the house, pal?”

“I don’t know where you live.”

“That’s right, you don’t. What do you want?”

“I’ve got some business for you; something right up your alley. There’s a considerable sum involved. Can we meet?”

“You know somebody I know?”

“I don’t want to say names on the phone. But let’s say I know your reputation, and this would be something you would want to do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do think so,” his voice turning what he thought was hard and forceful, meaning that he was going to be a continual pain in the ass and stay on my case. It was better to meet him once and have done with it.

“Okay, pal. Tonight-all right?”

“Tonight’s fine. Just tell me where.”

“I’ll send a cab for you. The driver will bring you to me.”

“That’s not really necessary.”

“Yeah, it is.”

There was silence as he thought for a minute, not that there was much for him to think about. He was probably going to tell me to send the driver to some fancy hotel and he’d be standing out in front like he belonged there. It was time to show him we weren’t going to spend the evening being stupid. “Look, here it is. The cab will be there at ten o’clock on the dot. You and your friend just get in the backseat, don’t say anything. The cab will have its off-duty light on and it will blink its lights twice when it comes up on you. Just get in and it’ll bring you where I am. You get out when the cabby stops, wait on the corner, and I’ll pick you up and take you to the meeting place.”

“That sounds a bit complicated.”

“Suit yourself.”

Another short silence. Then, “Okay, Burke, tell your cabby to meet us at-”

“Never mind all that. The cabby will be at the same corner you’re standing on right now. And don’t waste your time trying to talk to him, he won’t say a word. Yes or no?”

Silence, a muffled conversation. Then, “Yes, we’ll-” I unhooked the alligator clips, terminating the conversation. If they weren’t on the same corner as the pay phone when the cab rolled up, that would be the end. I went back the way I’d come, returning the equipment and the keys, and rejoined Max in the warehouse.

When I put the hack license on the table in front of Max his face broke into a joyful grin-he loved to drive the cab. I got out paper and a marking pen, showed him the corner where he’d pick up the two clowns, and gestured that he should bring them back to this neighborhood. He nodded and I diagrammed that he should bring them only to the far corner, make the turn, stash the cab in the back of the warehouse, then go back and escort them inside.

Max patted his face with both hands, shrugged his shoulders, and spread his palms out wide, asking me if they wouldn’t recognize him as the driver of the cab when he brought them inside. I held up one finger, got up, and walked over to the big trunk where we kept our supplies-hats, wigs, false beards, face putty, stuff like that. Max was in seventh heaven now. This was perfection-not only would he get to drive the cab, but he’d have a disguise too. We brought the mirror out from the bathroom and tried on a few different versions of Max’s face. His favorite was the Zapata mustache, which, together with mirror-finish sunglasses and a fat cigar in his mouth, made him impossible to recognize. I added a jaunty beret in a dashing shade of pink. Max wasn’t crazy about the color but he did smile at the sight of the hat, no doubt remembering the would-be mugger who had donated it to our collection one dark night last summer.

We found Max an old army jacket and some regulation combat boots, very comfortable for driving. Everything went fine until I got out the gloves-Max never wore gloves even in the dead of winter. But his hands were more recognizable than most people’s faces. I didn’t know how observant these guys were, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Max slammed the gloves down on the table in a gesture of total refusal. I grabbed the gloves in one hand and balled the other into a threatening fist, telling him to put on the damn gloves or I’d break his face. His face broke all right, into silent laughter. Then he lightly touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his forehead and to his heart, and opened his two hands in front of me. This was an apology, not for refusing to wear the gloves but for laughing at me. Max thinks I’m more sensitive than I am. At least I think he does.

We went to examine the cab. It was typical of the breed, a battered old Dodge with hundreds of thousands of no-maintenance miles on the clock. The trunk, as expected, was empty, since fleet owners don’t want the cabbies to sell the spare tire and claim it was stolen. We spread a heavy quilt on the floor of the trunk, checked to make sure the exhaust system was free of leaks, and Max punched a few tiny holes in the trunk lid with an icepick. I’d be wearing a one-piece padded refrigerator suit while I rode along in the trunk, the kind guys use to work inside meat lockers. That, plus the quilt, would keep me from breaking a few bones when Max slammed the cab around like I expected.

While Max finished checking over the cab, I got the giant portable tape player (another mugger’s donation) and a supply of tapes for Max to play while he drove. It was a little after eight when we finished, so I put some Judy Henske tapes in the player and Max and I continued our game of gin. We had previously agreed to play until one of us won a million dollars from the other. We’d been playing almost ten years and Max had all the score sheets from our first game in the Tombs to last week’s. I was a good seventy bucks ahead. We sat there, playing gin, smoking-me listening to the music, Max feeling the bass lines through his body. It was good to be sitting in the one club where I was always welcome. I think Max felt the same, although we never talked about it.

JUST PAST NINE we loaded up the cab and pulled out, me driving and Max as the passenger. We rolled the cab into my own garage. Max stayed there while I went upstairs, let Pansy out, and got her something to eat. Then I climbed into the trunk and Max took the wheel. No way I was going to let these people get a look at my face until I was sure it was going down like it should. If there were cops on the corner, Max would just motor right on by. We headed for the pickup point near Thirty-fourth Street. Although Max loved to drive, he generally behaved himself when he was at the wheel of a cab. Cabs were too sloppy for him-they didn’t respond to a delicate touch. The Plymouth was another story-every time I let him drive that beast he’d happily tear chunks out of the pavement, corner in four-wheel drifts, break 125 on the West Side Highway, and generally act like the city was a giant demolition derby. A lot of cabbies drove like maniacs but there was a purpose to it-making money. Max was immune to money.

I could feel the streets slip by-I could tell where we were just from the sounds and smells. I lay there wrapped in the quilt, looking like so much garbage in the filthy refrigerator suit. If anyone were to open the trunk, it would take them more than a second or two to figure out there was a live human being in there. By then they’d have mace, if not stars, in their eyes. We had checked the trunk light to make sure it wasn’t working.

The cab slowed to a gentle stop and the engine revved sharply-once, twice. It meant we were a few minutes early and Max didn’t want to turn the corner until he could do it right on the money. Okay. We started up again, turned a corner, drifted over to the right, and began slowing down in a long gradual slide. By now Max was blinking the lights like we had arranged. I heard someone say “That’s it” and people approach the cab. The back door opened and a voice said, “Are you the guy from Burke?” The cab lurched as Max took off-the body of one of them slammed backward from the acceleration and the cab shot straight ahead, heading for the West Side Highway.