Andrew Vachss - Flood

When I finally checked my watch, hours had flown by. Max was as intent as ever. Finally we found a horse that had been running strong at Rockingham, up in New Hampshire, and was shipping in for the first time. A three-year-old that hadn’t been heavily staked, he was trying the older horses in a $27,000 claimer. He had a good driver, decent but not spectacular breeding, and he looked tough as nails. And Rockingham was a couple of seconds slower than Roosevelt, track for track. Looked good to me-I thought he was maybe in a little cheap, and leaving from an inside post to boot. The horse was named Honor Bright, but I don’t bet on names. Max took our two hundred and used my pen to circle the horse on the racing form. Then he nodded at me, bowed, smiled, and split.

It was about time to meet Flood, so I did the same.

IT WAS ALMOST seven when I poked the Plymouth’s nose down Flood’s block the way a ferret sticks his nose down a hole before taking the plunge. Everything seemed quiet, so I rolled down my window and snaked out the hand-held spotlight so it was pointed across the windshield directly at Flood’s door. When I flicked the switch the night turned into day-nothing happened, nobody jumped from the shadows. Flood walked out the door wearing an ankle-length maxicoat with a big pocketbook slung over one shoulder. She climbed in the car without a word and I set it rolling downtown.

As soon as we straightened out, Flood started pulling pieces of paper out of her bag and talking at the same time. “I did exactly what you told me. I looked through everything. There’s no name even like his anywhere. I even asked the clerk to help me and he did and we still couldn’t find anything.”

“Just calm down, Flood. It’s no tragedy. Did you write down all the docket numbers from the days I told you to check?”

“Every single one. There’s no-”

“Never mind.” I already had an idea about the Cobra, and if Flood had done her job we’d know soon enough. We still had a little time so I pulled into a parking place, got the pocket flash from the glove compartment, and took Flood’s notes out of her hand. I was trying to concentrate but I was slowly being knocked unconscious by Flood’s perfume-it smelled like Eau de Whorehouse and it was thicker than flies on a corpse.

“Flood! What the hell is that stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“That fucking perfume! It smells like a used motel room.”

“I thought it would go with my outfit,” she said bitterly, and the maxicoat fell open to reveal Flood. Revealed her because the clothes she had on obviously did nothing to cover her-a jersey sweater clearly worn without benefit of a bra, and pink pants so tight I could see the muscles of her thighs. Even the black wig said Slut.

“Flood, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said I had to wear this nonsense, so I thought-”

“Flood, for chrissakes, I said to wear the outfit to court, right? Not for the rest of your life.”

“You didn’t tell me I should change, so-”

“Don’t you have a fucking grain of common sense?”

“First I’m a dumb broad because I don’t listen to you-now I’m a dumb broad because I do. Which is it?”

“Flood, the outfit was for court, so they’d look at your body and not pay any attention to your face. Tonight we’re seeing an assistant D.A.”

“You think he won’t look?” Flood pouted like a real brat. I would have given her a smack if I wasn’t afraid of permanent injury.

“Sure he’ll look. But he’s a professional, not like those rumdums at the courthouse. He’ll remember your face anyway. And it won’t matter-he’s a straight citizen, not one of the bad guys.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’ Wonderful.”

“You want me to go home and change?”

“There’s no time. We can’t be late for this. Besides, you’d have to take a bath for a month to get that smell off.”

“I only did it because-”

“Bullshit, Flood. You’re not that dumb. I think you like wearing that get-up.”

Flood got a dangerous edge to her voice when she said, “What?”

“You heard me. This isn’t a game, right? Use some sense.”

“I’ll keep the coat buttoned, Burke. Okay?”

“Keep your lip buttoned too.”

In a sweet little-girl voice, Flood said, “Please don’t get mad, daddy,” and reached over to squeeze my hand. Then she moved over against the passenger door like some high-school girl rejecting a pass. By the time the Plymouth was turning into Baxter Street behind the courthouse I felt some life come back into my hand. Actually, I’d thought it was paralyzed for life, but I’m too tough to scream. I’ve got my pride too.

I parked the Plymouth where I could move it easily if I had to. I told Flood, “That was childish. You’re a real adolescent. Give me your coat.”

“What for?”

“Because we’re going to walk up the steps, and people besides the D.A. will be watching, right? Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to wear that outfit after all. But stop being a baby, okay?”

Flood said okay, handed me the coat, and turned to go. I checked to see nobody was around, then dropped an old business card on the ground. My arms were full of Flood’s coat and briefcase, so I said “Grab that, will you, Flood? When she bent at the waist to pick it off the ground, I gave her a healthy smack with the hand she’d squeezed. It was like slapping a side of beef-the pain shot from my hand right up my arm. Flood straightened up like nothing had happened, giggled and said, “Used the wrong hand, huh?” She wiggled off ahead of me and after we got about ten feet said, “Want to give me my coat back now?” I did and I wouldn’t think Flood was dumb anymore. At least not about some things.

Toby stood up when we came through his door. He always dresses the same day or night, whether he’s on trial in Supreme Court or sitting around his office listening to political discussions: Brand X three piece-suit, solid-color buttondown shirt, striped tie, wingtip shoes. Toby has a thick mustache but it doesn’t make him look any older than he really is-late thirties, I’d guess. His image is perfect for juries: solid, respectable, middle-class, not flashy or arrogant. Toby’s not a man with major resentments about his life. He’s not crazy about the fact that some defense attorneys who couldn’t carry his briefcase make five times the money he does, but he lives with it. No politician, his rise through the office has been steady if not spectacular. He doesn’t like criminals much, but he doesn’t stay up nights planning how he’s going to stop them all by himself. But he doesn’t like baby-rapers a whole lot. Maybe because he has little ones of his own-I don’t know. I do know he’s sincere about it-I’ve worked with him before. Toby held out his hand.

“Mr. Lawrence, good to see you. And this is Mrs. Lawrence?”

“Yeah, this is the little woman,” I said, carefully keeping clear of Flood’s reach.

“What’s on?”

“There a guy, Martin Howard Wilson, who rapes babies for fun and profit. Without boring you with a long story, we’d like to find him.”

“Why come to me?”

“He was indicted over here for sodomizing a kid. The kid died. So did the indictment. I figure he rolled over on somebody and maybe there was good enough reason for your people to let him go, okay? But he didn’t pay for what he did and I represent some people who think he should.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“About the people, no. About the maggot, sure. I got a decent physical description, approximate age, last known whereabouts, even an alias. Calls himself The Cobra, if you’re ready for that.”

“What else?”