Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Now that’s it. I’ve told you everything I can, and I’ve told you with the understanding that you’re looking for this individual and if you locate him you will promptly report his whereabouts to our office. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said, and blasted Flood with my eyes so she’d keep the disappointment that was trembling around her mouth from erupting into words. Toby got up to shake hands. The interview was over. I palmed the piece of paper he slipped me without saying a word, and Flood just nodded curtly at him, snatched her coat off the rack, and we left.

I could feel Flood steaming beside me as we walked to the car. She yanked off her coat, flung it into the back seat, folded her arms, and stared through the windshield. We drove to her place in stony silence. I parked the car, got out with her, and reached for her hand as we walked down the block to her loft. She pulled it away, said nothing. The door to her studio was slightly stuck-probably the humidity-and Flood hit it a shot with the palm of her hand that practically knocked it off its hinges. She stalked through to her own place and was ripping off the jersey top even before I got to sit down. Then she pulled off the rest of her clothes, put on a rose silk robe, and sat down directly across from me.

“Nothing. Nothing. We don’t know a goddamned thing we didn’t know before-”

“Flood, shut up. We know all we need to know now.”

“You’re a fool, Burke. And I’m a bigger fool for listening to you. He told us nothing, don’t you understand?”

“We know the name of a group interested in Goldor, right? Maybe Goldor knows where to find our man.”

“And maybe he doesn’t. And maybe he won’t tell us. And what do you know about Puerto Rican terrorist groups anyway? It’s nothing.”

Flood looked like she couldn’t decide whether to cry or kill. For as long as I knew this woman I kept overestimating her or underestimating her-maybe I’d never know her long enough to get it right.

I took the piece of paper Toby had slipped me out of my coat pocket, smoothed it out carefully, and turned it around so it was facing her. It took a second for Flood’s eyes to focus on the black-and-white standard mug shot, one full-face view and one in profile. It showed a man just over six feet tall, with a face that was broad at the top and narrowed down to a pointed chin. He had dark hair, dark, bulging eyes, a narrow nose with a too-large tip. The head was slightly jug-eared, and there were old acne scars on both cheeks. His hair was on the long side, but cut close in front so his entire forehead was visible. On the back of the Xeroxed mug shot there was a typed notation: “4-inch scar outside left thigh. Tattoos: right bicep/ Death Before Dishonor with Eagle, left outside forearm/ initials A.B. in a blue circle-wears contact lenses.”

Flood stared at the mug shot like she was going to climb inside the paper. I broke her concentration when I turned the paper over. She read it slowly and carefully, moving her lips, memorizing.

“Him?”

“It’s him, Flood.”

And her face became a sunburst and her eyes sparkled and I’ll never see a more radiant smile-it turned the whole room warm. Flood held the mug shot and chuckled to herself, smiling that smile. She threw off the robe, turned around, and bent over, looking back over her shoulder at me.

“You want to try that trick of yours again?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“It won’t be the same. Promise.”

“How come?” I was suspicious.

“Ancient Japanese technique.”

So I gave her a half-hearted smack and she was right. It was like patting soft, bouncy female flesh-the best there is.

“See?”

“You know any other Japanese techniques?”

Flood looked back over her shoulder with that same wonderful smile and said, “Oh yes.” It turned out she was right.

WHEN I WOKE up it was early morning, still dark outside. I reached for Flood but she wasn’t next to me on the mat. Some things I guess you never learn. I got up and made enough noise moving around so I wouldn’t surprise her. Not a sound from Flood’s room.

I found her back in a corner sitting in the lotus position, staring at a tiny table completely covered with a white silk cloth that reached to the floor. On the tabletop was a small picture in a plain black frame of a young woman holding a little girl on her lap. The woman was smiling into the camera and the little girl looked very serious, like kids do sometimes. Next to the picture was the mug shot of Wilson. Flood had something propped up behind it, so the two pictures faced each other.

Hearing me behind her, Flood turned and said, “Soon, okay?” I went back to the mat. In a minute or two she came out and sat down next to me.

“It was wrong of me to go through the ceremony alone-I just didn’t want to wait any longer. You have the right to watch if you want.” She held out her hand and pulled me to my feet.

I followed her back inside to the corner where she’d set everything up. She motioned to me to sit down a few feet away from her and flowed into the lotus position again. Soon she began to say something in Japanese. It wasn’t repetitious and didn’t sound like a prayer, but when she finished she bowed to the tiny table. Then she got to her feet, took off the robe she’d been wearing, and put on a long red robe with dragons on both sleeves. From a dark-red lacquered box she took a piece of red silk and what looked like a six-inch metal spike with a dark wood handle. The spike went between the two pictures and the red silk was placed over the picture of Sadie and Flower. Then Flood said something in Japanese again, pulled the red silk from the photograph, and carefully wrapped it around the spike. Taking the covered spike in one hand and her friend’s picture in the other, she held them both in front of her face for a minute, knelt and placed them in the lacquered box.

Only the mug shot remained on the little table. She stood facing it and smiled-if Wilson could have seen that smile he would have found a painless way to kill himself. Flood bowed deeply toward the table, spun around, and flowed out of the room. I followed her to the mat and sat down. She brought me an ashtray and I lit a smoke. She waited until I stubbed it out before speaking.

“Do you understand?”

“A sacred weapon that you just blessed?”

“That is how he will die.”

“Flood, listen to me, okay? I’m already in this too deep. I see he has to die but that’s really no punishment. Prison is worse, believe me-I know. If you have to kill somebody, then that’s what you have to do. You start worrying about how you’re going to do it, start putting restrictions on yourself, then you get caught. What’s the difference if you blow up his apartment building or drop him with a rifle at a hundred yards or poison his coffee? He’ll still be just as dead.”

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“I never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to hurt me like you want to do to him.”

“He already hurt me.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“So he’s innocent?”

“No, he’s a maggot, Flood. He can’t be rehabilitated or reformed or even contained, okay? But you’re taking a job and making it personal. That’s bad enough-but with all this religious stuff you’re going to lead the law right to you when it’s over.”

“And to you, right?”

“Right.”

“You think I’d ever talk, ever tell anyone about you?”

“Never in a thousand years. If I ever met a person in my life who’d stand up, it’s you.”

“So?”

“So listen to me, you crazy bimbo. I’m not saying I’m not going to help you. I’m just not going for all this religious nonsense so we can get ourselves caught. I’ll help you find him, even help you cancel his fucking ticket, okay? But if we have to drop him some other way, that’s the way we’re going to do it, understand?”