Andrew Vachss - Flood

“You’ve had some real training, haven’t you?”

“Why would you say that?”

“It has to be hurting you, but you’re breathing properly.”

“That’s not training-it just hurts to breathe through my damn mouth.”

Flood slid across the seat until she was right up against me and gently squeezed my thigh. “Maybe you’re just a tough guy, Burke.”

I’m not a tough guy. If I could figure out a way to run from pain I’d do it at Olympic speed. I can’t do that so I let it just move through me like I was taught. But I couldn’t do it and drive the damn car at the same time. Actually, I couldn’t do it that well at all.

I put the Plymouth away and walked around to the front with Flood holding onto my arm. When we walked in the entranceway I leaned against the mailboxes like I was dizzy. She immediately threw her arm around my waist and pulled me against her, supporting me up the stairs. When I touched the mailbox the red-and-white lights the Mole had strung all around the office would start to flash in sequence. It was the signal for Pansy to stop whatever she was doing. Her aggressive juices would start flowing when she saw the flashes, she would pad over to her designated spot to the left of the door so she’d be just out of sight when it opened. There’s also a light switch that sets off a monster strobe light the Mole had mounted in what looked like a stereo speaker, blinding whoever walked in the door. If the strobe fired so would Pansy. She’d also fire if I walked in the door with my hands up, strobe or not. But I’d only hit the downstairs switch to keep her working and alert. Any dog will lose whatever conditioning you’ve put into her if you don’t reinforce and reward constantly.

When we got to the top of the stairs I told Flood to take my hand. She did it without questioning-I think she finally understood that my office wasn’t the place to act stupid. I opened the door, pushed the light switch down instead of up and walked in holding Flood’s hand. Pansy was standing to the left-chest out, fangs bared, and trembling with eagerness. She was supposed to wait in silence but a low rumbling growl escaped. Still, she didn’t move and she let Flood and me walk in hand-in-hand. I told Flood to sit on the couch, turned around and told Pansy “Good girl.”

She came loping over to me and I patted her hard enough to make a normal dog lapse into unconsciousness. Her giant tongue slobbered out and covered my face. Ignoring Flood, I told Pansy to stay and went next door to get her a slab of steak-small compensation for not being able to chew on a human being, but she would have to make do for now. I opened the back door and let her onto the roof and told Flood to stay just where she was until Pansy came back downstairs-you can only train a dog so much.

When Pansy came down I gave her the hand signal for friends and she ambled over to her spot on the Astroturf and lapsed into the semicoma that’s her normal waking state. I got out my medical kit and told Flood to give me a hand.

With everything laid out on the desk I turned on the overhead light so Flood could see what she was doing and leaned way back in my chair. Flood looked at the equipment. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

“First, spray some of this Xylocaine completely over the area.”

“What does it do?”

“It’s a nerve deadener. You may have to probe around in there and I know how clumsy you are.”

“I wish you had some real anesthetic here.”

“Flood, let me tell you something. Anesthesia isn’t like going to sleep the way the goddamned doctors tell you-it’s a disease the body eventually recovers from, that’s all. I’ve got some stuff like that but it’s not for working on myself, you understand?”

She said nothing, just tested the spray against her hand, then turned and shot it into my face where she’d kicked me. The spray stung, burned, then turned cold like it was supposed to. I reached in and removed the upper right-side bridge. It came out easily, covered with blood and some flesh, so she was right about me needing some stitches.

“Flood, take the swabs and the orange stuff there and clean out the whole thing so you can see what you’re doing.”

She did what I told her. She was breathing shallowly through her nose, and I tried to match my rhythm to hers. She saw what I was doing and gave me a quick smile of encouragement.

“Now take those little scissors and trim away anything that’s hanging loose. Just the part that looks like it’s going to be dead skin.”

Flood worked carefully but quickly. She would have made a great surgeon, but I guess her calling in life was to make work for the medical profession-or the undertaker.

“See if you can press the edges together-do they match up?”

“Almost.” She grimaced.

“Okay,” I said out of the good side of my mouth, “can you hold the edges together and sew with one hand?”

“I don’t think so.” She sounded upset.

“All right, all right, no big deal. Take my hand and show me where to put it, I’ll hold everything together. You take this needle”-I pointed to the tiny curved piece of shiny steel-“and put some small stitches in as careful as you can, okay? Remember, they have to come out. Make sure the edges are together firmly so it’ll knit. You understand?” Flood nodded, still concentrating. She threaded the tiny needle as easily as putting a pencil in a donut hole. “Work from one end across to the other. Don’t overlap, I’ll have to take them out later. Tie a big knot at the end. That’s where we’ll cut them off.”

Flood put the stitches in silently, occasionally motioning me to move my hands so she could see better. When she finished I held up the mirror to check. Lovely work. I smeared the gauze pad liberally with Aureomycin ointment and put it in place. It didn’t taste too sporty but it would drain well and stop any infection in its tracks. I poured alcohol over my bridge and let it sit in the glass-I wouldn’t be using it for a while-then flicked off the overhead light and lay back in the semidarkness with my eyes closed. Flood lit a cigarette from my pack. “Can you smoke?” She touched her own mouth. I nodded, took it from her. Smoked silently, watching the red tip glow illuminating Flood’s blonde hair.

She shifted her hips, sat down on the desk next to me and asked in a matter-of-fact tone what was next. She was still afraid I’d panic. I took another drag, handed the butt to her, and she stubbed it out for me. “I have to call someone about Goldor. Can’t do it until seven in the morning when they open up.”

Flood glanced toward the still-open back door. “That’s still a couple of hours, just about. You have any pain-killers here?”

“No good-they put you to sleep, slow you down. Have to do a lot of talking soon. Work things out for Goldor.”

“And you’re a tough guy, right? Don’t need ’em.”

“Right-that’s me.”

Flood stood up, took off the jacket she was wearing, and pulled the jersey top over her head. Her breasts looked like hard white marble in the dim light. She came back over to me, sat on the desk again.

“Does next door have a shower or a bath?”

“Why?”

“I want to make love to you, Burke. And if there’s no shower here, I’ll never get these damn pants on again afterward.”

“There’s a shower, but-”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to take them off.”

“More ancient Japanese techniques?”

“I don’t think so, but it’ll work just as well. Make you nice and sleepy, yes?”

“You sure?”

“Would you rather that way… or are you afraid I’ll hurt you if we…?”

“Both,” I said.

“Sold,” said Flood, and reached for my belt.