Andrew Vachss - Flood

Too much time had passed without a strike. I would have to call back the phony gunrunners tonight with a way to take some of their money or lose that pair of fish. Time was compressing in on me, I needed room to breathe. I guess when big executives get like this they go to the country, or even out of the country if they’re big enough. I could go them one better-one short trip to the Bronx and I could go right off this planet.

The Plymouth was waiting for me, kicked over on the first shot like it always does. I worked my way over to the East Side Drive and took the Triboro to Bruckner Boulevard and 138th Street, then nosed the Plymouth into the maze of abandoned side streets and kept driving until I was sure I was flying solo. When I spotted the rusty old cyclone fence wrapped with razor wire I edged the Plymouth along its perimeter until I found the open entrance, drove in a few feet, shut the engine, and waited.

I didn’t have long to wait. I saw a flash of dark fur, heard a thump on the hood and found myself looking through the windshield at the ugliest Great Dane in the world-a battered old harlequin, black and white, missing an eye and with teeth broken in front. He just sat there on the hood like he was some kind of bizarre ornament, bored with the whole thing. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but I could sense the other dogs gathering around the car. No barking, just low-pitched grunts like wolves nosing the body of an elk they had just downed. The dogs came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I could recognize traces of their original breeding in some of them, but they were all one version or another of the American Junkyard Dog-loyal, tenacious, intelligent, and dangerous-and most of all, good survivors. I saw what looked like a bull mastiff, several variations on the German shepherd, some smaller terriers, another, darker Dane, even what looked like a border collie. All with thick heavy coats that looked like they had been liberally groomed with transmission fluid. Some circled the car, while the others sat on their haunches and waited.

I couldn’t drive any deeper into the junkyard because I knew there was a ten-foot drop lying straight ahead. And I didn’t get out of the car-those dogs had never seen a can of Alpo in their lives. It wasn’t even noon yet but the place was dark. It always is.

When the dogs saw I knew the procedure they all sat back and waited expectantly. The monster Dane on the hood of the car pointed his snout toward the sky and let out a wail that sounded like Kaddish for canines. There was no other sound.

The Dane hit his aria again. One more time, then stone silence.

I badly wanted a cigarette but I just sat there, hands on top of the wheel. If things weren’t as they were supposed to be I could just throw the Plymouth into reverse and make believe I had never seen the place-that is, if the Mole hadn’t added some new nonsense since the last time I had visited. I wasn’t anxious to find out.

I watched the Dane. When his head swiveled sharply toward the side I knew what was coming. The brindle-colored dog bounded into the clearing about ten feet ahead of the car, effortlessly clearing the deep ditch. A mastiff-shepherd cross from the looks of him-a handsome bastard with a bull’s body and a wolf’s face. He had the same fur coat as the others but with a broad, arrogant tail that curled up over his back toward his neck. Perfect long white teeth flashed in a lupine grin. He slowly cruised the outside of the circle the other dogs had formed, moving with the delicacy and strength of a good welterweight, in no hurry. I heard answering grunts and growls from the other dogs, but they each made way for him. He shouldered his way through the pack until he was standing right next to my window, cocked his massive head, and gazed up at me. It was time. I slowly and evenly rolled down the glass, letting my face emerge so he could see me. But this beast was no sight-hound, and I had to use my voice-fast, before I couldn’t use it anymore at all.

“Simba, Simba -witz,” I called out. “What a good boy. How’s by you, mighty Simba? You remember me, pal? Simba-witz, I’m here to see my landsman, the Mole. Right, Simba? Okay, boy?”

I kept a running patter of stuff like that until I saw that Simba remembered my voice. I knew he wouldn’t attack if he heard his full name called, but I wanted to be sure. Calling him Simba would get his head up and paying attention, but Simba-witz was his full Hebrew name and only the Mole’s people would know that. The Mole once told me that Simba looked too much like a German shepherd-so even though he was the smartest of the pack, a natural leader and the father of dozens of the pups that were born in the junkyard every year, the Mole couldn’t love him until he figured out a solution. And thus Simba became the very first Israeli shepherd, dubbed Simba-witz, the Lion of Zion. The Mole told him this stuff so often that I think the beast believed the legend. I don’t really know if he thought he was a lion, but I did know he didn’t have to worry about a goddamned thing-he had his first pick of the food and his first pick of the women. A beautiful life, although the accommodations left a lot to be desired.

Simba gave me a short bark, rose up until his gnarled paws were resting on the rolled-down window. I kept talking to him, leaned forward, and he licked my face.

I slowly opened the door and climbed out, patting his head. I would have liked to throw some of the dog biscuits I keep in the car to the other dogs to make friends, but I knew what they would do if they were offered food without the magic word, like I have for Pansy. I didn’t know the word, and I didn’t want to be the food, so I left it alone.

Simba listened to me say “Mole” about ten times and then just turned and walked away. I followed as carefully as I could. The rest of the pack brushed against my legs, without malice-sort of herding me in the right direction. We walked until I found a solid piece of ground, then I went back to the Plymouth and pulled it around until it was out of sight from the street. I followed Simba and the pack deeper into the junkyard. When we finally came to a huge shack made of tarpaper and copper sheeting somewhere near the back fence, I stopped. I knew what to do from there, and Simba did too. He went off someplace into the artificial darkness, and I stood there waiting.

The pack hadn’t exactly lost interest in me, but you could tell they weren’t going to get excited. Most of them probably hadn’t seen anybody get this far before. I kept my eyes on the shack as though the Mole would emerge any minute. I knew better, but I knew the rules too.

I heard Simba grunting behind me and knew the Mole was coming, but I didn’t turn around until I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned, and there he was. The Mole-even in the dim light, his skin looked transparent, the blue veins corded on his hands like there wasn’t enough skin to cover everything. Short, stubby, clumsy-looking Mole, blinking his tiny eyes rapidly at the unaccustomed light of day. He was wearing one of those one-piece coverall outfits like mechanics use in gas stations and carrying a toolbox. In spite of his pale skin he was so dirty from his work that he looked like he was prepared for night surveillance. He moved close to me, bumping Simba aside like the beast wasn’t there. And Simba, with that respect for genuine lunacy shared by all animals, moved aside without even a growl.

The Mole put his hands in his pockets, looked carefully at me for a moment or two, and mumbled something to Simba, who immediately trotted off. Then he motioned that I should walk ahead of him to the shack.

As soon as I got past the hanging door I smelled muscatel, urine, and old wet rags. There was an orange crate in one corner with some old newspapers on top and a dirty raincoat lying open on the ground like it was a wino’s bed. Some empty bottles, candy wrappers, a broken piece of wood that had been a chair once. The Mole walked past the stuff like it wasn’t there, and I breathed through my mouth as I followed him.