Andrew Vachss - Flood

“That’s two thousand up front. I’m trusting you, right? For two grand-for two men. I haven’t seen any guns, right? I’m supposed to get a Bill of Lading, F.O.B., like we said. When I get that…”

“Agreed,” said James, reaching out his hand for me to shake while Gunther did his best to repress a grin at my stupidity.

The rest of the transaction didn’t take long. I gave them the address of the office building where they could set up, asked them what name they used for their outfit, and promised to have all the printing done by the next day. Before I handed over the two grand we had a nice professional discussion about the specific men I wanted them to recruit for my big operation.

“I need an explosives expert, a night sniper, and a martial arts man,” I told them. “I want real professionals too, not some guys who took a course someplace. We pay the going rate, two grand up front per man sign-up bonus, payable on arrival overseas to any bank they want, or just cash in their hands. Okay?”

“You said you had specific individuals?”

“Yeah, but no square names, just handles, right? The explosives guy calls himself Mr. Kraus. A tall, German-looking dude, wears steel-rimmed glasses, brush-cut, very clean-looking. He’s worked Africa before-he knows the story. If he hears about you, he’ll sign right up. The sniper, all I know about him is the name Blackie. Ex-Marine, did two hitches in ’Nam. I heard he had some trouble with ATF so he may be hard to find, but I think he’d like a vacation for a while. And the karate guy calls himself the Cobra.”

I threw in Wilson’s complete description, but not his right name. I wasn’t worried about paying the five Gs bonus on any of the other guys-they didn’t exist. And if they turned up the Cobra, he’d be worth the two grand I was fronting them.

When I handed over the money, James wanted to shake hands again. Gunther didn’t move, keeping his eye on Max all the time, looking at his back. That’s as close as he’d come.

“I’ll meet you at the new office tomorrow afternoon, say around two, okay? I may have some more info for you by then, and I’ll have all the printing done for sure. We run this thing for one week, maybe two at the most. Then we close the deal with whatever you have by then, okay?”

“Right,” said James. Gunther still wasn’t talking. Under other circumstances I would have been happy to leave them on the pier to find their own way home, but I loaded them back in the Buick and we drove them back to their personal pay phone. Gunther kept on staring at Max like he was going to twist his head off his spinal column. I watched Max’s hands on the steering wheel-they looked like old, cracked leather stuffed full of steel pebbles. They were very still.

On the way back to the warehouse Max made a fist of his right hand, squeezing it tighter and tighter as I watched. Then he looked at the top of his closed fist like something slimy was oozing out, scraped it away with his other hand, and made a throwing-away gesture. Yes. I told him, that was the idea-put enough pressure on the Cobra and he’d ooze out like pus from a wound.

Back at the warehouse I got into the Plymouth and Max and I went off to do our separate work. While I drove over to one of my cold pay phones to keep the pressure on, Max would be meeting with the Blood Shadows and giving them their instructions and equipment.

I got to the phone, set up the machinery to meet with Pablo’s people, caught the second call, and made delivery of the posters. Pablo agreed to handle the distribution. I gave him as many details as I reasonably could about Goldor’s death without mentioning Flood, explaining that it was unavoidable. I told him I’d thought about leaving some sort of UGL calling card in Goldor’s house but decided it was better not to-he said that I’d done right. I knew that-I’d never really thought about doing anything but getting the hell out of there, but I didn’t want him to think I’d been ungrateful for the information and the trust it implied.

I left Pablo and found another phone. From there a previously reliable informant told a certain DEA agent that a man precisely answering the Cobra’s description was going to be moving some major narcotics through either Kennedy or LaGuardia Airport in the next week or two: They’d listen-the last tip from this informant had netted them fifteen kilos of high-grade cocaine on the way in from Peru.

I checked my watch-just enough time to hit Times Square, make the last phone call of the night, and watch the Blood Shadows at work. I found a booth near Ninth Avenue and Forty-second Street, just around the corner from the national headquarters of SAVE (Sisterhood Against Vice and Enslavement).

I told the young lady answering the phone that a very bad thing would happen to each and every member of that organization if they didn’t shut their mouths about all this kiddie-porn nonsense. The young woman gave the phone to their executive director, and I ended up threatening her with hideous mutilation if she didn’t get off my motherfucking case. When she calmly asked, “Who is calling, please?” I told her, “The Cobra, you fuckin’ cunt,” and slammed down the phone.

Still holding down the hook, I unscrewed the mouthpiece and removed the encoder disc the Mole had made for me. It didn’t so much disguise my voice as make it impossible to voice-print. I had a few of the discs, but there was no harm in using the same one for the SAVE people as I used for the DEA-no reason why a drug informant couldn’t be a child molester too.

I was walking toward my car just as two of the war-wagons rolled past me and slammed to a halt. All the doors opened at the same time, discharging a cold-eyed cargo. The young Chinese marched down the wide street in military formation, looking straight ahead. They walked in silence-nobody barred their way. Their leader saw a porno shop on his left, pivoted on his heel, and entered. His men followed at his back. I knew what would be happening inside-the leader would engage the man at the desk in some polite conversation (like, “You don’t move, please,” punctuated with a 9-mm automatic leveled at the clerk’s face), and the rest of the army would fan out through the shop. They would find an appropriate space on a wall, slap on the stencil we’d made up, take out a can of the spray paint and do their work. When they pulled off the stencil, the wall would say COBRA BE WARNED! THE MONGOOSE IS COMING! Then they would walk out-nobody would call the cops, and if someone did a petty vandalism arrest with a guarantee that no complaining witness would ever come to court wouldn’t bother these boys. I could just see Blumberg defending this one on the ground that the Blood Shadows were engaged in some citywide anti-porn campaign.

It would take the army less than an hour to cover the whole area, then they would vanish. I’d given Max three hundred for the job to cover expenses in case the kids asked-but I didn’t think they would.

I had a couple more things to do before I rested for the night. First, another stop at the printer’s to make up the stationery and business cards for James and Gunther, who’d decided to call themselves Falcon Enterprises-white paper, green ink. While I was there I used the machine and made up a plastic sign for their office door too. Nothing but first class all the way.

By then it was almost ten-thirty so I headed toward the Village. I had seen a meeting of the Boundaries Society advertised in one of the local slime sheets. The topic for the night’s meeting was Inter-Generational Sex, the new euphemism for child molesting. I had been to one of those meetings before-all about how early sexualization prepares a child for the realities of modern living. Most of the audience had been male, some of them with their “wards.” It was a long shot that the Cobra would show up to greet his brothers, but still, a shot worth playing.