Andrew Vachss - Flood

When I got there the guardian of the front door said “No police,” and I looked around like I was frightened at the very word but it was no go-I wasn’t getting inside without a major beef.

I decided it probably wasn’t worth the hassle, but I still had a job to do so I sat in the Plymouth listening to Judy Henske for another two hours until the meeting disgorged its vermin into the streets. I watched each face carefully. No Cobra.

It was almost one in the morning by the time I nosed the Plymouth out of its parking space and headed for Flood.

I LET MYSELF into Flood’s place, working the downstairs locks with my set of picks. It took about a minute-a very secure setup. I moved up the stairs, checking for feedback visually, then closed my eyes, regulated my breathing, and rechecked on audio. Nothing. I rapped on Flood’s studio door with two gloved knuckles. No response-at least she wasn’t a total idiot. I knew she’d be near the door so I called out, “It’s me, Flood” just loud enough for her to hear and the door swung open into a darkened room. I turned as it closed behind me and caught a flash of Max’s black robes. The light was dim inside, but I knew my way and I walked around the taped-off section of the floor over to Flood’s private place. She was right behind me.

“That lock downstairs is a joke, Flood. Any halfass could work his way through in a couple of minutes.”

“So how long did it take you?” sweet Flood replied.

“Don’t be snappy, babe. When you spook a weasel out of his hole, he bites. If Wilson gets wise, he’s coming for you.”

“I wish he would. I’m sick of this… this hunting. If I knew where he was he wouldn’t have to come for me.”

“That’s not the point, damn it. If someone can get in one door they can get in another.”

“We’re not trained to protect property, Burke. We aren’t guard dogs. We protect ourselves, a small circle around ourselves. If anyone comes into that circle, locks or doors won’t matter.”

“And you were waiting inside the door to this place?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So if he raps and raps on the door and you don’t answer, you just let him walk away?”

“No. If he didn’t try and work his way through the door I would answer him-I would sound scared, encourage him to force his way in and-”

“And be ready for him?”

“Yes.”

“That door’s made of wood, nothing but bullshit veneer over soft pine.”

“So?”

“So a twelve-gauge blasts it right off the hinges. That’s one barrel-the second would be for you.”

“Maybe.”

“Go ahead, Flood, pout some more-a perfect little baby you are. Maybe. Isn’t that fucking cute. I told you before, when we find this freak, you can have your duel, okay? Until then, you just be a good soldier and follow orders.”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“You are in this army. Be glad you’re a soldier-there’s worse things.”

“Maybe being afraid is a worse thing.”

“Get off that train, Flood. It’s going nowhere. Being afraid is a good thing, a smartening thing. You’re not afraid, great-but that’s not smart. We don’t have time now, you understand? We’re close to him.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. That’s my work, that’s how I keep doing my work. He’s out there and he’s close.”

She came over to where I was sitting on the floor. She sat down, put her hand on my shoulder, and looked into my face.

“Burke, I want to do something. I’m sorry-I have most of my training but I don’t have the patience-not yet. When this is over I’ll work on it, I promise. But let me do something with you on this. I can do some things-I helped you so far, didn’t I?”

I didn’t mention how she had helped with Goldor-what was the point?

“There’s something you can do,” I told her. “An acting job on the phone. It has to be done in a couple of hours, and we have to find a pay phone to do it from, okay?”

“Okay,” she answered, brightening a bit.

“I’ll go over it with you until you get it right-we won’t get a second chance.”

“And it will help bring him to us?”

“Look at the wall, Flood. You see it? Don’t glare at me like that- look at it. Okay, now draw a square on the wall with your mind-a white square-the whole border is made up of tiny pieces of tile, all different colors, dark shades. Okay?”

A short pause from Flood, then, “Yes, I see it.”

“We are going to make a mosaic, you and me. We’re going to keep filling in the square, working from the corners in until the whole thing is tiled over, yes?”

“Yes,” she said, concentrating.

“But no white tiles, all right? Only the last tiny little tile is white. That’s him-that’s the Cobra-and his tile doesn’t go down until all the other tiles are on the board. That’s the way it works. He sits outside the board holding his one white tile, deciding where to put it, running out of space. But our tiles keep coming down and the more he waits, the less space he has. He won’t put it down until there’s no other space.”

“Maybe he won’t put it down at all.”

“He has to put it down. He’s floating in the air above the board, Flood-he has to come down-the board is his whole world. There’s no other place for him to go.”

“If we just work from the corners in… if we work according to a set pattern, well… won’t he know what we’re doing?”

“Not for a while. And when he does see it, when he sees the walls coming in on him, he may put his tile down fast, make his move while he still thinks he has some choices left.”

Flood looked at the wall, speaking in a faraway voice. “Yes… and if he puts his tile down while he still has some room… that’s what you meant about him coming here?”

“Yes, baby,” I said quietly.

“I understand. And the phone call you want me to make…?”

“Another couple of tiles on the board.”

“Let’s do it, Burke,” she said, turning to me with a chilling smile on her beautiful face-and we started the rehearsals together.

IT WAS ALMOST four-thirty in the morning by the time Flood and I finished our work. We left her place after the rehearsal and went to my office, let Pansy out on the roof, and gathered up some equipment. Then back into the Plymouth and over to the warehouse. I took Flood’s hand and led her to the back, where I plugged in the phone set. I wasn’t so much worried about a trace on the call, but we needed a private space to work and I didn’t want some nosy citizen blundering into a pay phone at that hour. Or a cop.

I made the connections and switched on the microcassette to check the twin speakers for feedback. The setup worked perfectly, sounds of a nightclub at closing time filled the little room-glasses clinking, loud stupid-drunk voices, tinny disco music, a wall of noise. I played with the volume and equalizer controls until it sounded just right, slipped the encoder disc into the mouthpiece of the field phone, and punched in the number, handing the instrument to Flood.

We heard the phone being picked up on the third ring. “FBI. Special Agent Haskell speaking. May I help you?”

And Flood’s voice came on, sounding cigarette-raspy and scared at the same time. “Is this the FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am, how can we help you?”

“I work at Fantasia, you know, in Times Square?”

“Yes, ma’am. And your name is?”

“My name is… no-wait! Just listen, okay? I’m not going to tell you that. There’s a guy that was in here tonight. He was drinking, but not too much, right? But he was fucked up, you know? His eyes were crazy-not like they usually get here when they see the girls, real crazy. And he was talking to himself. People would sit down near him and then they would just get up and move away.”