Andrew Vachss - Flood

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And… we have to… like, sit with the customers, you know? It’s the job. So he grabbed me and he wouldn’t let me get up. He told me that President Reagan was a miserable traitor, you know? A Commie ass-kisser. He said Reagan promised he was going to invade Cuba and recognize South Africa and all kinds of stuff I didn’t understand.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the agent again, but the twin speakers finally revealed an undercurrent of interest in his voice. “Could you describe this individual, please?”

Flood gave him a detailed description of Wilson, talking fast and breathy-we knew the feds would be recording the call. Then she hit him with the clincher. “And I’m calling you because he said he’s going to kill the president. He said people wouldn’t listen to anything else. And he has a gun. I saw it-a big black gun-and he has this book, like a notebook, you know? He said he works for the CIA and he’s on a secret mission to educate America.”

Silence from the agent, but you could feel him willing Flood to go on, not wanting to break the flow of her words. “I’m so scared,” said Flood, “he knows my name-he asked me if I was a loyal American. I was scared to call the CIA because, like… maybe he was telling the truth. Is he? I mean, do you know…?”

“No, ma’am.” His voice was tense but controlled now. “We know of no such individual as you describe. Did he tell you his name?”

“He said I should call him the Cobra, like the snake on the flag, whatever that means.”

“Yes, ma’am. We would like to have an agent come and speak with you. Are you still at your place of business?”

“Yes-I mean, no! I mean, I’m leaving now… I’m leaving. I just wanted to tell you because I think he really means it, you know?”

“Yes, ma’am, we appreciate your call. Now if we can just-”

But Flood was already hanging up. I disconnected all the equipment, shut off the tape, and went back to the Plymouth. We drove over to Forty-second Street, but on the East Side. I wanted to drop off a new ad for the Daily News, complete with money order. If things went as planned it would run tomorrow: COBRA! I UNDERSTAND AND I CAN HELP YOU WITH YOUR PROBLEM. PLEASE CALL… and then there would be a phone number. Whoever dialed that number would hear the phone answered with “Major Felony Squad, Detective So-and-So speaking,” and I didn’t think the conversation would go on long after that. But its effect would linger.

I NEEDED TO go to the Bronx to see the Mole, and I also needed Michelle to work this last bit. I figured I’d ask her to go along for the ride-Flood would have made the mixture too tricky. I told her we wouldn’t be rolling until tomorrow, to get some sleep and be ready. I dropped her off and turned back down toward the docks.

For once I was running in some luck. I spotted Michelle daintily hoisting herself out of the front seat of a dark Chrysler sedan. I watched from a distance as she waved good-bye to whoever was inside, then I nosed the Plymouth slowly over to where she was standing.

She was fumbling in her huge pocketbook for something when I pulled alongside. She recognized the car, opened the door for herself, and climbed in next to me. I pulled away without saying a word.

Finally she extracted a tiny bottle full of some dark liquid from her purse, took a deep pull, swished the stuff around in her mouth, and rolled down the window to spit it into the night.

“Want some, baby?”

“No thanks. What is it… mouthwash?”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Burke. It’s cognac.”

“I’ll pass. You want to work tonight?”

“Baby, I am working-I just spit my last job out of your window.”

“Something else, okay?” Sometimes I hate what she does to make a buck.

“Don’t you snap at me, Burke. You’re not my fucking parole officer.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m your friend, okay? And I’m taking you to see another friend.”

“Who?” Still not mollified.

“The Mole.”

“Oh, the poor child still can’t call up and make his own dates?”

“Michelle, give me a break. We need to set up another office. I need Mole for the electronics and you for the phones.”

“This has something to do with the job for Margot?”

“I hope you heard about that from Margot herself.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise the individual involved may know more than he should.”

“Oh, Dandy knows from nothing, dear, but the Prophet’s been doing his Armageddon number so I trust whatever’s coming down will be here soon.”

“As soon as I find this freak.”

“Just you and me on this job?”

“And the Mole.”

“Oh goodie. I love the Mole.”

“Michelle, listen-don’t drive the poor bastard any crazier than he already is, okay?”

“Can I help it if I’m attracted to intellectuals? After all, it’s rare enough that a woman of my accomplishments can have a decent conversation with her peers.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised with an evil smile.

We motored along sedately until we crossed the line to the Bronx. I found a working pay phone, reached the Mole, and set up a meet near the junkyard. I didn’t want to bring Michelle inside-I was afraid she’d insist on some major interior decorating.

We sat there waiting. It was a quiet night, except for the occasional howling of a dog or a police siren.

“I’m on a dead fucking blank, Michelle. He was here, somewhere in the cesspool, but he’s gone. I’m not going to find him now-he’s got to come to me.”

“You have to play the cards they deal you, baby.”

“Who says so?”

“The Dealer,” said Michelle. And she was right.

The Mole materialized now at the side of the car. I rolled down the window all the way.

“Mole, I need some work done in an office building-phones, lights, stuff like that.”

“So?”

“So I need it tomorrow. In Moscow’s building-the little place upstairs, okay?”

Before he could answer, Michelle draped herself halfway across my lap and fixed her luminous eyes on her target. “Well, Mole, don’t say hello or anything!”

“Michelle-” was all the Mole got out before she was off and running.

“Now, Mole, it’s not polite to just ignore people. Especially your friends.”

“I didn’t see you-”

“Mole, please. It is common knowledge that you can see in the dark. You wear some clean overalls tomorrow-I don’t want you tracking mud all over my…”

I elbowed Michelle sufficiently to get her back on her side of the car, shrugged what-can-you-do? to the Mole, who just said, “Tomorrow morning,” and disappeared.

Michelle pouted for a few minutes on the way back, then started to giggle. The Mole has that effect on her. We made all the arrangements and I said I’d pick her up tomorrow.

Usually I don’t dream. That night I dreamt of a leering lunatic standing over a fiery pit, throwing in one child after another. I knew somehow that when enough kids hit the bottom of the pit, it would reach critical mass and explode in his face. But I woke up before that happened.

WE GOT TO the new office around ten in the morning. I had already called Moscow the landlord and confirmed that the clowns had paid him a month’s rent in front for the two-room suite on the fourteenth floor. As soon as I heard that I sent Max over to see Moscow with the additional two hundred for the little room just above the suite. Two hundred for two weeks-that was the going rate with Moscow for the setup. He periodically rents the two-room suite on the fourteenth to one group after another. He has a long list of clients-I was just one of the list. When the wiseguys pull one of their bust-out deals on a garment center manufacturer or a restaurant they rent the suite as a front and take the little room right above it to have a place to go if things get ugly. And when some dingbat radicals decide to establish a new international headquarters, Moscow rents the little room upstairs to the federales so they can eavesdrop in peace and quiet. The little room upstairs isn’t much bigger than a closet, but it has an attached bathroom and decent ventilation. You can be comfortable up there for days at a time-I know.