Andrew Vachss - Flood

Michelle and I took the stairs to the top-she bitched all the way about climbing in spike heels. I set her up in the little room and told her just to wait and be cool. She opened her makeup case, took out a clutch of Gothic novels, and sat down without another word. I took the stairs back down to the unattended lobby, checked the directory but couldn’t find Falcon Enterprises. Carrying my suitcase, I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, knocked, heard “Come on in” from James, who was at the desk in the front room-I heard Gunther rooting around in the back. Nice-looking setup, all right-a battered wood desk with an old wood swivel chair for the front, a long table on shaky legs with two more wooden chairs in the back, linoleum floors, bare whitewashed walls, two windows in the back room that hadn’t been opened since the Dodgers deserted Brooklyn. Moscow wasn’t selling decor.

I shook hands with James. “I brought you some stuff,” I said, opening the suitcase. He looked on happily as I brought out the letterhead stationery complete with cable address, envelopes, business cards, desk calendar, assorted legal pads, and ballpoint pens. Then I took out the Rhodesian army recruiting poster, and a black-and-white line-drawing of a soldier with his foot firmly planted on a mound of dead enemies. The soldier was holding a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. The poster said: “Communism Stops Here!” A couple of large maps of Africa completed the decorations, and we sat down to have a smoke. Comrades in arms.

Gunther strolled in, gave me what was meant to be a chilling look once he saw Max was not on the set. He grunted as he looked over my supplies but his eyes lit up when he saw the business cards. He immediately stuffed a bunch in his pocket-legitimate at last. I sat in the swivel chair, put my feet on the desk. “My man will be here in a while. He’s got an in with the phone company so you won’t have to wait for an installation. You give him a yard and by the time you get the first month’s bill you’ll be gone.”

It was okay by him-they were still playing with my money.

Both were in excellent spirits, smiling between themselves. You could see the idea of a real office and a front appealed to them. James was walking around the place, scratching his chin like he was deep in thought. “It’s going to work-work very well indeed, I can see that. But you know… it lacks something, some touch that would indicate the scope of our operation. Our dedication to purpose, so to speak.”

Before I could say anything Gunther smiled and pulled out a matte-black combat knife-the kind where the handle is a set of brass knuckles so you can break bones or tear flesh. He stared at my face, and I could see he was still hurting from what we did to him in the warehouse. He walked over to the desk where I was sitting and slammed the knife into the top so hard the whole thing jumped. He slowly removed his hand, watching me all the while, the knife stuck halfway into the desktop.

James said, “Yes, exactly. Just the right touch.”

Gunther glared over at me. “You said something about publicity?” He made it sound like a threat, and stalked off into the back room. Gunther was as tough to read as yesterday’s race results.

“Is he okay?” I asked James, just loud enough for Gunther to hear.

“Oh, he’s fine, Mr. Burke. Just nerves. Gunther’s more a man of action, you might say. I’ll handle the recruiting.”

“Okay…” Like I really gave a damn. There was a soft knock at the door and the Mole entered, wearing his Ma Bell uniform, carrying a toolbox and sporting a giant leather belt around his waist full of enough gadgets to perform brain surgery on a rhino. Not on Gunther, though-the Mole didn’t carry a microscope.

Without a word to anyone the Mole walked the length of the front room, his eyes blinking rapidly behind the thick lenses. He squatted down, pulled a couple of push-button phones out of his toolbox, and went to work. He put the white phone on James’s desk and went back to put the red one on the long table. Gunther gave him a fearsome stare and expanded his chest-the Mole never changed expression, just went on with his wiring job. The whole number took him about ten minutes, after which he walked over to James and extended one damp, plump white hand, palm up. James seemed to be thinking it over for a split-second, then reached in his wallet, pulled out a hundred, and handed it over. The Mole turned and exited.

James looked over at me. “Your man’s not much of a conversationalist, is he?”

“Try the phones,” I suggested.

James sat down at his desk, hit 411, asked the operator for the number of the Waldorf-Astoria, got the number, dialed the Waldorf, made reservations for two in a suite for one week from then. I guess he expected his ship to come in.

I got up to leave. “You’ll be hearing from this reporter I told you about. That should give you all the publicity you’ll ever need. Call me at this number,” I said, handing him a card, “and I’ll be back in touch with you within one hour no matter what time you make contact, okay?”

“Certainly,” said James, extending his hand. I shook it, waved at Gunther, who glowered back, and walked out to the elevator.

A few minutes later I was climbing the stairs to Michelle’s little room. As I got to the top step I saw the Mole standing in a corner, watching and waiting-even with his pasty skin you had to look twice to see him sometimes, he was so motionless. I waved him on and we went into the little room. Michelle was facing the door-she looked up from her book when she saw me and really flashed to life when she saw I wasn’t alone.

“Mole, baby! How’s things in the underground?”

The Mole blinked a few more times than usual, gave Michelle his best try at a smile, but said nothing, as usual. He began to empty out his toolbox with the sure movements of a professional. He didn’t need to check out the room, he had worked this place before. Out of the toolbox came a square metal rig with all kinds of toggle switches on its face as well as two little lights, one red and one green. He plugged in a phone mouthpiece and receiver, then ran some wires over to a little box that looked like the face of a pocket calculator. He opened up the mouthpiece, screwed in one of the supressor discs, ran some wires over to the wall, snapped in some other piece of equipment, touched two wires together, took a reading, opened a tripod with a flat top, and put the phone unit on top of that. All the time he was working, Michelle watched him with hawk’s eyes.

The Mole pulled out two more phone sets, plugged them into the major unit, and ran some more wires toward the back wall. All this took him the better part of a half hour. Michelle and I didn’t say a word-this was complicated work and we knew the Mole didn’t like kibitzers. He moved with assurance and grace-no microsurgeon could have been better with his hands. When he finished he played with the setup for a couple of minutes, wearing his rubber gloves, then finally turned to us. “When the red light is on you make no calls. Green light, it’s okay to use. The left phone picks up downstairs. The next phone is incoming to you from all the numbers you gave me. You dial out only with this box.”

“Thanks, Mole,” I said, slipping him his money, which disappeared someplace into his uniform.

As the Mole turned to go Michelle said, “Mole,” making him turn to face her. “Mole, you remember I asked you to find out about that operation? The one for me?”

The Mole nodded, blinking behind his glasses.

“Would it work, Mole? Would it be what I want?”

The Mole spoke like he was reading from a book. “The operation is for true transsexuals-only for transsexuals. Biologically it would work. Assuming competent surgery and proper postoperative care, the only associated problems are psychological.”