Andrew Vachss - Flood

“You hear about Ferguson?”

“Who?”

“The guy next door, the one they took out before.”

“He never told me his name.”

“He tell you anything at all?”

I handed him his pack of cigarettes back through the bars. “You know better than that. You trying to hurt my name?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean nothing, Burke. The cops don’t need any fucking info on that guy. Don’t you know who he is? Fucking Ferguson-he killed seven women. Cut ’em to fucking pieces, man. They found all the stuff in his apartment. And listen to this… he told the D.A. that they all asked him to kill them, that they gave him a fucking message to do it. Can you believe it?”

“How long you been working here?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But every time I think I’ve heard it all…”

“What’s in the paper?” Flood wanted to know.

“I thought it all sounded like body-counts to you.”

“Today’s different. I feel so good… like I want to dance.”

“As long as you don’t sing.”

“Why?” she asked in a threatening tone.

“Oh, it’s not on my account. It’s Pansy-she has real sensitive ears.”

“Is that right?”

“Honest to God. I’m sure if she heard you sing like you did in the shower this morning she’d be strange for a week.”

Flood felt too good to care about my musical critique. I was just glancing through the paper before going up on the roof when the headline jumped off the page at me: “TERRORIST BOMB KILLS TWO IN MERCENARY RECRUITING OFFICE.” The story went on to explain how the back window of a Fifth Avenue office had blown out “yesterday afternoon in a blaze of red fire. Police arriving on the scene found the mangled bodies of two white males, neither as yet identified, and most of the office still smoldering in flames.” No fewer than four separate phone calls had been made to the media claiming responsibility for the bombing, ranging from a known black liberation group to some folks who claimed the recruiters were endangering the African environment with their proposed jungle warfare. The story said the investigation was continuing-good luck to them, I thought. Well, so much for my big plans about making a rich score from Gunther and James.

I’d never know the true story, and I wasn’t about to burn my fingers prying into it. No way the investigators would be able to trace the phony gunrunners back to their fleabag hotel-they’d probably moved as soon as they scored the front money from me anyway. And if they did, all they could find to connect to me would be a name and a phone number. So what? The Prof had promised to check out their hotel room and pick it clean, working in his hall-porter costume, and it was a long twisted trail back to me no matter what. And I had my usual alibi.

I tossed the paper aside, looked over at Flood. “I’ve got a debt to pay to someone who helped me with the business we just finished. It’s a one-acter, won’t take long. You up to it?”

“Sure”-she smiled-“as long as it’s outside someplace.”

“Sure. First stop, at least, New York fresh air.” I needed to assemble my people for this last piece, and I didn’t want to call from the hippies’ phone. “So get dressed,” I told her, “we’re going out.”

We spent the day at the Bronx Zoo. They have this re-creation of an Asian rain forest right inside the cyclone fencing-Bengal tigers, antelopes, monkeys, the whole works. You ride through it on an elevated monorail, and the driver tells you what’s happening over the loudspeaker. We did the whole place-everything but the Reptile House. When we got to the bear cages everybody was gathered around the artificial ice floe where a mother polar bear and her cub were basking in the sun. The mother bear looked balefully at everyone. One little kid asked his mother why the bear looked so mean-she told him it was because it wasn’t cold enough for them. Flood turned to the woman, smiled her smile, told her, “It’s because she doesn’t belong here-this isn’t her home.” We left a puzzled woman in our wake, but I knew what Flood meant, and it hurt. I pushed the feeling aside.

Afterward, as the Plymouth moved through the burnt-out hulks that were once apartment buildings in that part of the Bronx, I felt sorry for any of the animals that might work their way through the fence and get out…

It wasn’t until late that night that we all got together in the warehouse: me and Flood, Mole, the Prof, Michelle, and Max. I had the floor plan of Dandy’s apartment Margot had drawn for me spread out on a bench, and Mole was using one grubby finger to indicate how he’d work his end of the deal.

It looked easy enough, provided Margot came through with the set of keys like she promised. If she didn’t the whole deal was off and she could go to the Consumer Protection Agency for her money.

“Michelle… any problems?” I asked.

“Don’t be funny, honey. My piece is a breeze.”

“Mole?”

“No.”

“You got all the stuff?”

“Yes.” The Mole was really being gabby. Usually he’d just nod.

“Prof?”

“His mind is on crime but his ass shall be mine. Revenge tastes even more sweet than a virgin’s-”

“Cool it, Prof,” said Michelle, “there’s ladies present.”

“I was going to say ‘than a virgin’s kiss,’ fool. What on your mind?”

“If it was the same as yours, it’d make me a lesbian.”

“That’s enough,” I told them. “Michelle, can’t you get along with anyone?”

“I get along with Mole,” she said, patting his hand.

The Prof looked like he was going to snap back but some glint from behind the Mole’s thick glasses must have convinced him that playing the dozens could be a dangerous game when you let lunatics participate. He let it slide.

“Flood, you’re sure you’re up to this?”

A brilliant smile, glowing even in the dim warehouse. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You know what you have to do?”

“Burke, we went over and over it. I have it down pat.”

There was no reason to ask Max if he was ready-and not because he couldn’t hear the question.

“Okay, this is Wednesday. We do it Friday morning.”

“Say, Burke,” said the Prof, “you really going to use that damn dog of yours?”

“Why not? Pansy’s perfect for the part.”

“That beast is a monster, Burke. It makes me nervous just to be in the same neighborhood as he is.”

“As she is.”

“You mean that dog is a bitch?”

“Sure enough.”

“Well,” said the Prof, “I guess that makes sense, when you think about it.”

Thinking about it wasn’t something I wanted to do right then.

FRIDAY WAS A muggy, dirty morning on the Hudson River docks. A Jersey smog-fog was rolling in. It was break-time for the working whores-the truck-driver traffic finished for the morning, the first citizen-commuters not yet on the scene. Peddlers were setting up their stands on the hoods of their parked cars, free of the wolf-packs who were gone now-back to their dens, the roving bands dispersed with the coming of daylight.

The Plymouth was parked near the pier next to a standing pay phone. I was listening to Judy Henske on the tape, trying not to think about tomorrow. Flood was lying with her head in my lap. Pansy slept in the back, unconcerned.

I looked down at Flood’s lovely resting face. She was living well within herself now, at peace finally-another fucking club I couldn’t join.

The phone rang, I reached out the window to pick it up, and heard the Mole say, “Moving. Now,” and I knew it would take the mark only a few minutes to get on the scene.