Andrew Vachss - Flood

“You said you had some dynamite blow,” Flood piped up.

“Baby, I got the best coke, the best of everything. I don’t be like some of those halfass simps. I’m a player, you understand? I don’t work a string, got no bottom woman. In fact, I been thinking about letting my woman go for some time now. Saved enough money for her to open her own boutique.”

“Really?” said Flood in a voice full of wonder, her dreams coming true.

“Square business, girl. I ain’t lying. Of course, she was willing to run the fast track, do what she had to do. There’s got to be some pain in the game, little girl, some pain in the game. You got to pay the cost to be the boss, you understand?”

“I don’t like pain,” said Flood in her little girl’s voice. “I like to party but I don’t like that other stuff.”

“Bitch,” said Dandy, walking over to Flood, “you don’t know what pain is.”

“Hey,” gulped Flood in a soft frightened voice. She jumped off the couch and ran into Dandy’s bedroom, the pimp strolling calmly behind-taking his time, all the time in the world. After all, where could the little bitch go?

Flood dashed into the bedroom, saw there was no escape, and whirled like a doe at bay before the hunters. Dandy was right behind her, reaching out a languid hand for her arm-when Flood’s white-booted foot slammed into his solar plexus like a dart of lightning. As the air exploded from Dandy’s lungs Max leaped from behind the door and had the pimp’s throat in his hands before he hit the ground-a quick squeeze of his hands and Dandy went limp.

I came out from under the round bed, holding the needle at the ready. Max ripped the pimp’s jacket from his shoulders, tore away his shirt, snapped off the gold chain with the heavy medallion and tossed it to me. Max’s steel fingers closed on Dandy’s flaccid bicep, causing the veins in his forearm to stand out in bold relief. I tapped a nice one near the inside of the elbow, slipped in the needle and gently fed him the liquid Valium. Then we all stepped back to check on our work. Dandy slumped to the floor, his breathing shallow but regular. He was in no danger-from the Valium.

We propped him up in a chair in the corner of his bedroom, moved the smoke canisters into place, and summoned Pansy. It would take about twenty minutes for the Valium to begin to wear off. We only wanted him dopey for the second act, not unconscious.

Flood went into the other bedroom to change her clothes while I searched the rest of the apartment. If Dandy was working the bondage-photo racket he had to have some money someplace, and it wouldn’t be a safe-deposit box.

It took me almost a full twenty minutes, and all I could come up with was about a thousand or so in bills, some more coke (which I scattered all over the place to throw the dogs off the scent), and some more jewelry. I tried thinking-the Krugerrands kept popping into my mind. Sure. I went over to Dandy’s limp body and started the search. It didn’t take long-the thick moneybelt came off his waist without a struggle, and I found myself looking at forty perfect pieces of South African gold, each one individually wrapped. More than fifteen grand, even with the exchange problems. I put back the empty belt. If pimps were getting into gold coins, I could see the makings of a lovely scam somewhere down the road… but Dandy was ready for business.

When I saw he was coming around I snapped the tops off the smoke canisters and stepped out of the way. It wouldn’t do for him to see my face. I took up my position behind him and watched the thick greenish smoke fill the room. I had left the windows tightly closed, so none of it would get out until we were ready. Dandy moved his head, grunted something I couldn’t make out, and then his neck went rigid as he saw Max the Silent standing in front of him, wearing the teak mask and holding the broad leather belt. Dandy lurched to his left, looking for a way out. Pansy snarled, her fangs glowing in the green haze, and lunged at his waist. Dandy fell back into his chair-obviously none of this nightmare was adding up. To his left was an unknown horror in a warrior’s mask, to his right was death in a beast’s body. And through the middle came the Prof, clad in his white linen suit. Standing between the mad dog and the masked man, with the green smoke billowing-the Prophet’s finest hour. And then he spoke:

“You have offended God. You were warned and you ignored the warning. You trade in the Devil’s work. In pain. It shall be no more.” Max then stepped forward, holding the leather belt before Dandy’s glazed eyes. Max took one end of the thick belt in each hand and pulled it apart like it was wet Kleenex, tossed the two ends contemptuously to the floor, and stepped back, his hands disappearing beneath his robes.

And the Prophet now said, “Your life in filth is finished. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, garbage to garbage. I have spoken.”

Max advanced slowly on Dandy-Pansy could barely restrain herself from burying her fangs in his flesh. The pimp didn’t resist when I stuck the nose plugs into the sockets. Two more gasping breaths and he was out again.

Max pulled off his mask and the green robes, the Prof donned his ragpicker’s outfit over the white linen suit, Flood packed everything away, including her whore-clothes. The smoke canisters were almost empty, warm to the touch-all went into the big suitcase. One last quick spin around the place to check everything, Pansy lumbering after me, growling her frustration. I’d have to take her down to the training compound and give her an agitator or two to play with.

All done. From the back pocket of his jeans Max pulled a green plastic garbage bag, the super-giant size. He snapped it open, gave one end to Flood and the other to me. We held it open and Max picked up Dandy like a load of rags and dropped him inside. I pulled the nose plugs out of Dandy’s face and we twisted the top closed, using three of the wire tags. The pimp would be out another minute or two-long enough.

I pushed the heavy curtains aside to check the back alley. It was still empty. Flood and I stood on either side of the window and shoved it open, then watched as Max tossed out the garbage bag. It sailed through the air, then hit with a dull thud. Green smoke started to billow out of the window and we slammed it shut.

I phoned the Mole that it was time to go. Max and the Prof went to the basement-the Mole had his own car parked nearby and he would take care of dropping them off. We walked to the Plymouth, me now wearing a different hat and Flood looking like a different woman in her pleated slacks and wool jacket.

Pansy went back to sleep, half on the floor and half on the seat. Flood held my hand in both of hers, and we drove back to my office.

WE WERE IN Flood’s studio, she was packing. There had been nothing in the morning papers or on the radio about yesterday’s action, but the afternoon edition of the Post had the coverage. Flood perched on the arm of the chair as I read aloud:

PIMP SAYS HE SAW GOD IN PLASTIC GARBAGE BAG

A man with a history of convictions for pimping was discovered early this morning unconscious, injured, and wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag, police said.

The man, whom police identified as James Tyrone Simmons, 41, was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he reportedly told doctors a bizarre story of how God and several fiery devils appeared to him inside the bag. He could not explain, however, what he was doing there.

Simmons was listed in good condition, suffering from a broken ankle and wrist and multiple contusions. He was being held for observation, according to a hospital spokesman.

“Except for some broken bones, he’s fine physically,” said Dr. Ito Kumatso, the hospital’s chief psychiatric resident. “But the story he told us is something else.