Andrew Vachss - A Bomb Built in Hell

Wesley crossed Ninth Avenue and headed down toward Eighth. He noticed five phone booths on the south side of the street and the Roxy Hotel on the north side. It was the Roxy where he got busted years ago, and he had to fight down the urge to see if the same clerk was still on duty for The Man. Some other time.

As he crossed Eighth, Wesley reflected that the Parole Board was just a couple of blocks away, right near the Port Authority. They never closed. He could have just walked in there and asked a question like any other citizen, but that thought never occurred to him.

He could tell a cop at a glance and he assumed that reaction was reversible. He noted the big Child’s Restaurant on Eighth and 42nd, but didn’t stop in. He counted thirteen movie houses between Eighth and Seventh. Thousands of people were on the street. Wesley wasn’t even picking up second glances from the traffic flow.

“When I’m on the street, how do I make sure the hustlers don’t make me?” Wesley had asked Lester years ago. The answer was simple: “Just stare a lot—squares always be staring at us, you know?”

Crossing Broadway, Wesley almost walked right into the Prince, who was coming out of Rexall’s. The Prince wasn’t alone. His huge hand was resting possessively on the back of his companion’s neck—a short, powerfully built black guy with a monster Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear.

Wesley followed them down Broadway. The Prince was continually being stopped on the street, and his progress was slow. Wesley watched closely, but all the Prince did was occasionally lay money on people who apparently asked for some ... nothing else. The Prince stopped a fat woman, and Wesley halted about a half block behind them. They held a quick, whispered conversation, making no attempt to hide the fact that their communication wasn’t meant for bystanders, the Prince still holding the back of the black man’s neck. The woman nodded vigorously as though she understood, and then continued up the block in Wesley’s direction.

As she approached, she focused her eyes directly on Wesley and picked up speed. He could have avoided her rush but made no attempt to ... she slammed right into him, knocking him back against a mailbox. The fat woman gasped and grabbed huge handfuls of Wesley’s Hawaiian shirt to steady herself. As she attempted to rise, she pulled the shirt almost to his neck and then slammed her hands against his chest and quickly ran them along his body, across his groin, and down almost to his knees. Wesley struggled to get free, felt his pants lift over his socks, saving her that trouble. He cursed vehemently, and she backed off with some mumbled drunken apologies.

It was a lovely, professional frisk. She’d be able to tell the Prince he wasn’t heeled.

Wesley dusted himself off and hurried up the block. He passed by the Prince and threw him a frankly curious glance, like any tourist would. The Prince continued down the block. Using a store window for a mirror, Wesley saw the giant step into a phone booth—he didn’t see the Prince deposit any money, so he assumed it was the fat woman calling in to report.

Wesley turned up 46th Street and got a cab downtown on Fifth. He told the driver to take him to the Village, not knowing how far the Prince’s network went. Wesley entered the hotel on Bleecker between Sullivan and West Broadway where he was already registered.

42/

At 3:15 a.m., he telephoned Pet and the cab took him back to the Sheraton. He checked out the next morning, paying his bill in cash.

Pet was waiting in the garage for him. Neither of them liked to return in the daytime and avoided it whenever possible.

“You see him?” the old man asked.

“Yeah. How does he make a living? If he’s dealing, he must have every cop in the precinct greased—you can’t miss the freak.”

“He does the same work you do.”

“You know anything about a black guy, his boyfriend?”

“No. But I know he always marks his boyfriends with one of his diamonds. They get to wear the diamond so long as they’re in with him. When they show on the street without the diamond, it means he’s done with them and they’re nothing but a fucking piece of meat after that. He’s got a new one every couple months or so.”

“Could the kid live down there a couple a weeks and watch the black guy?”

“I don’t think so, Wes. That’s a real freak show and the kid might panic and whack one of them when they hit on him.”

“He might at that—one of them moved on me last night.”

“What happened?”

“This was on my way back to the Sheraton. I was waiting for the light to change, and this freak comes up and asks me if the CT on the ID bracelet stands for ‘cock-teaser,’ right?”

“Jesus! I told you you shouldn’ta worn that....”

“Hey, look, Pet, he just wanted to hit on me, period. No matter what fucking initials I’d of had, he would’ve said something .”

“You have to hurt him?”

“On the street? I told him I’d meet him in the last row of the Tom Kat at midnight.”

“The Tom Kat?”

“Some sleazo joint I saw on the way down.”

The old man laughed, “I can’t see the kid doing that—he’d have opened up that freak for sure.”

“You got to forget your image if you want to move out there. What happens if you lay up for a couple a weeks without doing anything? Will they think you lost your guts?”

“Nah, they’ll think I’m getting ready to go on in.”

“Would the Prince want to make it personal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would he have to hit you himself ... or could any of his freaks do it?”

“He’d want to hit me himself. It’d mean a lot if he did. You take a man out, you take his rep for yours.”

“What’s he use?”

“Mostly his hands—he’s one of those karate experts. He never carries, but one of his freaks is always around, and they all shoot or stab. But he works small. They say he can kill you with anything: a rolled-up newspaper, a dog chain, you know what I mean.”

“So he’d have to be close. And you don’t.”

“You could never pop him from one of the buildings. He’d know you was inside before you even got set up. Did he see your face?”

“So what? He didn’t know who I was.”

“He will the next time,” Pet said solemnly. “You can forget about getting close, too.”

“All right. Stay here for a few days—I’m going out to look at him good this time.”

43/

Wesley spent six days in Times Square, catching only occasional glimpses of the Prince. But he did locate the black man with the diamond earring, and the black man had a pattern. Too much of a pattern—whatever else he was, Wesley knew he wasn’t a professional. Every night, just before 11:00, he went to Sadie’s Sexational Spa (“THE BEST IN THE WESTside”) on Eighth between 44th and 45th. He stayed about a half hour each time.

He went in different directions after that—never the same way. Wesley followed him three times, and each time he met the Prince, always on the street or at the entrance to one of the bars.

Wesley returned to the garage a little after midnight on Wednesday. Pet came out of the shadows and walked over to the car:

“Can we do it?” the old man wanted to know.

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be sticky. You’re going to have to go in there with the car. Go in fast , and get out before he can move. We need him to know you’re on the case, like you’re going to drive-by him and the cruise is setting it up.”

“Why you want him like that?”

“Misdirection. Like with the backfiring car you told me about.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“The rest is mine. You just wait with the car. No, bump that— how many cars can you plant in different spots around the cesspool?”