Andrew Vachss - A Bomb Built in Hell

“I know what to do,” the kid interrupted.

Wesley went back to his own place.

67/

It wasn’t that hard to find humans who wanted problems disposed of and expected to pay for the service, but it was hard on Wesley. All the talking, the bargaining, the bullshit.

It wasn’t like before, when Pet had fronted it off. He tried the Times Square bars first, but even among all those freaks he couldn’t mesh. The way they looked at him, the way they moved aside when they saw him coming ... it all told him his face was still too flat and his eyes still too focused.

The stubby blonde hustler was working her way down the end of the long bar, her flesh-padded hips gently bumping anyone who looked remotely like he’d go for a minimal financial investment. When she got to Wesley, he turned and tried a smile.

“Sit down,” he told her. “Have a drink.”

“Aw ... look, baby, I got to go to the little girl’s room. Order me a Pink Lady and I’ll be right back.”

Fifteen minutes later, the truth came to Wesley. He went back out into the night.

68/

Inside the warehouse, Wesley went through all the papers the old man had left. He found a fine-ruled notebook with a black plastic cover. The first page said CLIENTS and each succeeding page was devoted to a single individual: name, addresses, phone numbers (business and home), and a lot of other miscellaneous information. He also saw prices next to each name:

LEWISTON, PETER .... $25K+

RANDOLPH, MARGARET .... $40K

It took Wesley a long time to go through the book, figuring which people he had already worked for—he had never known names except when it was absolutely necessary to the job. Slowly and carefully, he extracted enough data to put it together that many of the names were jobs they had never done. Had Pet kept a list of potentials?

The only area codes Wesley saw next to the phone numbers were 516, 914, 203, and 201. Long Island, Westchester, northern New Jersey, southern Connecticut. The seven digit numbers Wesley assumed were 212—within the five boroughs.

The next night, Wesley prepared to try all the 516 numbers. He didn’t take the Ford—it was too nondescript, an obvious prowler’s machine. The El Dorado was a little too hard to miss. He couldn’t drive the cab like Pet and make it seem like he belonged behind the wheel, although the kid could.

Finally, he settled on the Firebird—a chocolate-brown 1970 model with a worked-over undercarriage and very sticky radial tires. He checked the electromagnets, releasing the Airweight, and returned it under the dash. He put six rolls of dimes and five rolls of quarters in the glove compartment and stashed a rectangular metal box full of equipment in the console between the seats.

Wesley took the Brooklyn Bridge to the BQE, connecting to the Long Island Expressway. He was wearing a dark blue J. Press summer-weight suit with a light, blue knit shirt, no tie. It all fit well with the car, as did the complete set of credit cards (“You can’t fucking beat that American Express Gold for impressing the rollers, Wes. Any sucker can cop the Green, but the Gold is for high-class faggots. The Man sees that, he figures you not the right guy to roust.”) that matched his counterfeit driver’s license and registration.

He kept the car at the speed limit all the way to Exit 40. From there it was only a mile or so to the giant Gertz parking lot. He picked out one of the outdoor payphone booths near the back. The area was empty except for a gang of kids listening to their car radios, all tuned to the same station. It was loud, but it wouldn’t disturb conversation inside the booth.

Wesley quickly swept the booth with the tiny scanner Pet had showed him how to use—it was clean. A quick twist removed the mouthpiece, and Wesley inserted the flat metal disc with its network of printed circuits and perforations which exactly matched the original. Voiceprints were getting to be as much of a problem as fingerprints.

The first number was a busy signal; the second, no answer. The third was in Hewlett Harbor. A soft-voiced woman picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“Could I speak with Mr. Norden, please?” Wesley asked politely.

“May I tell him who is calling?”

“Mr. Petraglia.”

The phone was silent for almost thirty seconds—Wesley was going to give it forty-five and then hang up—when a clipped, hard voice came on the line: “Do you think it was wise to give your name like that?”

“Would you have come to the phone otherwise?” Wesley replied.

“You’re not...”

“I’m his brother. In the same business. He told me to call you.”

“Well, I still have the problem, but time is getting...”

“This is all the talking I do on the phone. Tell me where to meet you.”

“Can you be at the Sequoia Club in an hour? You know where it is?”

“In one hour.”

“Listen! How will I know you? Do you—?”

“Just go in the back and sit down,” Wesley told him. “I’ll find you.”

“Look, I—”

Wesley replaced the receiver, first exchanging his voice-alteration disk for the stock item. The shiny chrome of the phone coin box picked up fingerprints perfectly—Wesley knew smearing them was as good as wiping them, but he took the extra second to do a thorough job with his handkerchief. A man wearing gloves in the summer making a phone call would be too much for even a Nassau County cop to pass up. On the other hand, you could see their orange-and-blue squad cars coming a hundred yards away.

Pet’s book had all the information about the Sequoia, and Wesley had thoroughly checked it out on a street map of Norden’s area before driving out to the Island. He dialed his mind to dismiss all the information he had memorized on the first two people he had called, focusing on what he knew about Norden. There wasn’t much, except the price was the highest in the 516 section: $100K. And a code: “P/ok,” which Wesley took to mean that Norden had used this service previously and had paid off without incident.

69/

As Wesley approached the Firebird, he took in the three kids sitting on its hood and fenders. As he got close, he looked into their faces and got blank, vicious smiles in return—they were too young to see what the Times Square hustler had recognized. The kids nudged each other as Wesley came closer, climbing off the Firebird at the last moment.

They were smiling as Wesley took out the keys and opened the door. They kept smiling as he started the engine. They never noticed that Wesley hadn’t fully closed the door—his left foot was pressing out against it with nearly all his strength, held in check only by the slightly greater pressure of his left hand and forearm locked onto the door handle from the inside.

The three kids assembled in front of the driver’s door. The leader motioned for Wesley to lower the window, still smiling. Wesley flicked the power-window switch with his right hand and the tinted glass whispered down to the sill level. The biggest kid came up to the window, flanked by his partners.

“Say, mister, could you help us out?” he sneered. “We need a hundred bucks for a cup of coffee.” The other kids laughed nervously, their hands in their jacket pockets.

Wesley looked up; the veins in his forearm were popping full under the suit coat’s jacket. “Get the fuck outta here, punk,” he said softly.

The biggest kid whipped out a switchblade in what he thought was a lightning move. It was so unprofessionally slow and stupidly flashy that Wesley had to make himself wait—he didn’t want to fire any shots in the parking lot. The kid was about two feet from the door when Wesley suddenly released his left hand. One hundred and fifty pounds of reinforced steel swinging on siliconed ball bearings smashed the kid from his knees to his waist, throwing him back against his partners. Wesley flicked the selector lever into gear as he was releasing his left hand. The Firebird screamed off, fishtailing slightly to get traction. He was up to fifty in seconds, leaving the two kids bending over their fallen partner.