Andrew Vachss - Down Here

“Because you’re worried about the security?”

“The security?”

“You know,” she said, raising her eyebrows just a touch. “Identity theft, stuff like that.”

“Oh. Well, you can’t work where I do without hearing about it. But . . . no. I guess I just don’t see what’s so great about doing it any new way.”

“Sometimes, to make things better, you have to try new ways,” she said.

The waiter came back, picked up the leather folder, and walked off without a word.

“What’s the next step?” Laura Reinhardt asked me.

“That depends on you,” I said.

“But you’re going ahead, doing a story on my brother, even if I don’t . . . cooperate, I guess is the word I was looking for.”

“I . . . I can’t say that. Not for sure. My contract is for a book on the consequences of false—or, I should say, ‘wrongful’—imprisonment. I thought your brother would be the ideal way to present the material, but he’s not the only candidate. Let’s face it, if he was, I wouldn’t have much of a book.”

“I don’t under—”

“If this kind of thing was an isolated incident, it makes a good news story, but it’s not a book,” I told her. “What I’m talking about is a phenomenon. An epidemic. There’s a lot of reasons for wanting your brother to be the centerpiece. I admit, it would be easier for me, with everything based right here in the city, but there are others who would fit the bill.”

The waiter came back with the leather folder. I opened it. Found a ten-dollar bill, a single, and some change.

“You’re a gambler, huh?” I said to him.

“OTB’s right down the street,” he said, flashing a grin.

I extracted the single, closed up the folder, and handed it back to him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, nodding as if a deeply held belief had just been confirmed.

“ Can I give you a lift anywhere?” I asked, as we stepped onto the sidewalk.

“I have my own car,” she said. “But I’d appreciate you walking me over to it. This neighborhood has changed a lot since I was a little girl.”

“My pleasure.”

She walked with a compact, efficient stride, matching my normal pace easily, despite the difference in our heights.

“Did you and your brother eat at that same place when you were kids?”

“No. It wasn’t really for family outings. I mean, it is, but I only went there with my father. Like for special treats, just the two of us. There was a Jahn’s close by, too. I always had a sundae I used to think they made just for me—pistachio ice cream with butterscotch topping.”

“You ate that voluntarily ?”

“I’m a lot more adventurous than I look,” she said, with a little giggle. “I liked eating something the boys were afraid of.”

“Just hearing about it scares me,” I admitted.

“That’s mine,” she said, stopping midblock. She reached in her purse and took out a set of keys. A chirping sound identified her silver Audi convertible as clearly as if she had pointed her finger.

“Very nice,” I said. “You don’t see many of those in the City.”

“The TT?”

“Convertibles. Costs a fortune to garage them. And if you don’t . . .”

“That’s true,” she said. “But where I live, indoor parking’s part of the deal.”

“I’ve heard about places like that.”

“You don’t look as if you’re starving,” she said, fingering my new suede jacket.

“I’m not,” I said. “But this coat’s not part of my wardrobe; it pretty much is my wardrobe.”

“So I can’t interest you in some of our more . . . adventurous investing prospects?” she said, smiling.

“Maybe after my book hits the charts.”

She crossed the street, opened the door to her convertible.

“I had a very nice time . . . J.P.,” she said, almost formally.

“I did, too. I wish . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind. I . . . I don’t want to . . . Look, Laura, I know you’ve got a lot to think about. About what I told you, I mean. Or people to talk it over with, or whatever. But can I ask you just one thing?”

“What would that be?”

“Will you call me, either way? I mean, if the answer’s ‘no,’ even then?”

“If you want, sure. But couldn’t we just say, if you don’t hear back from me by—?”

“I would much rather you called,” I told her. “And I promise you, if the answer’s ‘no,’ I won’t try to talk you out of it.”

She climbed into her car, got behind the wheel, looked up at me. “I’ll call you,” she said. “Count on it.”

“ All right, Schoolboy. You got a look, but did you set the hook?”

“Tried like hell, Prof. But I can’t know unless I feel a tug on the line.”

“Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. “Your girl, she’s holding the case ace, right?”

“Wolfe? If I’m right about Wychek already recanting, sure. But we can’t know if—”

“And we got the boss hoss for a shyster, too, right?” the Prof pressed.

“Davidson’s as good as there is,” I agreed.

“But you still got my boy and the T-man working those computers like they trying to find the cure for cancer,” the little man said. “And you, you got no doubt, but you still out and about.”

“Am I missing something here?” I said.

“Not you, bro. It’s me that don’t see.”

“Why I’m still working?”

“Don’t play dumb, son. Every one of us know what you got in this. And when it looked dicey, dealing us in, that was fine. But now . . . ?”

“What, Prof?”

“Tell me there’s some green in the scene,” the little man pleaded. “Tell me you a man with a plan. A scheme beats a dream, every time.”

“It’s not a—”

“Don’t have to be no sure score, honeyboy. But there’s a longshot that we got money on somewhere in all this, true as blue?”

“True as blue,” I promised.

“ He wants to meet you, again.” Pepper’s voice, over my cellular.

“Did he say why?”

“Another file, is all he said.”

“Couldn’t he just leave it with—?”

“I got the impression he couldn’t even copy it.”

“Tell him—”

“I did,” she cut me off. “Tomorrow night, Yonkers Raceway. In the outdoor grandstand at the top of the stretch. It’s a Thursday; he’ll find you easy enough, he said.”

Imoved the first two fingers of each hand across the tabletop, miming a trotting horse. Not a pacer, a trotter—Max knew the difference. Then I turned an imaginary steering wheel, spread my hands to ask a question I already knew the answer to.

“ You know how I like it, honey,” Michelle insisted.

“Word for word,” I acknowledged. Then I started again, from the beginning.

Michelle made a moue of annoyance when I told her I didn’t recall whether Laura Reinhardt had worn any perfume, never mind what it might have smelled like. But mostly she stayed patient, her long red fingernails resting on the tablecloth.

“Maybe it’s just her . . . habit,” Michelle said, when I was finished. “There’s no way to tell unless we could talk to someone else she met for the first time.”

“What habit?”

“Playing.”

“Just what she said about flirting?”

“No, stupid. Talking about her . . . When a woman mentions a body part, she either wants reassurance about it, or she wants you to pay attention to it.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, I know,” she cut me off. “Look, I’m not talking about asking. That’s more . . . intimate. You don’t ask a man if he thinks a certain dress makes you look fat unless you have something going with him.”