Andrew Vachss: Down Here

“But when you find out?”

“It’s all yours, pal.”

“Call back in twenty minutes,” Hauser said.

“ Everybody’s on it,” Hauser said when I called back. “But the DA isn’t making any statements . . . yet.”

“So there’ll be reporters on the set?”

“Guaranteed,” he said. “Come on by and say hello.”

Itook a quick shower, shaved extra-carefully, and put on a slouchy black Armani suit over a midnight-blue silk shirt, buttoned to the throat. I added a pair of natural alligator shoes, a two-carat solitaire ring set in white gold, and an all-black Rado watch. There wasn’t enough time to get the right haircut, but a gel-and-mousse combination got me close enough to the look I wanted.

The emergency surgery that brought me back from what was supposed to be a coup de grâce bullet had changed my face forever. Once, I could have passed for a lawyer, with the right clothes and props. And I had done it, plenty of times. Now the best I could hope for was to be taken for a higher class of defendant.

I walked downstairs carefully, a Mini Mag lighting the way. Gateman was where he always is.

“Thanks, partner,” I said, palming a fifty in my handshake.

“We expecting more company, boss?”

“Could be. But not the blue boys,” I said, telling him what he needed to know. Gateman’s on parole. New York City parole, which means all he has to do is call in every few months, so they know he’s alive. But a visit from the cops would be a real problem for him. Gateman doesn’t like surprises. And he’s a shooter.

It was only a few blocks to my car. I keep it behind a ratty old two-pump gas station that scratches out a living from used tires, dented hubcaps, and tired batteries. They also sell some specialized parts for cab drivers . . . like recalibrated meters that tick off a mile for every four-fifths they run. Word is you can buy other things there too, but I never asked.

My ’69 Plymouth Roadrunner sat outdoors in a chain-link enclosure, under a roof made of woven concertina wire, protected by a combination lock thick enough to sneer at two-handed bolt cutters.

The setup had been built for the owner’s prize pit bull, a vicious old warrior who had been retired to stud a few years ago. The owner kept a couple of bitches, too, so his champion wouldn’t get bored and maybe chomp his way through the chain link. I’d talked the owner into letting me park the Plymouth inside the cage. It cost me three bills a month, and a few weeks’ daily investment in getting the pits to accept me enough to let me inside whenever I showed up, but it was worth it. The back of the gas station was always in darkness or shadow, and the dogs made sure nobody got too close a look at the anonymous junker stashed back there.

One of the bitches strolled over to the fence as I walked up. She snarled softly, just warming up.

“It’s me, stupid,” I said.

I didn’t know any of their names. But they knew me, and they knew I never came empty-handed. The big rooster trotted over, chesty and confident, knowing he was going to get first dibs.

I took a slab of porterhouse out of the plastic bag I’d been carrying and unwrapped it. Then I slipped it between the sections of metal tubing that framed the doors.

The pits went to work on their prize as I dialed the lock. I walked past them, leaving the doors open behind me. They never try to leave—the fence is just to keep people out.

I unlocked the Plymouth and climbed inside. I pulled out the ashtray, toggling the off-on switch so that the ignition key would work. When I fired up the engine, it was like pulling a heavy layer of dusty burlap off a marble statue—the torque-monster Mopar crackled into life, hungry for asphalt.

I let it warm up for a minute, checking the oil-pressure gauge, while I got the steak smell off my hands with a few scented towelettes I took from the glove compartment. Then I eased the Plymouth through the opening in the fence, jumped out, and relocked the gate. The two bitch pits sat on their haunches, watching. The old stud was already lying down, sleeping off his lion’s share of the booty I’d brought.

Iwheeled the Plymouth up Canal, then worked my way over to Mama’s restaurant. I parked under the pristine white square with Max the Silent’s chop painted in its center. The calligraphy sensei who created it comes by and renews his masterpiece every so often, so it always looks new.

Even without all the security devices and the fact that it didn’t look worth stealing, I wouldn’t have been worried about anyone making a move on the Plymouth. In this part of the City, everybody knows Max’s sign.

A thug in a white kitchen apron let me in the back door. I’d seen him plenty of times before, but I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t care about mine.

I walked over to the bank of pay phones along the wall that separates the kitchen from the restaurant seating area. Mama still keeps a Mason jar there, filled to the brim with quarters. More than enough for a half-hour call to Taiwan, but AT&T won’t let you do that anymore—they want everyone to use one of their pre-paid phone cards. Once a monopoly . . .

I picked out a coin, slotted it through, and punched in a 718 number.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” I said. “Can you and your father please meet me at the spot?”

“My father is not here now, mahn. But he will call soon. Shall I come by my—?”

“I need you both,” I told him.

“I understand, mahn. Do we need to bring—?”

“It’s not like that,” I said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Sure,” Clarence said, hanging up.

I was reaching for more quarters when Mama appeared. Her round, ageless face was impassive under her perfectly coiffed hair. Her ceramic-black eyes were expressionless.

“Not visit?” she said, making a gesture with her jeweled hand to show me she wasn’t insulted that I hadn’t greeted her formally when I’d first come in.

“The Prof and Clarence are on their way over, Mama,” I said. “I have to reach out for Michelle now.”

“So—you want Max, yes?”

“Please,” I told her.

She nodded her head a fraction short of bowing, then turned and walked past me, heading toward the basement.

“ If you don’t know what to do, and when to do it, you’ve already left your message,” the hard-honey voice on Michelle’s answering tape said.

“It’s me,” I said, after the beep. “It’s . . . six-oh-five in the afternoon. I’m going to be here in the church for a little while, but I can’t stay long. I need to see you. If I’m not here when you call, leave a way for me to get in touch with you, probably past midnight.”

I reached for more coins . . . then stopped. I walked around the wall, through the beaded curtain, and into the restaurant.

My booth, the one against the back wall, was empty, as always. So was the rest of the place. Occasionally, some tourists would ignore the filthy, fly-specked front window and wander inside. If the service didn’t send them packing, the food they were served would guarantee they’d never come back.

I sat down, glanced at my watch. Not like me to do that—patience is the one card I always keep in my deck.

Mama came through the kitchen, carrying a heavy white tureen on a tray with three matching bowls, slightly larger than cups. She placed the tray on the table, uncovered the tureen, and ladled out a bowl for me. Hot-and-sour soup—Mama’s personal creation. I bowed my thanks, took a sip. “Perfect,” I said.

At that, Mama sat down across from me, and helped herself to a bowl.

“Not work, right?” she asked me. To Mama, “work” could mean anything, from stealing to scamming to smuggling. What all of us did, one way or another. Our family doesn’t care about crap like genetics, but it’s got no room for citizens.