Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Cash.”

“Like Johnny Cash?”

“Like Benjamin Cash.”

“What the fuck kind of name that be, slick?”

“It’s a Muslim name,” I told him. “Benjamin 5X Cash.”

“You must think I be someone to fuck with, slick,” he said, closing the distance between us.

“No, he thinks you’re someone who understands English, dumbass,” said a voice from behind him. “You’re putting up five yards to . . . what, man?” he asked me, stepping forward out of the gloom in the back of the bar. Much smaller than the bodybuilder, with a yellowish cast to his skin. I’d have about the same luck guessing his age as I would an alligator’s.

“Odom’s the one I need to talk to.”

“And you never met this ‘Odom’ dude, is that it?” the smaller man said, telling me who he was.

“Not by face. Only by status.”

“Status?” the bodybuilder snarled. “Motherfucker, you talk some strange—”

“He means rep, ” Odom told his pupil. “Listen and learn. Now,” he said, turning to me, “where’d you get word on me?”

“Inside.”

“You was in the SHU? Where? Pelican Bay?”

“No. I did all my bits on the other coast. But word travels; you know how that works.”

“Yeah, I know. You got friends still in, then?”

“Might have.”

“Might be AB, too, right?”

“Some of them.”

“You going to give up some of those names?”

“I never give up names,” I said.

He smiled at that. Thought for a moment. Then said, “They got some mighty strange-looking undercovers these days.”

“I heard that, too,” I agreed. “But, see, an undercover, he’d be looking to score some dope. Or a piece. Or . . . well, you know how it goes. Me, I got five hundred dollars for you to tell me something. If you know it. And, if you don’t, to find it out.”

“Ain’t no crime to listen.”

“Right. Okay to sit down?”

“Glad you asked, man. Slide into that booth over there.”

I wasn’t exactly blown over from shock when the bodybuilder slid in right next to me, with Odom across the table. No way for me to move. Just the way I wanted it.

“I’m looking for a girl,” I said. “A runaway. Her parents are worried.”

“I got nothing to do with girls,” Odom said.

“I know you don’t. That’s why I came here. If the girl was merchandise to you, then I’d be messing in your business, and I wouldn’t do that. She’s on the street, somewhere. You’ve got people out there. Here’s what she looks like,” I said, handing him one of the copies of Rosebud’s photo I’d had made.

He glanced at the photo, his face expressionless.

“Here’s how to find me,” I said, handing over the card.

“That be two out of three, my man.”

“The five is if you turn her up.”

“No, man. The five is for my people to be on the eyeball. I know there’s got to be a nice reward for this little girl. People had to have money to hire you and all.”

“The reward’s only for people working on commission.”

“Yeah. Brutus, you had his white ass pegged, brother. This motherfucker is slick, all right.” He swiveled his head toward me. “How much?”

“Another five, only not centuries. Five large.”

“That ain’t enough to pay for a tuneup on my Rolls, man.”

“You want to raise, you got to have chips,” I told him.

He nodded slowly. When the boulder who’d been blocking my exit finally understood what the nod meant, he stood up to let me out.

By the time the ten days was up, all I’d accomplished was to make sure the whisper-stream knew a man was looking for Rosebud. It was like betting on a horse without looking at the form. Hell, without even knowing if your horse was in the goddamned race.

So, when the father renewed my contract, I went back inside myself, looking there. I had one card I thought I could play, but it was too early to be sure. And if I moved too soon, it could backfire. In the meantime, that Cuckoo comic still nagged at me, so I went looking for a way in.

Took me only about an hour to find a little comics shop. It was devoid of customers, and the proprietor, a fat, balding guy with a face that had once been jolly, was glad to shoot the breeze with me. He recognized my copy of Cuckoo right away.

“Oh sure. That’s Madison’s.”

“Madison, the guy who wrote this?”

“Yep. Only she’s not a guy. She lives around here, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Portland’s really a big town for graphic artists,” he said in a confidential tone, like he was disclosing secrets. “Dark Horse Comics, that’s one of the major independents, they’re right over in Milwaukie.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure.”

“And they publish this one?” I asked, holding up my one copy of Cuckoo.

“Nah. That’s from a real indie operation. There isn’t much money in comics anymore, not like the old days.”

“The old days?”

“Yeah, like, oh, ten years ago, there were all kinds of comics selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Big collector’s market, too.”

“But not anymore?”

“Right. The bottom’s dropped out for everything but the super-primo stuff. But you know what? Comics are coming back, my friend. Those of us who stay the course, we’re the ones going to clean up when it turns around.”

“Uh-huh. So this Cuckoo, is it a good investment?”

“Could be,” he said, stroking his chin, considering. “The early editions, especially the first one, they could be worth a nice piece of change. The later ones . . . I don’t think so. It’s gotten real popular now. Won some awards. Not as collectible.”

“But it would be better to have the whole set, right?”

“ Always better,” he assured me. “A mint set, from number one on, well, I’m not promising anything, but that’d be a good play, I think.”

“Okay, I’m sold,” I told him, wondering what I was letting myself in for. “How much for a whole set?”

“Well, see, I don’t have a whole set here. We don’t keep back issues much anymore; it just doesn’t pay. I’ve got . . . let me see . . . okay, I’ve got numbers five through nine.”

“But you could get the others, right?”

“Sure. Might take a while, but . . .”

“You think Madison would have back issues?”

“Oh sure, man. Every creator keeps copies of their own stuff.”

“Creator?”

“Yeah!” He chuckled. “That’s what comics folk call the people who create comics, like the people who draw them, you see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. Well, could you give her a call, ask her?”

“Uh . . . I guess so.”

When he saw I wasn’t going to move, he fumbled around with some papers behind the counter. Finally he said, “I don’t see her number here, man. Tell you what, okay? I’ll ask around, find it out easy enough. You want to check back in a few days?”

“That’s a little hit-or-miss for me,” I said. “Are these comics like books? I mean, are they worth more if the author signs them?”

“Absolutely,” he said, reverently.

“So, okay, here’s the deal. How about five hundred for a complete set, but all signed, okay?”

His eyes flickered, so I guessed I’d bid a little high.

“I can get that for you,” he said quickly.

“Fair enough. You track her down, give me a call, and we’ll set up a meet.”

“A meet? What for?”

“Well, look—friend—no offense. I don’t know anything about comics, but I know how things work. She’s got to sign them in front of me, so I know it’s legit; fair enough?”