Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

She tried to polygraph my eyes again. Then asked, “Are you going to say anything about—?”

“Your phone relay system? No.”

She nodded slowly. “It was just for that weekend,” she said quietly. “The number is no good anymore.”

“No answer when you called the next week, Jennifer? Or was it disconnected?”

“How did you—? Oh. It was a pay phone. On the street. Whoever answered it told me that.”

“And the next time you tried it?”

“The next time, it was a different person. Just someone passing by in the street.”

“Thank you.”

“I want Rosa to be okay.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Will you tell me?”

“Tell you . . . what?”

“If you find her. If you find her and she won’t go back, would you let me know? First, before you . . . do anything?”

“I promise.”

“Be careful,” Jennifer’s father told me by way of goodbye. His son didn’t say anything; he was too busy cracking his knuckles and memorizing my face.

“What was that all about?” Kevin asked me on the way back to where I’d left my car.

“What do you mean?”

“That business with Dr. Dryslan at the end. He almost seemed to be . . . I don’t know . . . warning you or something.”

“He’s a father. Jennifer’s his daughter. You know how that goes.”

“Yes,” he said.

Maybe he convinced himself.

“I must go to work soon,” Gem said. She absently twirled a towel into a turban for her just-washed hair, oblivious as always of her own nudity.

“Tonight?”

“I do not mean for one night. Back to work. With Flacco and Gordo.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. In another few days, we must go.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You have no questions?” she said.

“No.”

“Not where I am going? Not when I will return?”

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s none of my business.”

“So . . . where you go, what you do, when you would be back . . . that would be none of my business, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You are my husband.”

“Gem—”

“It is not for you to say; it is for me to say.”

“Is that right? How would you like it if some guy came up to you and said, ‘Hey, bitch, you’re my wife’?”

“It is not what I say, ” she said calmly. “It is what happened. Between us.”

“But you just said—”

“Those are just words.”

“This isn’t making any sense.”

“That is your choice,” she said, walking out of the room.

I went back into the night, looking for a working girl working alone. When I finally spotted one, she was wearing orange hot pants, standing hip-shot in invitation.

Right next to the black Subaru parked at the curb.

I figured whoever was in the Subaru had her covered, but I could live with that. I nosed the Caddy alongside her, hit the power window switch with my left hand, and slid my right over the grip of the Beretta.

She stuck her face all the way into the car so that her heavy breasts draped over the sill, made a kissing sound at me.

“Where’ve you been, baby?”

“Looking for you,” I told her. Her hair was raven black, bowed out around her cheekbones and curving back sharply just past her chin. Couldn’t see much of her features in that light.

“Well, you found me. Now what do you want to do with me?”

“Talk.”

“I’m not out here to—”

“Talk for money,” I cut in quickly. “Buying your time, same as anyone else. Only you keep your clothes on.”

“But not my mouth shut. Sounds like a date to me.”

“I don’t care what you call—”

“Unlock the back door,” she said, suddenly.

I hit the switch, heard the distinctive thunk. She pulled herself out of the window. I heard the brief clacking of her stacked heels as she walked around to the back. The door opened as I turned to look behind me. She leaned in, sprayed the interior with a little pocket flash, then pulled her head out and slammed the door.

I glanced toward the passenger window. Blank. Caught something moving up on my left side. I was about to stomp on out of there when I recognized her.

“I’m going to walk around the front of your car,” she said in my left ear. “So you can get a real good look at me in your headlights, okay?”

“Why?”

“So you’ll know what you’re passing up with all this talking stuff,” she said.

She dropped into the Caddy’s front bucket seat butt-first, taking her time about it. The orange hot pants were worthy of the name, but the “For Sale” tattoo I knew was underneath them doused any flame before it could flicker. She spun around to face me, crossing her fishnet-wrapped legs.

“Take the first right,” she said.

I flicked the lever into gear and pulled off, slow, my eyes on the dark street.

“Two more blocks, then watch for a red house on the left.”

“Yours?”

“Sure!” She laughed. “Just the driveway. And that’s a rental, understand?”

“Yep. Pretty slick. The cops can sweep the street, but off-road is off-limits. You pay by the night, or by the trick?”

“Why do you ask?”

“If it’s by the trick, whoever owns the house has to stay up and keep count.”

“You sound like you know the game.”

“Not me,” I assured her. “Is that it, coming up?”

“Yes. Just . . . what are you doing?”

“I feel more comfortable backing in, all right?”

“The customer’s always right.”

I reversed the Caddy and backed a little way into the driveway, just past the sidewalk. Then I killed the engine. The power door locks would work even without it running.

“Like I said,” I told her, “I just want to talk.”

“Whatever gets you there, honey.”

“It’s not like that. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for someone. A girl. She might be—”

“I know,” she interrupted.

“How do you—?”

“We already talked about it, Mr. Hazard,” she said, pulling the midnight wig off her head and shaking out a short, tight mass of auburn curls.

“Well, if it isn’t the fake Peaches herself.”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah,” I lied. Age switches aren’t that big a deal for some women. Gem did it all the time, for her work. It’s easier for Asians-facing-Caucasians, but they aren’t the only ones who can pull it off. “You went to a lot of trouble for nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“The deal’s the same as I told you when you were playing teenager. Or are you playing grownup now?”

“I’m thirty-one,” she said, as if that was some kind of credential. “And I’ve got my own deal.”

“Which is?”

“What do you know about wires?” That one came out of left field, but it didn’t surprise me as much as her undoing the snaps on her blouse.

“Enough to know you need them in that bra,” I told her.

“Very funny,” she said. She shrugged out of the blouse and popped the clasp on the front of the black bra. Her heavy breasts gleamed creamy in the darkness. She slipped her arms out of the bra in a smooth fluid motion, and tossed it across the console into my lap. Then she raised her arms above her head. “See any place I could carry a recorder?” she asked me.

“Not from the waist up.”

“Help yourself,” she said, undoing the top of the hot pants.

“No thanks,” I told her.

“You’ll take my word for it?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to say anything the police couldn’t hear. You already know I’m not a trick. And I already knew you weren’t selling it.”