Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“I understand. But if you don’t stay on the case . . . ?”

“See this card?” I said, handing him one of the hundreds I’d spread all over town. “That number, it rings right here.” I tapped the cell phone’s holster. “I’m not disconnecting it. If it rings tonight, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now, I’ll answer it. You don’t need to keep me on the books just for that.”

“Do you have any other leads you could follow?”

“Leads? Sure. How good they are, I don’t have a clue. They may all be dead ends. Or out-and-out bullshit.”

“The authorities—”

“I talked to them, too,” I said. It was true enough; Gem’s boyfriend qualified. “They’ve got other things on their minds.”

“I don’t understand.” His complexion shifted. Just a touch, but I’d hit one of his trip wires.

I kept my face flat, said: “A major case they’re working. It’s got nothing to do with your daughter. But they’ve got a manpower shortage.”

“That’s what the cops always say,” he said bitterly. “It’s just a ploy to get more money. They’ve always got all the manpower they need when the media’s on their case.”

“Sure. Anyway, you can take this to the bank: they’re not working this one real hard.”

“I know.”

“If we had any reason to believe she was across a state line—”

“She’s not,” he said, too quickly.

“How do you know?”

“You have any children, Mr. Hazard?”

“No,” I said, wondering if his lawyer had told him different.

“Then I couldn’t explain it in any way you’d understand. I love my daughter. We’re . . . connected. And I know she’s close by.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be strictly the truth, would it? The Mann Act is something the feds take pretty seriously. . . .”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the old ‘white slavery’ law. Transporting someone across a state line for purposes of engaging in prostitution. They wouldn’t use it on a pimp driving his stable from Portland to Seattle; but if the girl was underage, or if she was taken against her will . . .”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“Buddy’s a very intelligent, very resourceful young woman. I don’t believe for a moment she was . . . taken like you’re talking about. In any event, you can’t just lie to the authorities. Sooner or later, they find out.”

“But if it puts more horsepower on the street, who cares?”

“No,” he said, again. “It’s not what I want to do. I don’t think it would be in Buddy’s best interests.”

“You’re the boss,” I lied.

“Can you stay with it?”

“I can. But . . .”

“I understand. I have a . . . I don’t know, a feeling. Call it a father’s instinct. I feel you’re going to find her. And bring her home. You must have some . . . things you haven’t tried yet.”

“Yeah. But if I go there, I’m going to need more from you.”

“More . . . what? Money?”

“In a way, yes. Not money you’d pay to me, but money you’d have on hand.”

“For a ransom? How much would I—?”

“Not for ransom. For bail.”

“You think Buddy may be in—?”

“No. Not her, me. If I . . . do some of the things I haven’t tried yet, I could get popped. I can’t stay in jail, understand. I’d need to be bailed out, and quick. ”

“My lawyer . . .”

“Sure. He can get me in front of a judge fast, if he’s got the right connections. But I’d still need a bondsman. And he’d need to know the surety’s in place.”

“How much would I have to—?”

“I guess it’s ten percent here, same way it is everywhere else. So ten K for a bond is the same as a hundred K in cash.”

“If I put up a bond, you’d show up for court?”

“If they took me down for anything you could bond me out on, I would, sure.”

“All right. I’ll set it up with Toby.”

We shook hands on it, liar to liar.

“You know a woman who calls herself Ann O. Dyne?” I asked Hong that night.

“Is this your idea of trading?” he asked, leaning forward, watching me like a specimen.

“It could be. I don’t know yet.”

“From where I sit, it’s been a one-way street up to now.”

“You don’t like where you sit, get up and walk.”

“Is that the kind of talk that impresses Gem, tough guy?”

“I wouldn’t know. I never tried it on her.”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice crackling around the edges.

I lit a cigarette, left it to burn down in the ashtray, letting my eyes get lost in the smoke.

“What’s your interest in this Dyne woman?” he finally asked, his tone telling me he knew her. Or something about her, anyway.

“I don’t know if I have any . . . yet. See, I’m a stranger here. I’ve got no rep, and I’ve got no way of checking out anyone else’s. She said she might be able to help me with finding the kid I’m looking for. I don’t want to waste any time or energy on her if she doesn’t have the connects out there to maybe deliver, that’s all.”

“You spoke to her?”

“I did.”

“Describe her, then.”

“That’s not so easy to do. I’ve seen her look two different ages, right down to the outfits. She likes wigs, so she probably likes colored contacts, too. I’m guessing she’s somewhere in her thirties. White woman. A little under medium height. Extravagant build. Kind of an educated voice. Drives a black Subaru SvX. Spends a lot of time cruising the hooker strolls, but she’s not a working girl.”

“No,” Hong said. “She’s a missionary.”

“A . . . what? You mean like a Mormon?”

“Not that. It’s not about religion for her. She tries to pull girls out of The Life.”

“She must be a big favorite of the local pimps.”

“This is Portland, not Vegas. The average pimp here is just a boyfriend who’s too lazy to work. Don’t get me wrong—we’ve got some real beauties here, too. But I never heard of any of them getting physical with Ann.”

“Has she got her own protection?”

“I don’t know. There’s rumors about her, but—”

“What rumors?”

“That she deals in black-market drugs. She was arrested for possession, once. But the charge didn’t stick.”

“Aren’t all drugs black-market?”

“I’m not talking about smack or crystal, here. I mean drugs like AZT and Betaseron.”

“What kind of market could there be for that stuff? You can get it with a scrip.”

“Not that stuff, exactly. Like it. Experimental stuff.”

“For people with AIDS?”

“Or Parkinson’s, or brain cancer, or any one of a dozen different things. Drugs only available in Europe, drugs that the FDA hasn’t approved yet—if you’re dying, you don’t want to wait for the bureaucracy to catch up with your problem.”

“So why work the prostie strolls? How much money could you make there?”

“That’s what I mean about her being a missionary. There’s something else going on, but nobody’s real sure what it is.”

“Not a police priority, is that what you’re saying?”

“Why should it be?” he challenged. “Between Ecstasy and heroin, our children are being eaten alive. And crank is running wild all over the state. Never mind the rapes and robberies and murders. And the stolen cars, the burglaries, and the shootings. You’ve been in a war, right?”

I nodded. I didn’t like his certainty about that, but I liked the idea of asking him where it came from even less.

“Then you know what triage is. That’s what cops do. Not just here, everywhere. Malcolm was right: the squeaky hinge does get the oil.”

“You said this Ann girl, she spends a lot of time on the street, right?”