Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Some people get real angry at that. I don’t. That’s the kind of patience I have. When I got no choice, I wait. When it’s smarter to wait, I wait. But it’s not a religious thing. I don’t think people should wait for what’s theirs.”

“Like civil rights?”

“Or revenge.”

“I’m done waiting,” she said. “There’s a new drug, Ultracept-7. It’s only been out a few months. Another form of morphine sulfate, but this one’s supposed to be the most potent of all.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Why would you? But you’ve heard of Paxil, right? And Zyrtec, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone who’s ever watched TV has. Some drugs get advertised very heavily. Because there’s a big market for them. Anti-anxiety, impotence, allergies, baldness—lots of competition for those dollars. But pain? There’s no competition. Not much point convincing you to ask your doctor for a certain kind of medicine when it’s the dosage that’s your real problem.”

“This new stuff . . .” I put out there, to try and stop a rant-in-progress.

“It’s sensational,” she said. “Maybe ten times as potent as anything out there now. A tiny bit goes a real long way. But that’s not what’s so great about it. What’s so great about it is that I know where there’s going to be a lot of it . . . a whole lot of it.”

“And that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want. It’s got a much longer shelf life—much deeper expiration dates—than anything else out there. I get enough of it, it could last for years. Enough time for things to change, maybe.”

“I already told you—”

“I know. And here’s what Kruger was really telling you. There’s a crew, nobody knows how big, moving on working girls.”

“Trying to pull them?”

“No. They’re not pimps. They sell insurance. Operating insurance.”

“What tolls are they charging?”

“Nickel-and-dime. Literally. They must be crazy. Even if they got every girl in Portland to pay, at twenty bucks a night, how much could they be making?”

“I don’t know. But what ever they make from a lame hustle like that, it’s all gravy.”

“It’s not a hustle,” she said. “The one who calls himself Blaze? He cut two different girls. He’s got a white knife. Supposed to be so sharp the girls didn’t even know they were cut until blood started spurting all over the place.”

“He cut them for not coming up with twenty bucks?”

“Yes. And he may have done more. He told one girl he was going to fire her up, for real. Showed her a spray bottle, said it was full of gasoline. Said that’s where he got his name. Scared her out of her mind.”

“How come the local pimps don’t—?”

“I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, but it isn’t an organized thing here. Not many stables. A lot of girls freelancing. And for most of them, their pimp is their boyfriend. Probably even another addict like they are. Nobody’s exactly patrolling the streets looking for punks with knives.”

“So why does Kruger care? They cut one of his girls?”

“No. At least, not that I ever heard about. But nobody can be sure these guys can tell who’s who, and it’s got everyone nervous. It’d be good for his profile if he did something about it, anyway. His game is that he looks out for all the working girls.”

“You know anything else about this Blaze guy?”

“White. Young guy, but not a kid. Tattoos on his hands. Nobody got a close enough look to see any more than that.”

“His car?”

“No.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Not even a week.”

“And two girls cut already?”

“At least.”

“There isn’t much chance of catching a guy who operates like that. Nobody can watch all the girls all the time.”

“I know how to do it,” she said. “Let me show you something.”

I was sitting at the kitchen table in Ann’s hideout, a streetmap of Portland spread out in front of me. Ann’s hand rested casually on my shoulder. Every time she leaned forward to point out something, her breast casually brushed my cheek. Thewhole thing would have been a lot more casual if she’d had any clothes on.

“One girl was here,” she said, tapping a street corner with a burnt-orange fingernail. “The other was . . . here. And he confronted other ones here, here, and . . . here. You see it?”

“A triangle.”

“Right. And not a big one.”

“He doesn’t have to be operating from inside the triangle. But it makes the most sense.”

“Because he doesn’t have a car?”

“I don’t know about that. But . . . yeah, that could be it. If those tattoos are jailhouse, it probably is.”

“Why would an ex-con be more likely to—?”

“Pro bank robbers don’t do Bonnie and Clyde crap anymore. It’s still hit-and-run, but you don’t run far. Best way is to have a place to hole up real close to the bank. Just put a little distance between you and the job, then go to ground. And stay there. Disappear. The longer the law looks, the farther away they think you got. Sounds like the way this guy is playing it, too.”

“He would have learned that in prison?”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t seem . . . I mean, it’s like a trade secret, right? Why would anyone give away information like that?”

“Couple of reasons. In prison, talking is one of the major activities. And you want to be as high up on the status ladder as you can get. There’s always old cons doing the book who’ll—”

“Doing the book?”

“Life. Some older guys, they like the idea of being mentors, pass along what they’ve learned, teach the techniques. And not just the pros. The freaks do it, too.”

“Freaks?”

“Rapists, child molesters, giggle-at-the-flames arsonists . . .”

“What ‘techniques’ could they have?”

“Why do you think so many ex-con rapists use condoms? So they won’t leave a DNA trail. Or why so many ex-con child molesters marry single mothers? Or why—”

“I get it,” she said, repulsion bathing her voice.

“This guy learned about shaking down street whores from somewhere. And about having a place close by to duck into. But whoever told him about ceramic knives left something out.”

“What’s a ceramic knife?”

“What he’s using. They’re not made from steel, they’re made from glass . . . like the obsidian knives the Aztecs used a long time ago. Glass takes a much sharper edge than any metal could. Ceramic knives come in black, too, but steel doesn’t come in white, see? So, if the word’s right about a white knife . . .”

“It is,” she said, confidently.

“Okay, then that’s how we play it. Thing is, ceramic knives aren’t just made of glass, they can also break like glass. They’re great for kitchens, but you wouldn’t want to fight with one.”

“He’s not doing any fighting.”

“That’s right. They’re for slashing, not stabbing. But it’s what he carries. And if he has to use it against someone who’s got a blade of his own, he’s going to come up short . . . unless he’s very good with it. That’s the problem with prison knowledge—there’s no way to really check it out until you make it back to the bricks. Inside, everybody’s fascinated with knives. A good knife-fighter can get to be a legend in there,” I said, thinking of Jester the matador, a million years ago. “And a good shank-maker can get rich. So maybe somebody was talking about how ceramic knives are the sharpest thing going. This guy was listening. And when he got out, that’s the first thing he bought.”