Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Or maybe he . . .”

“What?”

“Maybe he wasn’t talking with knife-fighters at all. Maybe the prisoners he was talking with, like you said before, their experience was in terrifying people.”

“Or torturing them, yeah. There’s a school of martial arts that concentrates on fighting with edged weapons. Filipino, I think. Or maybe Indonesian. But they teach offense and defense. Meaning, the other guy’s got one, too, see? It’s for a culture where they don’t have a lot of guns. Prison’s like that, but Portland’s sure as hell not. You probably nailed it, girl. He wasn’t learning from pros, he was learning from freaks. I’ll bet that’s why he went with white. He wants people to remember him.”

“Do you think I’m right about the other thing, too? That he has a place inside the triangle?”

“I do. It scans like a guy just out of the joint, looking to build up a little stake before he tries something bigger. But there’s a few things I’d need to know.”

“What?”

“Housing inside that triangle. Is it expensive?”

“Nothing’s all that cheap in Portland, especially with all the gentrification going on. Neighborhoods that used to be skid row are fashionable now. But right in here,” she said, tapping the spot on the map, “there’s a couple of buildings tabbed for renovation. You know what that means.”

“Yep. Okay, you said the knifeman was with a crew, nobody knows exactly how big. Where’d you get that?”

“There’s at least one more. A black guy. Even younger than the guy with the knife. He’s collected from some of the girls.”

“Any more than him?”

“Not that I know about.”

“All right. But even if they’re holed up close, in one of the squats, that doesn’t solve it. I can’t go door-to-door without tipping them. And I can’t Rambo a whole building by myself.”

“But if you followed him . . .”

“Sure. But what’s the odds of me being in the exact spot where he—?”

“Pretty good,” she said, putting both arms around my neck and pulling herself against me, “if you have the right bait.”

It took us the better part of the next day to get the four different cars in place. If Flacco and Gordo were getting a little tired of playing rent-free Hertz for me, they kept it off their faces. But since they pretty much kept everything off their faces, I didn’t have a clue.

By the time we were done, we had the yellow Camaro, the black Corvette, a blue Ford F150 pickup, and a clapped-out eighties-era Pontiac in red primer all within a two mile radius of where Ann was going to make her stand.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked Flacco.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “What’s the risk?”

“It’s not that. It’s . . .”

“What?” Gordo tossed in. “What’s up with you, hombre ? This is just business, right?”

“I don’t know,” I told them, honestly. “I’m getting paid. But the guy who’s paying me, he isn’t paying for this, understand?”

“You double-backing on him?”

“I might,” I said. “If he turns out to be what I think he is.”

“I still don’t see what’s the problem,” Flacco said.

“Look . . . I don’t feel right about . . . this. You guys, you’re doing things for me out of friendship, right? But I’m getting paid. I’d feel better if I was—”

I caught Gordo’s look, nodded, and swiveled my head to bring Flacco into it, too. “See what I mean?” I said to them both. “You’re insulted if I offer you money, but . . .”

“We like you, amigo, ” Flacco said, his voice soft. “But this isn’t about you, okay?”

“Then what—?”

“It’s about Gem, ¿comprende? ”

“No,” I said, flatly, squaring up to face him. Glad to finally be getting it on.

“She didn’t ask us to do anything,” Flacco said, hands extended on either side of his face, palms out, as if ready to ward off a blow. “But we know how you and her . . . and . . . we’re with her, you see where I’m going?”

“Yeah. But I don’t even know how it is between me and Gem. So you shouldn’t be—”

“That’s not our business,” Gordo said, quickly.

“But you just told me—”

“Gem, she wouldn’t want nothing to happen to you. We don’t know what you’re doing. From what you say—what you say now —maybe she don’t know what you’re doing, either. Don’t matter to us. You know how it is with women. You don’t have to be with them for them to be with you.”

I didn’t say anything, listening to the quiet of the big garage, trying to decode what they were telling me.

“You know a guy . . . a cop, named Hong?” I asked them.

If anything, their faces went even flatter than usual. When neither of them said a word for a long minute, I tossed them a half-salute and walked out.

I made the first run just before eleven that night, driving the Corvette. Ann was standing in front of a vacant lot, about a third of the way down the block from the corner where some working girls were showing their stuff. Her location would make sense to the watcher that we hoped was on the set: close enough to the action, but not right in the middle of it. Just about right for a new girl who didn’t have a pimp with enough muscle to clear a prime spot for her.

She was wearing neon-lime hot pants, chunky stacked heels with ankle straps, and a not-up-to-the-job black halter top. Her hair was short, straight, and black. She looked luscious . . . but already too used to stay that way for much longer. Perfect.

She played it perfect, too. Let the Corvette cruise by the girls on the corner, then stepped out and waved like she was greeting a friend. I pulled over. She poked her head in the window.

“Any sign of him?” I asked her.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Get in. If he is out there, let’s give him something to see.”

I brought her back about twenty minutes later. She jumped out quick, still trying to stuff her breasts back into the halter top as I left rubber pulling away.

At the corner, I passed the Camaro, Flacco behind the wheel. Making sure Ann wouldn’t be spending any time out there alone.

And by the time Flacco came back, I was ready with the pickup.

“Anything?” I asked, as soon as she climbed in.

“No. But he’s there.”

“How do you know?”

“I got the high-sign from one of the girls on the corner. He’s been around tonight. Collecting. I figure I’ve been doing so much business he hasn’t had a chance to move on me yet.”

“We’re going to do one more. You remember?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “Black Corvette, yellow Camaro, blue pickup—all done. Next up’s a rusty old Pontiac.”

“Good. Now, don’t be—”

“Just re lax, B.B. I’m not getting in any strange cars.”

“And if he does make his move . . .”

“I just turn it over, and watch where he goes, if I can. I don’t try and follow him,” she recited, sighing deeply to show she didn’t need another rehearsal.

“Okay.”

“At least it’s easier to do it in a truck.” She chuckled.

“Ann . . .”

“Just stop it, all right? I’m fine. I know what I’m doing. He’s not going to do anything if I turn over the money.”

“And you think Kruger will really pay off? Tell me what he knows?”

“If you get it done? Sure. That’s his rep. He’s had it a long time. And he wants to keep it.”

I pulled over where she told me. Saw several other cars full of the same cargo. But this was no Lovers’ Lane; it was the checkout line in a sex supermarket, and I wasn’t worried about disturbos interrupting the action. Ann made herself comfortable on the front seat, her head in my lap. From the outside, it would look like the real thing.