Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Are you going to do it?” she asked, softly.

“What? This isn’t a—”

“Not this, ” she said harshly, giving my cock a squeeze. “Help me get the Ultracept.”

“I told you before. I don’t know if—”

“I don’t have much more time.”

“Then maybe you’d better go ahead without me.”

“Didn’t anything I showed you mean anything?”

“You’ve got me confused with one of the good guys,” I told her.

“No, I don’t. How does a hundred thousand dollars—in cash—sound to you?”

“Like nice words.”

“Not just words.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Never mind. Just take me back and let’s get this part done. Then we’ll . . . then you’ll see.”

I met Gordo where we’d arranged. Flacco and I changed places. I took the passenger seat of the ’Vette, he got behind the wheel of the pickup and moved off. Gordo drove me around to the back of the vacant lot, kept the peek while I pulled on a black hooded sweatshirt. I was already wearing black jersey pants, black running shoes, and black socks. A thin pair of black calfskin gloves covered my hands. I pulled a navy watch cap so low down on my head that only my eyes showed . . . then I slashed some light-eating black grease below them, and pulled the hood up. The Beretta went into my waistband, concealed by the sweatshirt. I fitted a heavy rubber wristband over the black leather slapjack, and I was ready.

Gordo looked me over, nodded approval, and vanished. He’d be close by, in case I had to exit fast.

I’d been over the waste ground a couple of times in daylight, and had a sense of where things were. I found a deep pool of pitch-black near a pile of rubble that was an open invitation to rats, and settled in.

From where I knelt, I could see the old Pontiac pull up. Watched Ann climb in. I knew I’d have some time to wait, so I concentrated on my breathing, letting the ground come up inside of me, settling my heartbeat, trying to become one with the rubble I was lurking in.

By the time I’d achieved that state, I knew we weren’t alone.

It took me a few minutes to focus him out of the shadows. Tall and slender, wearing a denim jacket with some kind of glitter design sewn along the sleeves, light-colored slacks that billowed around the knees, then narrowed to the top of shiny boots that looked like plastic alligator, at least from the thirty yards or so that separated us.

He wasn’t so much lurking as lounging, his stance as lame as his outfit. Whoever schooled him forgot to mention that predators don’t pose. There’s always bigger ones around. Or smarter ones.

He stuck something in his mouth and fired it up. From how long it took him to get it going, I figured it for a blunt. Pathetic little punk. Then I thought about the white knife, and let the ice come in.

All he did for the next fifteen minutes was watch the street, drag on his maryjane stogie, and fidget like a guy who thought he was going to get stood up. He was about as inconspicuous as a macaw on a glacier.

The Pontiac rolled to the curb. Ann got out, taking her time, as if she was scanning the street for new customers. When nothing showed, she stepped into the lot, walked behind an abandoned sofa, pulled the hot pants down to her thighs, and squatted below my sight line.

I couldn’t tell if she was relieving herself, or just making it look real. The watcher thought it was real—he hung back until she straightened up and pulled her pants back on. When he made his move, I made mine, cutting across his path, hanging just over his right shoulder so I’d be ready to follow him as soon as he split.

I didn’t want to get close enough to spook him. Couldn’t hear what either of them said, but I could see him brace her. Saw the white knife that earned him his rep. Watched Ann open her tiny little purse and take something out, hand it to him.

I saw him turn to leave. That should have been it, then—just follow him to his crib and take care of business. But he changed the game when he reached out and grabbed Ann by the arm. I saw the white knife slash, heard her make a grunting sound and go down to one knee. I was already moving by then, heard him say, “Fucking cunt! Don’t ever forget me!” as he backhanded her across the face.

Ann saw me coming, waved her hand frantically. He took it as a “No more!” gesture. I took it that she wanted me to stay with the plan. He made up my mind for me when he wheeled and headed back toward where he’d come from.

As I merged with the shadows, I caught a glimpse of Ann sticking a small packet in her teeth, tearing it open with one hand, then smearing it all over her arm. Alcohol swab? I couldn’t wait to see—the knifeman was moving now. Not exactly running, but making good time. And plenty of noise. Following him was no trick.

Ann’s guess about his hideout was on the money. He made his way through an alley to the side of an abandoned building. The door was barely hanging on the hinges. But when he swung it open, I could see a metal gate inside. His key opened the padlock. He stepped inside, about to vanish.

“Show me your hands, punk. Empty! ” I said softly, the Beretta a couple of feet from the back of his head.

He whirled to face me. “I . . .”

“Now!” I almost whispered, cocking the piece.

His hands came up. Slow and open.

“You made a mistake,” I said, moving toward him, using the cushion of air between us to force him back inside the building. We were in a long, unlit hallway. All I could make out behind him was a set of stairs.

“Look, man. You got the wrong—”

“I don’t think so. They told me, look for a jailhouse turnout who carries a little white knife. And that’s you, right?”

“I’m not no—”

“Yeah, you are. That’s why you hate women so bad. And the white knife, that’s like your trademark, huh?”

“That was your woman? I didn’t know—”

“My woman? I look like a fucking pimp to you, pussy?”

“No, man. I didn’t mean—”

“Where’s your partner?”

“My . . . I don’t have no—”

“I don’t care what you call him, punk. The nigger you’ve been working with.”

“Look, you don’t get—”

“Yeah. I do,” I said, reading his face. “I do now. He’s not your partner, he’s your jockey, right?”

“Cocksucker!” he snarled, dropping his right shoulder to swing. I chopped the Beretta viciously into the exposed left side of his neck. He slumped against the wall, making a mewling sound, left hand hanging loosely at his side. I brought my knee up in a feint. He went for it, tried to cup his balls with his good hand. By then, the slapjack was in my left hand. I crushed his right cheekbone with it.

I pocketed the slapjack, then turned him over. It was hard to do with only one hand, especially with him vomiting, but I managed it without letting go of the Beretta. When I saw there was nothing left to him, I went back to work with the slapjack, elbows and knees, all the while whispering promises about how much worse this could get, until he passed out.

Kruger hadn’t asked for a body. And he hadn’t offered enough to trade for one, either. My job was done.

I started to get up and fade away when I flashed on Ann. In that vacant lot. The white knife . . .

A good needle-artist could change the tattoos on his hands. But no surgeon was going to reattach the first two joints of both his index fingers. I took them with me.

The maggot wasn’t going to bleed to death, even in that abandoned building—I used the little blowtorch to cauterize the nice clean amputations his pretty white knife had made.

By the time I got back to the vacant lot, Ann was gone.