Andrew Vachss - Pain Management

“Like that . . . man with the white knife.”

“Yeah. Like him. I’m perfect for it, the way you got it scoped. If I have to take a fall, well, I’ve been down before. And you know I wouldn’t take anybody else with me.”

“You think I set up the whole—?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I mean, sure, it’s true: there was a freak doing shakedown. And Kruger was burned about it. And maybe there even are a couple of men looking for Rosebud, too. But I think this was all about me proving in. Again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A test. Another test.”

“That’s not true! I need your help, I told you that. And I wanted to show you that we could . . . I mean, SueEllen alone, she’s good for the money I promised you. But I never thought it would come to—”

“I see how careful you are about risking your own people. You had it your way, none of them would be in on it.”

“They’re not criminals. All they want is to—”

“Sure. I’ve heard it. Heard a lot of it, these past few days. So it’s just you and me, right, bitch? Joan of Arc and the expendable fucking ex-con.”

She did a lousy job of trying to slap me as we were rounding a long curve, but a pretty good job of almost running us off the road. I kept my right hand and forearm in a blocking position in case she wanted to take another shot, but she seemed done.

“You bastard,” she said, quietly.

“I was in a war, once,” I said, softly. “There were two kinds of people you never wanted to go into the bush with: morons and martyrs. Understand?”

“Yes!”

“These drugs you want to hijack—you get caught doing it, they’ll never get into the right hands. So that only leaves three possibilities.”

“What?” she snapped.

“Either you want to get caught, go out in a blaze of glory, get a lot of media attention about your great sacrifice . . . like that. Or you don’t really have a plan; just a lot of information.”

“You said there were three.”

“Yeah. Or you plan to use me as bait: send me down a blind tunnel, tip the cops, then make your own move while I’ve got them tied up for a while.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. How could you tie up a bunch of cops?”

“I don’t mean with ropes. I mean . . . I mean, I’m not going back to prison. So it might take them a long time to bring me in. And it wouldn’t be cheap at their end. And I think you know all that.”

“Maybe you give me too much credit.”

“Maybe. Only I don’t think so. I think people spend so much time looking at your chest they never figure out how smart you are.”

“And you, you’re, like, immune?” she said, bitterly.

“Not immune. I just don’t get D-cup blindness.”

“Good,” she said. “Fuck your self. ”

The light was gone by the time we got back to Portland. Ann had changed in a gas-station restroom, so when she popped out of the Subaru she looked ready for work. I was slouched in the passenger seat, making it look like she was working unleashed, no pimp. We couldn’t be sure what information the knifeman had given his boss. We couldn’t even be sure he’d given any information at all. There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d even survived. So we stayed with the script.

Ann took a few tentative steps on the cheap spike heels, wiggling her bottom like she was practicing her moves. She headed for the same patch in the vacant lot where it had all started. I settled in to wait.

When it happened, I almost didn’t pick him up. A black kid, looked maybe nineteen, smooth brown-skin face, neatly trimmed natural. He was wearing a way-oversize black-and-white flannel shirt with sleeves so long they covered his hands, moving in a bouncy, prancing strut, covering ground like he owned it. Typical gangsta-boy moves, about as menacing as Martha Stewart.

But I was working, so I hit the switch and the window slid down in sync with the kid rolling up on Ann’s left side. That’s when I saw the chrome muzzle protruding from the tip of his right sleeve. He was maybe fifteen feet away and closing when he brought the gun up in the trigger-boy’s Hollywood flat-sided grip.

By then, my left forearm was along the windowsill, with the Beretta resting on top. I had three into him before Ann heard the sound of the shots.

“Get in here!” I yelled at her.

She ran toward the car, stumbled to her knees, got up quickly, snatching one of the spike heels off the ground, and half-hopped her way around to the driver’s side. I was already next to the kid’s body, relieved despite myself to see the faint light from down the block reflect on the flashy chrome semi-auto in his hand—it was the real thing, all right.

I knew, from the standard mumbo-jumbo every shooter gets when he can’t afford anything better than Legal Aid, that “self-defense” also includes “defense of others.” But if I shot the kid again once he was down, I couldn’t ever use that one in court. I balanced it in my head for split seconds. The people who’d ambushed me back in New York hadn’t made sure of their kill, and paid heavy for it later. But I couldn’t see a sign he could make it even if someone around there had 911’ed the action. He spasmed once. Then he crossed over.

I was back inside in a flash, and Ann had us gone from the scene in less than that.

Her hands were steady on the wheel as she slid the Subaru around corners, not giving the impression of great speed, but really covering ground. My hands were trembling a little, so I left them in my pockets.

“What happened?” she asked.

“That was the other one.”

“He was going to—?”

“Kill you? Yeah. That’s what the fucking gun was for.”

“B.B., take it easy, okay? I’m all right. He didn’t—”

“This piece—the one I used—it has to go. Quick. We get stopped with it in the car, I’m done.”

“But you were just protecting me!” she said, as if reading my mind back when I stood over the kid’s body.

“That’s a law-school thing. Maybe even a courtroom thing. But with my record, even if I eventually walked, I’d be no-bailed for months, maybe years. And by then, people would know who I am.”

“Who you really are, you mean.”

“That’s right. Now, just go where I tell you.”

“¿Qué pasa?” Gordo asked me, as if walking into the garage at one in the morning was the most normal thing in the world.

“I need to borrow some tools.”

“What for, man? You ain’t no mechanic. Just bring whatever you got in here and we’ll—”

“It’s not a car. And it doesn’t need fixing; it needs destroying. Better you don’t see what it is, okay?”

He gave me a long look. “This . . . thing, it’s, like, metal, right?”

“Sure.”

“Not another . . . ?”

“No.”

“¿Cuánto?”

“Just the one,” I told him.

“I know this guy,” he said. “He’s got his own junkyard. Works a car-crusher there.”

“It has to be now, Gordo.”

“ Sí. Just go and get it, compadre. Take me ten, fifteen minutes. Take you hours. I do it perfect. You do it, maybe not so good. Just go and get it.”

The unrecognizable pile of metallic filings and shavings and chips made a gentle rattling sound when Gordo shook the clear plastic box that held them. “Like a maraca, huh?” He laughed.

I pointed to Gordo and Flacco, separately. Bowed slightly. Said, “Obligado.” And walked out of the garage.

Ann was still in the front seat of her Subaru, but now she was dressed casual, in a pale-blue pullover and jeans.