Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

We never even heard a siren.

I carefully removed the clear plastic shrouding from my fingernails, one by one. Then I started soaking my right hand in a jar of kerosene—revolvers really spread their powder residue around. The dismembered pistol was already on its way to an acid bath.

I felt like a man who’d just worked a long shift at a lousy job. The same job that would be waiting on me tomorrow.

I went back to being dead. Stayed deep underground. Spent every day working out, harder and harder. It was nearing Christmas by the time I heard from the Mossad man.

“His name is Anton.”

“The new boss?”

“Yes. But not easily, not without bloodshed. Some of Dmitri’s old crew have moved on. The new organization is smaller.”

“And this Anton, he’s not ex-military?”

“No,” the Mossad man replied. “He’s an ex-convict. A career criminal.”

Like me , flickered in my thoughts before it blinked out. “Thank you,” is all I said.

“Who is this?” The voice on the phone was hard and weaselish at the same time.

“My name doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I’m the one who sent you that present … the one wrapped in green paper with a red ribbon.”

“Ah!” he grunted. “What is it that you want?”

“You got the present. The ten grand was in exchange for a piece of information.”

“What information?” he asked, suspicion dominating. “Nothing about you. Or your crew. Dmitri dealt with some people a few months ago. I know he kept records. I know you have those records. All I want is their name and address.”

“How would I know which—?”

“They were a married couple. Russians. Not in the business. She was a doctor, he was a scientist. Their child had been kidnapped.”

“How much is this information worth to you?”

“Ten thousand dollars, Anton. And I already paid you.”

“I think it is maybe worth more.”

So he already knew. “Maybe it is worth twice that,” I came back, surprising him.

He paused, then responded, “Agreed.”

“Okay. You already have half in front from me. A good-faith payment. To show my respect. I will get the other half to you when you give me the information.”

“How could I be sure of this?”

“Remember the rest of the present I sent you?”

“The piece of chalk?”

“Yes.”

“What is the purpose of that?”

“For your people to draw the outline around your body. You know, like the cops did around Dmitri. When he was on the floor, dead. I gave him the same choice I’m giving you. He picked wrong. So now I deal with you. If you pick wrong, I deal with whoever follows you , understand?”

“You threaten me?”

“Threaten? I am making you the same offer I made Dmitri, that’s all.”

“Dmitri was a fool. He thought that the most important thing was to be some … soldier,” he said, spitting on the last word.

“You and me, we’re alike,” I told him. “We’re not soldiers, we’re businessmen. A soldier’s mistake is different from a businessman’s mistake. Greed, that is a businessman’s mistake. Not one you want to make. Twenty thousand dollars for the information, that’s enough.”

“Call back here in twenty-four hours,” he said. And hung up.

I pushed the “off” button on the cell phone. Then I used a hammer and a blowtorch to turn it into a puddle of untraceable plastic.

“A soldier is nothing but an armed bureaucrat,” he said the next night. “And Dmitri proves it. Everything, he wrote down. Everything. An idiot.”

“Government is government,” I agreed.

He grunted in self-satisfaction. Then he slowly gave me a name, address, and phone number as if he was reading the info off an index card.

“Chicago?”

“Everything that is here, I just tell you.”

“All right. I believe you.”

“The rest of the money …?”

“Is yours as soon as I check out the information.”

“You said that you—”

“I said I believed you . Dmitri, that remains to be seen.”

“What are you saying?”

“I offered you two choices. If the information is true, then you have earned the money.”

“If it is not? If Dmitri …?”

“Then that’s it,” I lied. “You keep what you have, and we’ll be square.”

I hung up on whatever he was in the middle of saying.

“Chi-Town?” the Prof asked me, puzzled.

“That part is legit,” I told him. “Dmitri said the snatch took place in Chicago. What happened was, it made the Chicago papers , but they lived in Winnetka—it’s like a suburb. A rich suburb. Anyway, that’s where they lived then . And I figured they’d moved here after it happened. But maybe not …”

“Never change phone,” Mama said.

I looked across the table at her. The first time I’d been in the restaurant since before … since before it happened. Mama hadn’t reacted to my new face, just snapped her fingers for the tureen of hot-and-sour soup as if nothing had changed.

“Right,” is all I said, acknowledging the truth. Your child gets kidnapped, the one thing you never change is your phone number. Just in case. Even after years and years. But phone calls could be forwarded. Maybe they carried a cellular everywhere they went, never used it for anything else, waiting—an amulet against the unthinkable.

“That chance can’t dance,” the Prof snapped. “Remember what that Dmitri motherfucker said, Schoolboy—they said it had to be you. You got the street-brand here, no question. Too much of it, you ask me. But Chicago? Son, your star don’t shine that far.”

“So they were living here, then? And the Chicago address is a dud?”

“Maybe Cossacks all lie,” Mama said darkly, the memory of some obscure Sino-Soviet conflict igniting behind the emotionless mask of her face.

“Let’s just go with what we know,” the Prof said. “Click it off.”

“All right,” I told them. “It was a hit. I was the target. There were at least four of them. It was a good plan. I’d done that kind of work before—middlemanned a handover—so it made sense they’d pick me. And they knew I’d go for it, the kind of money they were paying. They picked a spot that should have been perfect. Even the kid—that was a sweet touch. I was expecting a kid. Gave them an extra split-second to get off first, before I snapped wise. They might have figured I’d have backup, but they didn’t think anyone could get close enough without tipping them off. They didn’t figure on the Kevlar, though. Or on …”

My throat stopped up. I couldn’t say any more.

“She went out the way I want to, son,” the Prof said, reading me like I was forty-point type.

“Yeah.” I ignored the pain-flash, got back to my summary. “They were cool under fire. At least their leader was. Took the extra time to make sure I was gone, picked up their dead, didn’t leave a trace.”

“They thought they left you , mahn,” Clarence said.

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” I told him. “That wasn’t unprofessional of them; it was smart. With my track record, being found dead in Hunts Point—what would it tell the cops? Nothing. Nothing to connect to them, and a ton of possible suspects out there, too.”

“That’s where we got to look,” the Prof said.

“I don’t get it.”

“Listen up, then. We got to be the detectives now. Whoever tried to ice you, it cost someone serious money. Took a lot of time, involved a lot of people. That’s got to be personal. The people who tried to do the job, I figure them for mercs. Hired hands. But the rest, that was about blood. Someone who hates you enough to do all that planning and spending. And someone who knows you enough to figure you’d go for that kid-exchange thing, too.”