Andrew Vachss - Safe House

The philosophers say “Whatever will be, will be.” My darling, all I know is that we will be. Together.

But the temperature dropped as he got closer to what he was. The last one was computer-font typed on plain paper. Using what the chump probably thought was an untraceable laser printer.

Broken promises make broken people, you dirty miserable fucking lousy bitch.

All you ever need to scan someone who plays above ground is the usual registration paper. A Social Security number can do it. Or a driver’s license. Or whatever. It’s easy. Some of that government ID stuff. And some cash.

Wolfe pulled the records for me in forty-eight hours, sneering “amateur” as she handed them over. I asked her, since I was protecting a battered woman and all, if she didn’t want to cut me some slack on the fee. She didn’t, but she threw me one of her beautiful smiles as a bonus.

The ex-boyfriend looked good on paper. Went a little deep into his platinum AmEx every once in a while, but nothing radical. He’d overpaid for his condo like every yuppie twerp who bought before 1988 and his BMW M3 was leased, but he was pulling a heavy salary and a yearly six-figure bonus too; so, even with semi-annual runs to St. Bart’s, Armani on his back, Patek Philippe on his wrist, regular heavy restaurant tabs and the occasional limo down to Atlantic City, he was well inside the margin.

On paper, anyway.

Sometimes you get lucky. Like if a mark has a Jones for strippers and he puts all the lap-dances on his credit card so he can take his fun as a tax deduction. Or if you find big holes in the financial records—the kind of holes coke eats in your nose after a while. Nothing like that with this boy, though.

Doesn’t matter. When you’re looking to hack somebody up, a machete works as good as a modem.

A few more days, and we had him boxed. He left his BMW in the condo’s garage and took a cab to work every day. Nobody else lived in his apartment. No girlfriend. No roommate. No out-of-town guests staying over. No dog.

“I work alone, home,” the Prof said sharply. “No way I’m taking that maniac with.”

“Mole’s no maniac,” I told him.

He gave me a look of profound pity.

I switched gears, looking for traction. “Look, Prof, the Mole’s the only one who can rig the guy’s machinery, you know that.”

“That’s us today, the fucking IRA?” he asked sarcastically. “We don’t need to make his room go boom, right? You wanna ice the motherfucker, we could just give the job to your boy Hercules, get some use outa that chump.”

“I’m not talking about blowing him up,” I said quietly, ignoring the jab. “This is gonna be . . . subtle, okay?”

“The Mole ain’t . . . mobile, brother. We run into some shit, he’s gonna still be there when it’s over.”

“Max’ll go in with you.”

“And I will be outside, Father,” Clarence put in.

“No you won’t,” the little man snapped. “I told you—”

“Yes, you have told me many things,” the young gunslinger said calmly. “And I have always listened. With love and respect.”

“Ahhh . . .” the Prof surrendered.

Iplugged the cellular phone into the scrambler box sitting on the Plymouth’s front seat. Gave the “Go” to the crew as I watched the mark climb out of the yellow cab in front of the World Trade Center, where he had his office. I lit a cigarette and waited, giving him time to get to his desk, to his direct line. By the time he sat down, his life would be invaded.

“Anytime I want, Stanley,” I hissed into the cell phone when he picked up, my whisper-of-the-grave voice on full menace.

“What? Who is—?”

“It don’t matter, Stanley. You been fucking with the wrong people. You been a problem, punk. The people I work for, they don’t like problems.”

“Look, whoever you—”

“Keep quiet, Stanley. Keep real quiet. You know how it is. Something’s wrong with you, you see a doctor, right? And the doctor writes you a prescription. Me, I’m the prescription now, understand?”

“If that little—”

“Stanley, don’t make me tell you again. It’s over. That’s the message. There’s no more. You got no motherfucking idea how bad a mistake you made. You got one chance. Real simple choice. Go fucking away, got it? No phone calls, no letters, no nothing. You do anything, anything at all, we do you. You got twenty-four hours, Stanley. Then it’s over. Or you are.”

“That’s one sick motherfucker,” the Prof said, handing over a little wooden box of six-month recovery medals from AA. Now I knew where the player met his prey—he was a Twelve Step stalker, a shark in a pool of victims. I wondered what Crystal Beth’s client had never told her. Or Crystal Beth never told me.

“You get the—?”

The Prof pulled a white leather photo album with thick padded covers from under his long coat without a word.

“Find any scrips?” I asked him, not looking inside the white covers.

“Only a few. But he had a heavy pill stash. It was all like you called, Schoolboy.”

“You switch the pills?”

“One for one. Perfect match.”

“Righteous. The Mole get his work done?”

“Oh yeah. Only took a few minutes. Soon as that piece of shit opens the line, it’s Nightmare Time.”

By the next day, it was over. A private courier had come to the woman’s apartment. I’d left Max on watch just in case Stanley wanted more than a package delivered, but the courier handed it over without protest once I calmly explained to him that I was the doctor’s “representative.” He asked me for a signature on his receipt form. I looked at him until he stuffed it back in his pocket and walked away.

We opened the package inside a box the Mole has for stuff like that, using a computer-controlled robot arm to do the work. No explosive surprises. I kept one piece out, reassembled the rest and gave it to Clarence to drop off.

Back in my office, I opened the secrets of the white leather album with a surgeon’s scalpel. The negatives were just where I thought they’d be, inside the cover, repasted so fine you’d never spot the seam if you weren’t looking for it. The pictures were all of the woman. And him, I guess, from the waist down. About what you’d expect. Weren’t worth much unless her next fiancé wanted to marry a virgin. Not even erotic, unless you liked ropes and ball-gags and mirrors. Just trophies from an ugly hunt. I placed them flat on a piece of thick glass, used a box-cutter to shred them down, made a little bonfire in a stone jar, lighting a cigarette from the flames licking over the open top. It tasted good. The negatives needed something better, and I’d take care of it soon. I know a guy who works in a crematorium. Nights.

“It was all here,” she said on the phone when I called later, a wave of happiness bubbling under the surprise in her voice. “Everything. My letters. The . . . gifts I’d given him. Even the last of the . . .”

“I know. The one he hadn’t used yet.”

“Yes! Everything except . . .”

“The pictures?”

“Yes.”

“They’re gone,” I told her. “I watched them go.”

“Oh God.”

“Sure.”

“There was a letter. Should I . . . ?”

“Read it to me,” I told her.

“It just says: ‘You already got the rest. There is nothing more between us. Please leave me alone.’ Can you imagine? Like I was terrorizing him. ”

“Doesn’t matter, right?”

“Yes, you’re right. I don’t know what to say.”

“Let it sit for a while. Don’t do anything. If he ever shows up again, tell your friend, okay?”