Andrew Vachss - Safe House

“More of the same?” I asked him.

“Yeah. I heard about a new one too. Mercedes, it’s called. And Jonah Hex. Hell, anything by Joe Lansdale.”

“He’s a writer, right?” I said, into his rhythm.

“Oh yeah,” Herk said fervently.

“You can not overdress for a first meeting,” Michelle informed me in her “don’t-argue-with-me” voice. “It’s so true what they say about first impressions.”

“You want me to rent a tux?” I asked her.

“What I want is for you to be quiet long enough for me to coordinate. And tell that heinous hound of yours to stop following me around—this place isn’t big enough for me to use an assistant.”

I made the silent command for “Place” and Pansy trotted obediently into her corner just to the side of the door, arranging herself on the thick sheepskin rug I’d gotten her to take the chill off the floor in the winter. “Good girl! ” I told her, reaching into the refrigerator and coming out with a handful of raw hamburger. I patted it into the shape of a baseball, held it up to get her attention, and tossed it underhand. Pansy snapped it out of the air like it was a dog biscuit.

“It’s amazing she doesn’t weigh five hundred pounds, the way you feed her,” Michelle said over her shoulder, her face buried in the steel locker I use as a closet.

“She works it off,” I said defensively. Truth is, Pansy’s maybe thirty pounds heavier than she was at her peak. She’s almost fifteen now, and I don’t know how much longer she’s going to be with me. Neapolitan mastiffs are long-lived. And I never thought I’d be here longer than her anyway. Things didn’t work out like I thought. Some people died—friends and enemies both—but not me. Every time I think about Pansy going first, I can’t stand it. She’s been with me since she was born. I weaned her myself. She’d die for me. What I should do is put her on a strict diet, grind a few more months of life out of whatever allotment she has left. But she loves food so and I want her to have a . . .

“What is this junk?” Michelle snarled, her hands full of my clothes. “This is so not now. Where’re the suits I bought you?”

Bought me? Michelle picked them out all right, but it was me that paid. Through the nose, if I remember right.

“In the other locker,” I told her, not self-destructive enough to voice my thoughts.

Michelle rummaged around, finally hauled out a handful of black wool. “Oh, Burke, this is a genuine Hayakawa, for Susan’s sake. Eighteen hundred dollars—and that was a bargain —and you have it stuffed in there like it was polyester.”

“Sorry,” I said lamely.

“Never mind. We’ll steam it in the shower and I’ll press it—that’s why you buy the best goods, they always come back.”

“Right.”

Michelle found a heavy silk cream-colored shirt and a black silk tie that flashed blue when the light caught it. “The alligator boots,” she pronounced. “That will tie it together perfectly. I wish you had time to get a haircut.”

“I just got a haircut,” I reminded her.

“Yes, and it shows. What did you pay for that masterpiece, anyway?”

“Six bucks,” I told her.

“Including tip?”

“Hey, it’s good enough.”

“I suppose,” she said reluctantly. “Now, where did you put your good watch?”

I showed her.

“At least we can do something about your nails. I brought my kit.”

“Michelle . . .”

“Thank Susan you don’t chew them,” she said, ignoring my tone.

It was almost one in the afternoon by the time she was done. “Now give us a spin,” she said.

“I’m not—”

“Oh, never mind,” she snapped, taking a quick stroll around me. “This is cashmere,” she said lovingly, patting the sleeve of the black overcoat. “It reeks class. Camel’s hair is so totally yesterday, but black . . . that has to carry itself. See how it’s so completely unstructured. Without the belt, it just lies there. But when you pull it tight . . .”

“Yeah, it’s fucking lovely,” I said, thinking about how much damn money it cost and here I was wearing it for the first time.

“You’re not getting on the subway like this, are you?”

“I’m gonna drive to Mama’s. Clarence’ll pick me up there. I’ll drop you anywhere you want.”

“Perfect.”

“Uh, Michelle . . .”

“What, baby?”

“Thanks.”

She gave me a kiss. Then she whipped out a towelette and wiped off the lipstick.

Crystal Beth was already seated when I got to the bookstore. I spotted her as I went through the turnstile. The uniformed guy standing there nodded respectfully, crossing me off his potential-booster list. Maybe I should wear cashmere more often.

Places I go most of the time, maybe I should just paint a fucking bull’s-eye on my back too.

“You look . . . amazing,” she said as I slipped the coat off my shoulders to sit down.

“You too,” I replied.

It was true. She was wearing a pale-blue jersey turtleneck top over an ankle-length black skirt, just the tips of oxblood boots peeking out beneath. Her hair was in pigtails, blue ribbons the same color as her top tied to each end. Dark-red lipstick. The tattoo glistened on the side of her face.

“Thank you . . . for doing this,” she said quietly.

“We have a deal.”

“I know. But still . . .”

A waitress came over. Crystal Beth ordered some complicated espresso junk; I had hot chocolate. With whipped cream.

“You like sweets?” she asked me.

“Some sweets.”

“Burke . . .”

“What?”

“I’m scared.”

“Of this guy Pryce?”

“Yes. Not just him. The whole thing.”

There was nothing to say to that. It could mean anything. And it wasn’t the time for exploring—I needed her mind to be right for the meet. I sipped the hot chocolate, idly watching the customers come and go. Nobody seemed in a hurry. Lots of posing going on at the tables. See and Be Seen. Whoever came up with the idea of a coffee shop inside a bookstore was an entrepreneurial genius—you can’t go wrong opening a singles bar in a city where so many people do their time in solitary.

Whoever picked their playlist was righteous too. I couldn’t spot the speakers, but the whole joint was filled with music. No elevator stuff either: Son Seals wailing “Going Back Home,” Miss Koko’s “That’s Why I’m Crying,” Bazza’s hard-core “Ghost,” Buddy Guy’s “One-Room Country Shack” . . . even Fats Domino’s version of “One Night With You”—the one that puts Elvis on the trailer every time I hear it. I’ve heard that music everywhere from juke joints to late-night FM, but never expected it to wash over a place like this. If my head was different, I would have taken it for an omen. Being me, I just let myself get lost in the blues for a bit, going away to be with myself. When they switched to some softer stuff, I came back to where I was . . . and what I was there for.

“How’d you get here?” I finally asked her.

“I walked. It isn’t that far, really. I’m used to walking. And the weather has been—”

“I’ve got a car waiting,” I told her. “You ready?”

“I . . . guess so.”

“No, you’re not,” I said, leaning forward, dropping my voice. “You’re not ready at all. Whoever this Pryce is, he’s a bad guy, understand?”

“Yes,” she replied, almond eyes calm.

“Me too. Not you. Understand that?”

“I . . . think so.”

“You hired me to do something, right?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can get it done. And you can’t, right?”