Andrew Vachss: Safe House

“The woman who paid you, Porkpie. Her.”

“Oh. She’s some kinda Chink.”

“Chinese?”

“I don’t fucking know, man. Something like that. Small. She had a hat on, with one of them veil things, black, like they wear at funerals.”

“What did she call herself?”

“She didn’t say no name, man. Just asked me, could I get it done? I told her the price. She paid me. That’s all. I never seen her again.”

“But she gave you a phone number.”

“No, I swear it! Nothing. I didn’t need to talk to her—she paid me the whole thing up front.”

“So how come you didn’t stiff her? Just take the cash and walk?”

“She said she could find me again. I . . . believed her, like.”

“You believe I can find you again, Porkpie?”

“Yeah. I know your rep.”

“You know who’s holding your neck? That’s Max the Silent. You know his rep?” I asked him gently.

He shuddered a reply.

“I’m gonna trust you,” I lied. “We’re gonna let you slide on this. You take the car. Drive it anywhere you want and leave it there. But don’t fuck around with it—it’s hot. Understand?”

“Sure. I mean—”

“Ssssh,” I said, holding my right finger to my lips. “You get popped dumping the car, that’s your problem. I can find you in jail, Porkpie. You know I can. You’d be easy in there. This is your last chance. That woman calls you, you call me. And if you’re holding anything back, you’re landfill, understand?”

“I’m not! I—”

I nodded to Max. He released his grip, slid out of the back seat, quiet as Ebola. I opened the car door and backed out, still pointing the pistol at Porkpie.

Max and I faded back into the shadow of the pier. In a minute, we heard the Volvo start up. We watched Porkpie pull away fast, the rear wheels spinning on the slick pavement.

Clarence pulled up at the wheel of my Plymouth and we all went back across the border.

Iworked the relay over the pay phones, got the word to Hercules: Stay put.

And hoped the Prof wasn’t right about him.

Days passed. I vacuumed the newspapers, listened to the radio, even watched some TV. Nothing about the homicide. There was no outcry, no pressure. It would probably disappear into the black hole the cops called Unsolved. It wouldn’t be the first time—not all floaters go into the water.

There was a cop I could ask, a cop who owed me, but that would be the same thing as telling him I was connected in some way. Even if you trust a man not to play certain cards, there’s no point in dealing them to him.

Time was on our side. But the statute of limitations wasn’t. So I went to see a lawyer. Davidson’s a hard-nosed criminal-defense guy, but he passed for honest in our world. He might jug you a little on the fee, but he wouldn’t favor-trade with the DA, and he wouldn’t sell a client for some favorable press ink, the way some of the others do.

His office is in midtown, just one good-sized room with a secretary’s station outside. At one time, he had a big joint with a bunch of associates, but he went lean-and-mean a few years ago. His office is furnished in early Salvation Army—all the money’s in technology. And in the heavy cork paneling. In Davidson’s business, traveling sound can get you killed.

“Feels like a decent justification defense to me,” he said, puffing appreciatively on one of the mondo-expensive Expatriados cigars I’d brought him. “Where’d you get these?” he asked.

“An old pal of mine makes them down in Honduras. Cuban seeds, Cuban artisans, but he says Cuban soil is all played out. These are better.”

“Sure are,” Davidson said, holding the dark cylinder at arm’s length to admire the shape. Then he got back to work. “One guy pulls a gun, the other one pulls a knife. One gets a jury trial, the other gets an autopsy. Self-defense. It happened in a bar, we walk. But your guy, his story’s shaky. He was just strolling through the alley at that hour, minding his own business . . . ? I don’t think so.”

“And we don’t know if the other guy’s pistol was still there when the EMS crew arrived,” I told him.

“Yeah,” he agreed, nodding his head. “We’d get that on discovery, but if it comes up blank . . .”

“Anyone could have picked up the piece and walked off with it,” I told him. Thinking of the dead man’s wallet and watch.

“Forensics?” Davidson asked. Meaning: fingerprints, blood splatters . . . anything the police-lab vultures could vacuum from a corpse.

I flashed on what the Prof had said about that same question: “Blood don’t tell no more, Schoolboy. We ain’t gotta worry about that. A good shyster can always O.J. the DNA.” I scratched my temple, like I was thinking about it. “Nothing,” I told him.

“It’s still dicey,” Davidson said.

“So you advise—what?” I asked.

“Your guy got a sheet?”

“Long one.”

“For this kind of thing?”

“Oh yeah.”

“He a predicate?”

“Twice over.”

“So he couldn’t take even a Man Two,” Davidson mused. “No way to bring him in and make a deal.”

I didn’t say anything. Manslaughter Second Degree is a Class C Felony in New York. Even if Davidson could sweet-plea his way past the life sentence a Habitual Offender tag would bring, Herk was looking at seven and a half to fifteen.

“You got any more cards?” Davidson asked.

“A witness,” I told him. “He’s not a hitter, but he’s no citizen either.”

“Would he roll?”

Would Porkpie turn informant? It wasn’t even a question. The Prof had dismissed any other possibility with a contemptuous snort: “That punk ain’t no real thief, chief. You know the way he play—don’t do the crime if you can’t drop a dime.” He was right: give Porkpie a pass on one of his own cases, he’d sell his mother.

Then again, so would I.

But I’d never sell my family.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Well,” Davidson said, switching to self-protective legalese, “given the facts of the hypothetical with which you’ve presented me, I would advise absolute discretion.”

Meaning: Herk couldn’t come in.

Only two ways to tap Porkpie’s home phone—take a major risk or use up a major favor. And even if he had a phone in that pesthole he lived in, he probably wouldn’t use it for business. He was a weasel, but not a stupid one. “Got to send Clarence in,” I told the Prof.

“No way, Schoolboy. I told you true—my boy don’t work for Herk.”

“Look, Prof. The only place we know we can possibly get to this girl Porkpie told us about is at Rollo’s, right? If Porkpie’s there, he spots me in a second. You too. Max can’t negotiate. Who’s that leave us?”

“I don’t feature no undercover crap,” the little man said, giving ground grudgingly.

“Clarence goes in, he hangs around, okay?” I said, pleading my case. “He spots Porkpie talking to the girl . . . spots any girl who matches the description . . . he steps back, makes a call. The rest is ours.”

“The whole motherfucking thing should be ours.”

“What’s the problem?” I pressed him.

“Bad juju, youngblood. We ain’t fucking detectives, ” he said, jeering the last word. “We don’t solve crimes—we do ’em. Maybe Herk should just relocate his dumb ass to some fresh green grass.”

“What good’s that gonna do? He tries to make a connect on strange turf, he’s just gonna end up back in jail.”

“But no fear if he stays here?” the little man challenged.

“Okay,” I said, throwing up my hands in surrender. “Fuck him. Let him fall.”