Andrew Vachss: Safe House

“He’s got her,” I said to the Prof. It was one buzz for Porkpie, two for the Chinese woman, three for both. “Check to be sure.”

The Prof pulled his own cell phone, punched in a speed-dial number, let it ring a few times, then cut the connection. I lit a cigarette, waiting. The Prof’s phone buzzed, then went dead. Same again. One more time.

Max was on Porkpie. We’d had the little ferret on full-shadow ever since we started this piece. Max can’t hear, but the Mole had fixed him up with a vibrating pager set to go off if we dialed a certain number. The instant callback meant he had Porkpie in his sights. And a single ring meant the weasel was nowhere near Rollo’s.

Like they say in the S&M clubs . . . time to role-play.

Iopened the door to Rollo’s and walked in. Caught Clarence’s eye. He climbed out of his booth and went toward the bathroom in the back. The only way out is through the kitchen, and that isn’t open to customers. He’d stay back there for a few minutes, checking for traps while I set mine.

I was wearing an old leather jacket over a heavy black sweatshirt, jeans and steel-toed work boots. They kept the joint hot enough to make a nun work topless, steam hissing from the industrial radiators lining the windowless walls. I took off my jacket, sat there a few minutes, getting my eyes adjusted to the haze from the low-lying smog. Clarence walked past me to my left, heading for the door. I got up and took an empty booth, jacket over one shoulder.

The place looked like a Southern juke joint, only bigger and without the music. Ramshackle, thrown-together furniture, a big red-and-white Coke sign behind the wood plank bar, yellowing posters on the walls—looked like they’d been swiped from a Medicaid dentist’s office. The low ceiling trapped a heavy, multi-tone hum of voices, keeping the heat close to the floor. Somebody had nailed a THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING sign to the side wall. The floor was a giant ashtray.

I eye-swept the big room, watching the criminal food chain draped over the landscape, everything from bottom-feeders to land sharks. I scanned quickly, looking for familiar faces. Nothing.

At one of the tables a teenager with an Arabic face watched intently as an older man from a similar tribe demonstrated some three-card-monte moves, doing it slow enough so the kid could follow, talking a blue streak in a low voice. Teacher and student.

Right across from them, a skinny blonde woman was getting histrionic with three heavy-bodied, stoic-faced men with identical slicked-back black hair. They looked enough alike to be brothers—Greeks, I thought. All watching quietly as the skinny blonde waved her hands around, contorting her face to make a point.

An old man with a thick shock of graying hair sat alone at a table, a heavy gold watch on each of his broad wrists. People stopped by his table, bent over and said something in his ear. Nobody sat down. Odessa Beach godfather, maybe.

In one corner sat a smooth-bodied man with plain round glasses, dark hair cut right to the scalp. He was big, six six at least, had to weigh in over two fifty. He had a bemused expression on his face, a drawing tablet open before him, right hand sculpting. One of the Greeks spotted what he was doing, started to stand up. The big guy didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off the drawing tablet. An island of quiet popped up out of the ocean of noise. The old Russian got up, walked over to the big guy’s table, put his hand on the big guy’s shoulder as he looked closely at the drawing. A giant diamond on his hand sparkled—the real thing. The old Russian nodded approval, went back to his table. One of the Greek’s brothers whispered something to him—I didn’t need a translator: “Sit still!” The ocean swallowed the island again. Maybe the Greeks were really Russians. Or just guys who knew the score. Whoever the big guy with the drawing tablet was, he was nobody tofuck with.

The waitress strolled over, a stone-faced woman in her forties. “What’ll it be?” Her voice made her face look inviting.

“Mimi around?” I asked.

“I’ll check,” she said, and walked off.

I cracked a wooden match into flame, but I didn’t even have it to the tip of my cigarette when she materialized at the booth.

“You looking for me?” Mimi asked, a friendly smile on her classic Aztec face. Her skin had a lovely pale-bronze glow. Highlights glinted in her long raven hair. But her eyes were as flat as a cadaver’s heart monitor.

“Actually,” I said, “I was looking for some work.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Body work,” I told her, softly.

Her obsidian eyes ran over my torso appraisingly. “You work with your hands?” she asked, showing me hers. Her fingernails were long black-lacquered talons.

“I do heavy work,” I said, meeting her gaze.

I didn’t know where Mimi had been raised, but she recognized the jailhouse stare quick enough. “We don’t vouch for anyone here,” she said. There wasn’t a trace of accent in her voice. Just a warning.

“I got it,” I told her. Handed her a hundred-dollar bill. It disappeared—she had fast hands.

“You want something while you’re waiting?”

“Rye and ginger. Don’t mix them, okay?”

The waitress brought me the shot glass of what they said was rye and a taller glass with a small bottle of off-brand ginger ale. “Seven-fifty,” was all she said. I gave her a ten. She took it and walked away again. Rollo’s ran like city buses: Exact Change, No Refunds.

Moved just about as fast too. I sat there by myself for a good while. Poured ginger ale into the tall glass and drank most of it off. Then I dumped in the shot and let it sit there melting into the ice cubes until the glass was a quarter full. The waitress came over, asked me if I wanted another one. I told her “Sure,” nodding at the tall glass. She took it away, brought me the same setup, pocketed another ten.

I couldn’t spot the Chinese woman, but the cell phone in my pocket hadn’t gone off, so she hadn’t left. If she was the right one, we had her boxed.

An argument broke out at one of the little round tables. Man and a woman. He grabbed her hair and slapped her a couple of times. Back and forth. Slow. Showing her how things were between them. I couldn’t hear what he was saying to her, but he was talking all the time he was slapping her. The bouncer—the one they call T.B.—glided over, hands empty at his sides. He spread his arms wide, saying something peaceful. The guy dropped the woman’s hair and jumped to his feet. T.B. stepped back. Encouraged, the guy came out with a knife, flicking it open with his thumb as he went into a crouch. A grin split T.B.’s face, twisting the scar under his left eye. I didn’t see his foot move, but the guy’s knee went out. T.B. hit him once, just under the heart, as he was falling. The guy stayed where he was. The girl was on her feet then, but Mimi was behind her, hands on the girl’s wrists, locking her in. The girl said something I couldn’t make out.

“As if!” Mimi laughed, letting the girl go, giving her the shot if she wanted to take it.

The girl kept her hands down. Eyes too.

T.B. put his finger to his lips. The girl helped the guy up. They went out together—she was walking, he was leaning on her. T.B. went back someplace into the shadows. Mimi pulled a rag out of her waistband and started swabbing up the table.

Then the Chinese woman sat down in my booth.

Only she wasn’t Chinese. Her face was too square, especially around the jawline. And her complexion was a dusky rose, with a gold underbase. Her eyes were a pale-almond color, and they lacked the Oriental fold at the corners. Her hair was a red so dark that the color kept shifting in the reflected light, with a distinct curl as it fell to her shoulders. Her mouth was wide and full, slightly turned down at the corners. A faint spray of freckles broke across her wide flat nose. Along the L-line on her right jaw was a dark undulating streak, as though an artist had inked it in for emphasis.