Andrew Vachss - Blossom

on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.

When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid-innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.

22

THE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove-gray summer-weight silk-and-worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip-ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attaché case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.

The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.

Pleasant-faced middle-aged woman at the front desk. "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"

"Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager."

"Certainly, sir. Your name, please?"

"Sloane."

She tapped one of the buttons on her console. "John, a Mr. Sloane to see you." A pause. "Well, I don't know, do I?" She gave me a flash-smile, shrugged her ample shoulders. "He'll be right out."

The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open-necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his hand. "I'm John Humboldt, Mr. Sloane. You wanted to speak with me."

I shook his hand. "Yes, sir, I did. It's about some investments. I wonder if we could talk in…"

"Right this way."

He led me back to his office, stepped aside to usher me in first. "Have a seat."

The office walls were paneled in knotty pine, covered with laminated certificates and engraved plaques. Apparently, John Humboldt was a whale of a salesman.

I handed him the Mitchell Sloane business card. "I'm in the area to check out some potential sites. I have a number of clients…a consortium of investors with cash…who want to get in on the ground floor."

He scratched his head, doing the country boy act for the city slicker. "Well, that's mighty interesting, Mr. Sloane. But the ground floor of what? I guess you must know heavy industry isn't exactly working overtime lately in these parts."

I lit a cigarette, my face telegraphing the struggle. Should I trust this man?

Hell, yes.

"Mr. Humboldt, we both know the legislature has just given approval for pari-mutuel racing in this state. For the first time."

"That bill hasn't passed. It was just introduced."

"It'll pass this time," I assured him. "And once it does, they'll need racetracks."

"And you think Lake County…?"

"No doubt in my mind."

"I see."

"Sure you do. I'm going to be looking around for appropriate sites. Spend a couple of weeks. When I locate something I believe might be appropriate, would you be in a position to make the approach? We don't want anyone knowing about this…once they think there's outside money available, you and I both know what'll happen to the price."

"You can rely on me," Humboldt said, extending his hand again.

"I'm sure. Now, I'll be staying at different places. Low profile, you know? But my office will always know where to reach me. And I'll write the number of the car phone on the back of this business card for you, okay? I'm looking forward to us doing business."

"Me too." As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Humboldt."

"Call me John," he said.

23

I SPENT THE REST of the day driving around. Stopping occasionally, making little squibbles in a notebook. Not for me— my eyes photographed what I needed to know. In case somebody decided to take a look inside the real estate speculator's fancy car.

I used a pay phone just off Sixty-first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.

"Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."

"It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"

"Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."

"Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Bye-bye."

24

EARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay-splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.

The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly— found a booth near the back.

The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off-the-rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.

"Hi! You need a menu?"

"Please."

"Be right back."

I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium-height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.

She was back in a minute, a one-page plastic-covered menu in her hand. I looked it over quickly. The cook must have figured whatever was good enough for Ted Bundy was good enough for food. I slid past the burgers and the chicken to something that looked safer.

"The tuna salad…you make it up here?"

"You can get an individual can if you want." She leaned over again, flashed me a smile. Dot of red on an eyetooth from the carmine lipstick. "That's what I do," she said, patting one round hip. "I have to watch my weight."

"That seems like a nice job."

"Waiting tables?"

"Watching your weight."

"Oh, you!" Giggling. At home now. With what she first learned in junior high.

"I'll have the tuna. An order of rye toast. And some ginger ale."

"We serve beer here too. Cold. On tap."

"Not while I'm working."

She scribbled something with her pencil, long fingernails wrapped around the corner of her order pad, the same color as her lipstick. "I haven't seen you before. You're new in town?"

"Just passing through for a couple of weeks."

"You said you were working. I mean, nobody comes here for a vacation ."

"I'm looking over some property."

"Oh. Are you one of those developers?"

"Sort of. I…"

"Hey, Cyndi. Shake it up, will ya? You got two blue plates sitting here!" A voice barked from somewhere behind the counter.

She leaned forward again, shouted, "How's this?" over her shoulder, and wiggled her rump furiously. A line of laughter broke from the counter, working its way around the curve. "That what you been wanting, Leon?" Someone laughed. Cyndi's face was lightly flushed. "The old man's a pain in the butt."

"You're not worried about losing your job?"

"I wish. This place isn't my idea of heaven. I used to work over at the Club Flame, you ever go there?"

"I just got here."

"It's a topless joint," she said, watching my eyes. "The tips aren't as good here, but at least you don't have guys trying to grab your ass all the time."

"I guess you have to be comfortable if you're going to do your work."

"Well, I'm not about to spend my life here. Not in this town. I…" She turned as another waitress walked past. A slim woman, lemon-blonde hair tied back with a white ribbon. Her uniform was the same material as Cyndi's, but on her it looked like a nurse's outfit. The hemline was below her knees, white stockings, flat shoes, blouse buttoned to her neck. As she turned, her body-profile was an upside-down question mark. Cyndi put a hand on the blonde woman's arm. "Blossom honey, could you grab those two blue plates from Leon while I take this man's order?"