Andrew Vachss - Blossom

"Mr. Bostick, I'd like to talk to your…investigator. That okay with you?"

Bostick turned to me. "Sure," I said.

"Drop down to the precinct anytime," Sherwood said.

"Would you do me a favor first?"

"What?"

"A friend of mine, Detective McGowan. NYPD, Runaway Squad. I'll give you the number. Could you give him a call, kind of tell him what's going on out here?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Save you some time, okay? You want to talk to me, you want to know who you're talking to."

His eyes measured me. "Give me the number," he said.

58

I STAYED AT Virgil's house only long enough for Lloyd to tell us he never got to use any of the stuff we taught him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, facing me and Virgil while Rebecca bustled around in the kitchen. Virginia and Junior were all over Lloyd, glad to see him— afraid he was going to go away again. Rebecca took them into the back yard to play.

"You remember that guy I told you about? Hightower? Well, as soon as I got out of that first-day isolation room they put you in, I went into the main room. Where the TV is. I was watching, like you told me. Watching their eyes. I was ready. This one black kid, I had him all picked out. Then Hightower walks in, comes right up to me. I was thinking, damn!

I didn't want to start off with this boy, you know? But he comes over to me, says, 'Homeboy! When d'you raise, man?' Like we were pals forever. He sits next to me, runs down the whole place. Like which counselor…I mean, which guard you can get over on. The other guys, they see this, they don't know if Hightower's staking me out for himself or what. He puts his pack of smokes on the bench between us. I remembered what you said about not taking nothing. He leans over, whispers to me, says we got the same friends, don't worry. He had a visit. He described you, Burke. I mean, perfect. Like he knew you."

I nodded. Hightower knew me. Better than Lloyd did.

"Anyway, later, at lunch, this other boy, big white kid, one of those skinheads, he reaches over, takes the cake right off my tray. I start across the table at him when I hear Hightower whisper, 'Chill, Lloyd. The Man!' and I see one of the guards coming down the aisle. The white boy smiles at me. Then Hightower tells him he wants to settle this later, come to the shower room after gym. Bring his shit. The white boy says this ain't Hightower's beef. Hightower says anyone messes with me, they got him to deal with. I reach over, take my cake back off the white boy's tray. Then I help myself to his piece too. Nobody says nothing. I did it right, Virgil?"

Virgil's smile was sad. "Like you been doin' it all your life, son."

The kids came back inside. Virginia sat down at the piano. Started pounding out the jangle-line of some country-blues song. Like her father. Junior sat next to his sister, his little hand on her shoulder. Rebecca watched over them. Virgil opened a beer for Lloyd. The kid left it untouched in front of him, knowing it was Virgil's way of telling his family Lloyd was a man now. Sacramental wine, not for drinking.

I knew it was time for me to go.

59

IT WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the motel. Night work coming up— I lay down to rest. Slapped a cassette into the tape player Virgil left me. "Got some of your girl on this, brother," he told me.

Judy Henske's voice charged out of the speakers, dominating the dingy room the way she overworked every club she'd ever played. Her early stuff. "Wade in the Water." Making the gospel song into a blue-tinted challenge. When they say a prizefighter hits and holds, they're talking about a dirty tactic. Like we taught Lloyd. Henske, she hits and holds those notes until they turn into beauty past what you can see with your eyes. What you feel. What she makes you feel. A channel to the root.

There was more on the tape. Bonnie Raitt. Henske's spiritual sister, like Henske was Billie Holiday's. "Give It Up." Working that slide guitar like the critics said a woman never could.

When Raitt got to singing "Guilty," I felt Belle's loss so hard I couldn't get a clean breath. I'd paid off her debts, but it didn't set me free. My soul jumped the tracks and it took a monster and a witch to save me.

It wasn't just a sex-sniper I was looking for in Indiana.

60

I DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. Dreamed I was back in prison. The Olympics were on the TV in the rec room. 1972. The cons watched Olga Korbut twist herself into positions the Kama Sutra never imagined. Talking about what they'd do to her if they had her for a night. The little Russian girl was winning hearts all over the world, dancing and prancing, wiggling her teenage butt, waggling her fingers in special waves, smiling like she'd discovered purity.

The senior member of the Russian gymnastics team was a dark-haired beauty who'd been the leader for years— until right then, when Olga burst out. Lyudmila Turischeva. A proud woman, she knew it was time— time for the cubs to challenge the pack leader. When she walked out onto the mat, her shoulders were squared, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Arms moving at her sides like a soldier's. She knew she was up against it— the crowd was Olga's.

The other cons watched her hips, disappointed. I watched her eyes. She did her exercise perfectly. No flash, the fire banked. Then she turned and walked off, head high, going out with class.

A woman, not a girl.

I woke up knowing what I'd recognized in Blossom as she walked by.

61

I DIDN'T NEED the real estate cover anymore, but I dropped by Humboldt's office just to keep the extra cards in my hand. He was out "viewing some properties." I left word that I was still around, still looking into our project.

Used the car phone to call Sherwood. Held on while they looked for him.

"This is Sloane. Did you speak to my friend?"

"Yes. Last night."

"Now a good time to come and see you?"

"A very good time."

"Okay. I'll pull up outside the station in about fifteen minutes. We'll go for a ride and talk, okay? I'm driving a…"

"I know your car. I'll be out front."

He hadn't seemed surprised I didn't want to sit around a police station— I guess he had talked to McGowan.

62

SHERWOOD CLIMBED in the front seat, adjusting his bulk comfortably. "You show them a credit card, they'll rent you anything these days, huh?" Letting me know.

"Anyplace special you want me to drive?"

"You want to see where it happened? That last one?"

"Yeah."

"Take the left at the corner."

I followed the cop's directions until we came to a sign that said Naval Reserve Center. A couple of more blocks to the beach. A black man came over to my window, wearing a guayabera shirt, metal change-maker at his waist. "Two bucks for nonresidents," he said.

"Rest it, Rufus," Sherwood rumbled.

The change-maker looked across me to Sherwood, turned away without a word.

I pulled into the parking lot. Lake Michigan spread out before us. Only a few people on the beach, half a dozen cars in the lot.

I killed the engine, flicked the power window switch, lit a smoke. Waited.

"This is it" he said. "Victims were parked just about there"— pointing at the corner of the lot closest to the dunes. "We figure he took a position somewhere up around there"— pointing again. "No use trying that trajectory stuff— too many bullets."

"Kids still park here at night?"

"Yeah, they do. But over on the other side. Where there's no cover."

"Wouldn't need much at nighttime."

"No," he agreed, sadly.

I scanned the scene. A thousand places to shoot from, stationary, unsuspecting targets who couldn't shoot back, the cover of night. Surprise. A human-hunter's paradise.

"McGowan, that's your friend?" Sherwood asked.