Andrew Vachss - Blossom

"So it was in the papers?"

"Yeah." Reading my thoughts. "Anyone could've picked it up."

"Was there ever a reward posted?"

"Not that I know of. It was before all this missing children stuff in the media. The kid's parents hired a PI and he put the word around. That's all. The kid's picture was in the paper."

"He won't look like that now. If it's him."

"No."

Morales leaned forward, chest out, forehead thrusting. Like he was getting ready to butt the bridge of my nose into my skull. "What's the deal? What's the motherfucker want?"

"Cash."

"Where d'you come in?"

"He wants me to see if the kid's parents will put up the money. Make a switch."

"What's ours?"

I ignored him. "You speak to the kid's folks?"

McGowan took over. "Yeah. They'd pay. Something. What they have. It's not all that much."

"If it's him…he's not going to be the same kid."

McGowan's face was grim. "I know."

"They still want him?"

"They want what they lost, Burke."

"Nobody ever gets that back."

McGowan didn't say anything after that. Morales' ball-bearing eyes shifted in their fleshy sockets. "The fuck that called you. It's extortion, right?"

"I'm not a lawyer."

"A lawyer's not what that guy needs."

McGowan shot his partner a chill-out look. Like asking a fire hydrant to run the hundred-yard dash.

"They got any sure way to identify the kid?" I asked.

"Pictures, stuff like that. Things only the kid would know. Name of his dog, his first-grade teacher…you know."

"Yeah. The freak…the one who called me…he says he wants ten large."

"They can do that."

"No questions asked?"

"No."

"Win or lose?"

"Yes."

"Let's take a shot."

"That's one thing we can't do," McGowan said, a restraining hand on his partner's forearm. Morales had flunked Probable Cause at the Police Academy— his idea of civil rights was a warning shot.

"I'll give you a call," I said.

9

THE FREAK kept dancing. It took another few days to calm him down. I let him pick the place. A gay bar off Christopher Street. He told me what he'd be wearing, what he looked like. When he'd be there. "Bring the cash," he said. Hard guy.

Vincent's apartment was on West Street. The outside looked like a set from Miami Vice.

Glass brick, blue-enameled steel tubing wrapped around each little terrace. I stood so the video monitor would pick up my face, pressed the buzzer.

Inside it was turn-of-the-century England. Vincent's twin pug dogs yapped at my heels until I sat down on the dark paisley couch. He's a big man, maybe six and a half feet, close to three hundred pounds. Long thick sandy hair combed straight back from a broad face.

"You know nothing about this person?"

"Just what I told you on the phone," I said.

"He thinks he's safe in a gay bar," Vincent said, two fingers pressed against a cheekbone. "Like he's one of us."

"That's the way I figure it."

"What can I do?"

"I need to talk to him. Not in the bar, okay?"

"You want to take him out of there?"

"Yeah."

"He won't want to go?"

I shrugged.

Vincent rubbed his cheekbone again, thinking. "You did me a favor once. I consider you a friend, you know that. But I can't be part of…uh…your reputation is…I'm not saying I personally believe every silly rumor that jumps off the street, but…"

"All I want to do is take him out of there. Without anybody noticing."

"Burke…"

"A little boy disappears. Five years later, a young guy calls me, says he knows where he is. Wants to trade him for cash. Scan it for yourself. What's it say to you?"

He wouldn't play. "It's not important. Those…creatures…they have sex with children and they say such sweet things about it. Fucking a little boy isn't homosexual."

"I know."

"I know you know. Are you saying I owe you? From that business in the Ramble?"

The Ramble is part of Central Park. An outdoor gay bar. One of Vincent's friends got caught there one night by a wolf pack. They left him needing a steel plate in his head. Good citizens, Vincent and his friends went to the cops. The badge-boys found the gang easily enough. Fag-bashers: pitiful freaks, trying to smash what they see in their own mirrors. One got the joint, the rest got probation. Then Vincent came to me. Max went strolling through the Ramble one night. The punks who'd walked out of the courthouse ended up in the same hospital as Vincent's friend. When the cops interviewed them, all they remembered was the pain.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I have to make some phone calls," he said.

10

THE MEETING WAS for ten o'clock. The pay phone in the parking lot off the West Side Highway rang at 9:50. Vincent's voice. "He just went in. Alone."

A smog-colored Mercedes sedan pulled up. Vincent's life-partner was in the front seat. "Please don't smoke in the car," he said. Didn't say another word to me, looking straight through the windshield. Dropped me off in front of the bar.

The freak was in a back booth. Short curly brown hair dropped into ringlets over his forehead. Dressed preppie, older than he was. I pegged him for maybe nineteen. Greenish drink in a slim glass in front of him.

"I'm Burke," I said, sliding into the booth across from him.

"You have the money?"

"Sure."

He dry-washed his hands. Noticed what he was doing. Fired a cigarette with a lighter that looked like a silver pencil. "How can we do this?"

"You give me the kid, I give you the money."

"How do I know…?"

"You called me , pal."

"If I tell you where he is…how do I know I'll get the money?"

I shrugged. "You want to come along when I pick him up?"

"I can't. That's not the deal."

"Is there a pay phone in this joint?"

"I guess so…I'm not sure." He waved his hand. Heavy gold chain on his wrist. Slave bracelet. A waiter came over. Didn't look at me.

"What will you have?"

"A ginger ale. Lots of ice, okay?"

"And for you?" he asked the freak.

"I'm okay. Do you have a pay phone here?"

"In the back. Just past the rest rooms."

"Thanks."

I lit a smoke, waiting. The waiter came back with my drink. A black cherry floated in the ice. All clear. I leaned forward. "We'll go to the pay phone. I'll call a friend of mine. He takes a look. While we wait, okay? He tells me he's spotted the kid…where you say he is, I give you the cash."

"Right here?"

"Right here."

"You've got it with you?"

"Sure."

"Show me."

"Not here. Out back. Okay?"

He got up. I followed him. The corridor was shadowy with indirect lighting. Past the rest rooms. No sounds seeped from under the doors— it wasn't that kind of gay bar. The pay phone stood against the wall. I reached in my inside pocket. Took out an envelope. "Count it," I told him. He took it in his hands, opened the flap. He was halfway through the bills before he noticed the pistol in my hand. Blood blanketed his face. Vanished, leaving it chalk-white.

"What is this?"

"Just relax. All I want is…"

Max loomed behind him, one seamed-leather hand locked on the back of the freak's neck. Pain took over his eyes, his mouth shot open in a thin squeak. I holstered the pistol, took the envelope from his limp hand. Max pushed the freak ahead of him. I slipped out the back door first, checked the alley where my Plymouth was parked. Empty.

We stepped outside. I heard bolts being slammed home behind us. I popped the trunk on the Plymouth. Wrapped the duct tape around the freak's mouth a few times, lifting the hair off the back of his head so it wouldn't catch. Max slapped the heel of his hand lightly into the freak's stomach. The freak doubled over. I put my lips right against his ear. "We're going for a ride. Nothing's going to happen to you. We wanted you dead, we'd leave you right in this alley. You're riding in the trunk. You make any noise, kick around back there, anything at all, we stop the car and we hurt you. Real, real bad. Now nod your head, tell me you understand."