Andrew Vachss - Blossom

"That sounds like a threat."

I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth-breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef— couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight-by-tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine-grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf-length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side-shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light-colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"

White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.

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

I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty-five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"

His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.

"Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room— maybe he wasn't so stupid.

The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"

"Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty-two, twenty-three by now. She came to you, right?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty-five, that's good-faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up-front payment, he sends you the rest."

He nodded again.

"I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"

"Half."

"How'd she do it? You first?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"

"Sure."

"She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."

"She didn't threaten you?"

"No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."

This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not going to be stupid."

"No. Not twice."

"I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"

"You won't tell him?"

"Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."

An oil-slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.

I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.

"Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"

"This is the toll," I said.

14

SOME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.

I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags— the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.

The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out of a bottle of Night Train.

I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty-five grand under the front seat.

Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.

A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot-high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.

"Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.

We always know each other, those of us missing some parts.

I got out at Seventy-seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co-op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.

"We're alone," he said. Like I cared.

His study was just what you'd expect if you read a lot of magazines that never leave the coffee table.

He gestured to a leather chair, took one himself. I lit a smoke. He frowned. "My wife doesn't like smoking…I'm afraid there's no ashtrays anywhere in the house."

I took out a metal Sucrets box, popped it open, tapped my cigarette into it. Handed him the envelope.

"Did you look inside?"

"No."

He was a tall, thick-bodied man, graying hair carefully coiffed to hide a receding hairline. Light brown eyes held mine. His famous "anti-corruption stare" the TV cameras liked so much. On me, it was as useful as an appendix. He dropped his eyes, opened the envelope, held the pictures so I couldn't see them. Leafed through them, one by one. I watched his face. Melissa's rightful prey: he'd never want a woman grown enough to judge him.

He put the pictures away. Five to one he wouldn't burn them. "You do good work, Mr. Burke."

"That's what I'm paid for," I reminded him.

"Oh. Yes." He handed me a #10 business envelope. Heavy, cream-colored stock. "You want to count it?"

"I trust you, Senator," I assured him.

He stroked his chin in a gesture so practiced it had become habit. "I never did anything like this before." Meaning deal with thugs like me, not fuck underage girls. "It seems to have worked out well. Perhaps I'll have something for you to do in the future."

"Anytime."

"You came highly recommended. I didn't want to deal with…you know…"

I knew.

"I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…" Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.

I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.

15

THE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush-faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper-scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind-the-back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.