Drawing Dead

by Andrew Vachss

  A small bottle full of clear fluid with a flat rubber top.

  Surgical bandages.

  Velcro tourniquet.

  A roll of pressure tape.

  A mini-blowtorch.

  A stainless-steel butcher knife.

  “Wh-what is this?”

  “Just a job, pal,” Cross said. “Just earning our living. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit. Once I give you a shot of this stuff…”

  The man watched as Cross stuck the hypo into the rubber-topped bottle, filled the syringe, pushed the plunger slightly to check that the liquid was flowing smoothly. The man’s face was a white jelly of terror.

  “Please…”

  “Look, pal, you think I get any kick out of this? Hey, I don’t mind telling you the score. Woman comes to see us, says you did her real bad. Paid good money to take a piece out of you, even the score. Only thing, she watches too much TV. So she wants us to bring her the proof. And no photos, the real thing.”

  “Proof?” The word bubbled out of his throat.

  “Proof,” Cross repeated. “Couple a broken legs wouldn’t satisfy this broad. She wants your hand. Your right hand.”

  “Oh God…”

  “Look, it don’t make no difference to us. She paid full price for a body, you understand? She’s paying the same for your hand she’d pay for your head. You just relax, do it the easy way. My man Fong’s gonna cuff your hand to the top of your fancy desk, hold it down flat with some tape. Then I’m gonna wrap this tourniquet around your arm, find a good vein, shoot you up with this happy juice. You go to sleep. You wake up, you got one less hand. All nice and bandaged, better than they’d do it in a hospital.”

  Cross switched on the blowtorch. The hissing butane was the loudest sound in the room. He opened his left hand—the torch flared into life.

  “What’s that for?” The man was trembling so hard, his voice sounded like his mouth was full of pebbles.

  “To cauterize the wound, pal. So you don’t bleed to death.”

  “Ca-cauterize?”

  “What do you think I should use? A soldering iron?”

  By the time the man forced himself to open his eyes, he was all strapped down. Buddha had the tourniquet around his biceps; Cross was gently tapping a vein to make it stand out.

  “Could I talk to you?” The man’s voice was a weasel’s whine, begging and promising in the same breath.

  “Better talk quick,” Cross said, calmly.

  “Look, you’re professionals, right? I mean…you got paid to do this, I could pay you more not to, okay? I mean, pay you right now. Whatever she paid, how’s that?”

  “You got twenty large in this house, pal?” Cross asked, sarcasm lacing his voice.

  “I got it. Every penny. That’s why I thought you were from Falcone, like I asked, remember? But…I’ll give it to you, right now.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, we already took the broad’s money.”

  “Come on. Please! You’re a man. I didn’t do anything to the bitch she didn’t have coming. I mean…cutting off a man’s hand, for God’s sake, what’s that tell you? I know who sent you, now. She is one sick slut. Spent years in the crazy house. Come on! My money’s as good as hers.”

  Cross sat back, mimed thinking it over. Watched the hope grow in the man’s eyes.

  Looked past him to Buddha.

  “Where’s the money?” he finally said.

  The man went through a full-body shudder before he whispered “Safe.”

  He wasn’t lying. Besides cash, there were a dozen kilo-sized bags of white powder, shrink-wrapped in clear plastic. The bills were neatly rolled inside Mason jars, ready to be transferred.

  Cross speed-counted the cash and kept counting even after he passed twenty thousand.

  He dropped it all in his medical case. Cash and coke together.

  “Hey! That wasn’t—”

  “Quiet, now. You got a good deal. You paid us to call it off, right? For the rest of this money, we’ll do a job for you. How’s that?”

  “What job?”

  “You think that broad’s not going to come after you again, pal? You think this ends it? You bought yourself one safe night, that’s all.”

  “But that powder, I was holding it for—”

  “You got all kinds of cash, all kinds of places, don’t you? Hell, you got enough in this house alone—equity, I’m saying—you can make things right with this Falcone guy.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Sure. Way I figure it, for what we’re leaving with, we owe you a job…right, Fong?”

  Buddha mumbled something in an Asian language from behind the stocking mask.

  Cross could see the man thinking it over.

  “When would you do it?” he finally asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “And that’s it? That would end this? Forever?”

  “Tell her yourself,” Cross said, handing him a cell phone. “Her number’s already on this.”

  Toxic waste bubbled out of the man’s mouth, hard, evil ugliness dripping into the phone. Telling her that her little scheme had backfired. How he had her once; how he’d always have her.

  “You listening to me, you little piece of garbage? You understand the way things are now? I’m coming to see you, bitch. And when I’m done, you’ll crawl back whenever I tell you. On your knees. I’ll have my mark on you again, you…”

  He hung up, bathed in sweat, licking his lips.

  Cross nodded to Buddha. A hard hand clamped down on the back of the man’s neck as the hypo slid home. He went out in seconds. Cross gently taped his right hand into a fist, watched as Buddha took the man’s elbow in one hand, held his wrist in the other…and slammed the target’s hand into the glass desktop until the knuckles were bruised and swollen.

  Methodically, Cross removed a wax model of a woman’s hand from the satchel. False red-lacquered nails gleamed. He held the wax hand carefully, then scratched some long, deep gouges in the man’s cheek.

  In the car, Cross used a packaged wipe to remove the tattoo from his forehead.

  Buddha pulled off the stocking mask, popped the rubber wedges out of his cheeks, took off the padded jacket…and lost fifty pounds. The latex gloves they’d been wearing were shredded with serrated scissors, tossed out the window at intervals.

  An hour later, the two men pulled behind the woman’s house.

  “You get it all?” Cross asked her.

  She nodded, pointed to the tape recorder attached to her phone.

  “Play it back, make sure,” Cross told her, handing her the cell phone he’d let the target use. “If anything went wrong, it’s all on here, anyway.”

  At a gesture, she held out her hands and stayed perfectly still while Cross attached the false red nails.

  Without another word, he slapped her in the face, hard. Her eyes flared into life, focused and waiting.

  “He came here about a half-hour ago,” Cross told her, his tone hypnotic. “You opened the door, didn’t expect him. He punched you in the stomach. You went down. He punched you in the face, over and over again, twisted your arm so hard you thought it was going to snap. You scratched his face. You remember doing that, you felt your nails go in. Deep. Then he beat you some more until you passed out. When you come to, dial 911.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Then Cross went to work.

  “THERE’S ONLY one way we’re gonna find out,” Cross told the crew.

  “What if Old Greytooth doesn’t deliver?” Buddha said.

  Cross shrugged, unconcerned.

  Rhino stepped in with his agreement: “He would lose face.”

  Buddha felt himself go calm—the mammoth’s logic was impeccable.

  “WHY AM I here?” an immaculately dressed Asian asked, his dark eyes playing across the man seated on the far side of a sawhorse-supported desk.

  The Asian’s voice was controlled, but his gaze was a weak flashlight in a coal mine cave-in, frantically seeking an exit before it
s batteries died.

  “Because we’re trying to solve a riddle,” Cross answered. “And you’re going to help us do it.”

  The Asian said nothing, as if waiting for the rest of the answer to his question. His regularly dermabrasioned face, manicured fingernails, and stylish haircut would have fitted a well-paid consultant of some kind. The heavy ring of white jade, the oversized, multi-dialed watch, the platinum bracelet…all attested to his success at whatever profession he practiced.

  Cross lit a cigarette. The flame was sufficient to display the bull’s-eye tattoo on the back of his hand.

  “You know at least half of the answer,” he said. “You’ll tell us that for free. If you know the whole thing, that you’d get paid for.”

  “Do you think I don’t know where I am?”

  “What difference? All that matters is you solve this riddle for us.”

  The Asian went silent.

  Cross took the third hit of his cigarette, then stuck it into what looked like a dinner-plate-sized glass saucer filled with some sort of ash-gray material.

  “The first part, the one you give us for nothing, is the name of whoever hired you to kill Hemp.”

  The Asian didn’t move, but Cross could feel he was calm and relaxed inside that stiff posture.

  “You think silence is in your best interests? Or you’re more afraid of whoever paid you than you are of us?”

  “I have something you want,” Pekelo said, the tension leaving his voice as he recognized that the bargaining was about to begin. “Something of value. You offer to pay for part of what I have, but I cannot parcel it out in bits and pieces—you must buy the whole thing.”

  “Something of value…What value do you place on it, then?”

  “My life. Nothing more.”

  “We don’t sell insurance.”

  “As you said, I know where I am. I know who you are. I know who ordered me brought to this place. If all you wanted was my life, I would already be dead.”

  Cross shrugged, acknowledging the truth of the captive’s words.

  “You already know I was paid to do something. Is there anything I can tell you, anything at all, that would convince you that I do not know who commanded me?”

  Commanded? Cross thought. Aloud, he said, “I guess that depends on how you got your orders.”

  “Do you think I fear pain?”

  “I don’t care what you fear. I only care about what you know.”

  “I know So Long is Hmong.”

  “That’s just a fact,” Cross said, trying to cover Buddha with the blanket of gentle assurance his words projected. “Like you being Lao. Doesn’t mean anything. And not what we need to know.”

  “I will tell you all I know. It may not be enough to satisfy you, but it will be the truth. Torture would not—”

  “Nobody said anything about torture,” Cross said, mildly. “If torture was what we thought would get us what we need, do you think we couldn’t have gotten that done a lot easier by the people who brought you here?”

  “I doubt you would believe me. I doubt you would even understand what I could tell you. All I could tell you. I cannot tell you more than I know.”

  “Let’s see.”

  “I want some—”

  “This isn’t about what you want. Stalling for time would be stupid—no one’s coming to rescue you.”

  “I know.”

  “So let’s get it done. Tell us what you know that we don’t. Then we’ll decide what it’s worth.”

  The Asian closed his long-lashed eyes. Fifteen seconds passed.

  He might have heard a distinct click! sound—perhaps Cross lighting another smoke? He would not have seen Cross shake his head “No!” nor Buddha soft-release the hammer on his pistol in response.

  “I will tell you what I know. I realize it may sound…implausible to you, but it is all I have.”

  The Asian opened his eyes. Took in a shallow breath. “We are all fatalists—our destiny is already written.” When there was no reaction, he said, “I was commanded from the Cloud. I followed the instructions. There is no more. Do you understand what I just told you?”

  “You accessed a clouded site,” Rhino’s voice rumbled softly—the sound did not encourage the Asian to turn in his chair to locate the speaker he had not known was present.

  “No. The site appeared on my computer while I was—”

  “You are lying,” Rhino said. Not angrily, stating an indisputable fact. “The only way a Cloud contact could have happened is that you were already visiting a Web site. How you found that one doesn’t matter. But whatever accessed you was AI. So it was set up to find you. Not you, particularly. But people like you.”

  “It isn’t what you…”

  “Just stop,” Cross told him. “This isn’t some court. We don’t care what you are, only what you do. What you can still do. When you said you were a fatalist, you also said something else. About yourself.”

  “I only meant—”

  “What you told us was that you’re a gambler. That’s what you’d call yourself, too. The dice bounce, but there is no skill involved in the toss—only fate controls what they finally show.”

  “Yes. Our destiny is written before we—”

  “No. Your destiny isn’t written, not yet. And we’re the ones holding that pen.”

  The Asian nodded his acceptance of what he could not deny. “It was some kind of competition. The winner was to receive what you would call ‘something of value.’ American dollars, precious stones—”

  “You trusted that?” Rhino dropped a meat cleaver into whatever else the Asian was going to say. “That means the AI was set up a while ago. Set to deliver to winners of other…competitions, in the past. And it had. So you expected the same.”

  “Yes.”

  “Only this was no ‘competition,’ right?” Buddha said, his voice almost reptilian. “You already held the winning hand. It was us—all of us—this…thing wanted. But the plan—how to get it done—that was yours. Because you had the information to solve the puzzle. Just you. Hemp could not have been hired without you proving to him you knew something nobody else did. Ace’s house. And there’s only one way you could have gotten that address.”

  “What was the prize?” Cross said, his voice the same volume as Buddha’s, but almost soothing by comparison.

  “Three million euros,” the Asian said, the emptiness of his voice showing he was telling the truth.

  “But not in cash, right?”

  “By wire. To Macao.”

  “Three mil to take down all of us?”

  “Just for one. Any one of you, it didn’t matter. The first one to…complete the task, that would be the winner.”

  “You can’t contact this site?”

  “Only the one I visited at first. I was contacted that one time, but I can’t contact the—”

  “The one you visited ‘at first’?” Cross said, making it clear he wasn’t asking a question. “So you had to be a regular on that one.”

  “Rape tapes,” Rhino said. “A back-channel site. One you found on your own. But you must have been looking at it plenty of times—that’s what kicked in the AI program, the number of times you kept going back.”

  “Is there any way I could leave this place alive?” the Asian asked.

  “Already told you that. There’s one way,” Cross said. “You tell us what you know—everything you know—and you walk away. You’re no threat to us. But you still have to pay. That three mil waiting on you to cyber-transfer it out, you’ll send it where we tell you to. That’ll square it.

  “But when I say ‘everything you know,’ that’s what I mean—you empty out, understand? Even if we don’t ask a question, you keep draining until you’re dry.”

  “I will do that. All of that. But what assurances do I—?”

  “Enough,” the gang leader said. “You can’t contact some AI program, but it can contact you, right? That’s part of the ‘everything’ I just told you about. We ne
ed you alive—how else could we track it down when it comes up with another ‘competition’?”

  The Asian closed his eyes again.

  “Where shall I begin?” he said.

  “YOU CAN use this,” said a harsh, rumbling voice the Asian now recognized.

  A laptop was placed before him. It was state-of-the-art, full-screen-sized. But the hand holding it made it seem like a child’s toy.

  “Sign on,” the voice said. “We don’t even need to see your password.”

  The Asian’s laugh was thin. “But once I give this back, it would only take a few minutes to—”

  “Take it with you,” Cross said. “It’s top-shelf; a gift from us. Nothing on the hard drive but OS—Mac, Windows, Linux, Chrome.”

  The Asian tapped keys, lightly and rapidly. “I am logged on,” he said.

  “See if the money is in that Macao account. You earned it as soon as you gave up the address of the house Ace bought for his wife and kids, right?”

  Pekelo nodded. Keys tapped.

  “Yes. All of it.”

  “Transfer it to this one,” that terrifying voice said from behind him, dropping a slip of paper onto the laptop’s keyboard. The Asian’s brief glimpse of the hand that held the paper showed him the fingers were the size of the same fine cigars he kept in his office humidor. And the tip of the forefinger was missing.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Done,” the Asian said.

  ANOTHER NINETY minutes passed.

  “That’s all there is,” Cross said, assuring those in the darkness that nothing was to be gained by asking the same questions over and over again.

  “You sure, boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  Buddha stood up and walked over to the desk, where he turned to face the Asian, his features barely visible in the gloom.

  “You know what this is?” he asked, pointing at the large glass saucer on Cross’s desk.

  “An ashtray,” the Asian said.

  “So you know what’s in it.”

  “Cigarette butts.”

  “And ashes,” Buddha’s subzero voice added.

  “Yes.”

  “You like the color?”

  “It is just gray ash of some kind.”

  “The kind you get from an incinerator,” Buddha said.