Hard Candy

by Andrew Vachss

  It was the fourth day I'd made the run past Mama's, checking the dragon tapestries in the window. One red, one white, one blue. Mama's a patriot. But not a citizen. None of us are.

  The blue tapestry had been up for days. Cops. The newspapers said the porno theater had been blown up by some extremist group. The searchers found enough evidence to drop Salvatore Lucastro—drop him hard. His snuff–film business was as dead as the little girls he made into movie stars. Sally Lou was looking at a bunch of life sentences, running wild. Some flowers can only grow in the dark. The local badges had a bad attitude. They weren't surprised that the federales snatched the evidence. They knew Sally Lou's ass was going to be RICO'd. Continuing Criminal Enterprise. But there was supposed to be something left for them. A couple of bodies. I left pieces of one all over a construction site in Times Square. Took the other one with me to the junkyard. Put it through the recycling program: it turns freaks into dog shit.

  That was months ago. By now, the cops knew they'd never find the bodies. But they knew where to find me.

  It played the same way it had for the last few dead months. The cops would come around, ask their questions, make their threats, go away.

  When they got tired of sending around the hard boys, they sent McGowan.

  "I thought we had a deal," he said, his cop's eyes sad and hard at the same time. A good trick. Pimps can do it too. He and his partner, Morales, they had let me run a massage parlor in Times Square with police cover. The perfect bait for a maggot who took his pleasure in women's pain. Blood–orgasms. I was supposed to leave them something when I cleared out, but I took it with me. And left it in a junkyard.

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

  "Yeah you do. You think you walk away from this, you're wrong. I don't give a good goddamn about another collar. You know that. But you're on the list now. I don't know how you made the shooter disappear, but they found pieces of that karate freak all over the lot."

  The karate freak who'd crippled the Prophet to send me a message.

  "What karate freak?" I asked him.

  "You want to play it that way?"

  "I'm not playing."

  "Not anymore you're not," he said, getting up to leave.

  6

  THE WHEEL spun too many times. They'd always be them—I'd always be me. Some cops went bad. I couldn't go good.

  I stayed low to the ground for months, waiting for the Greyhound to deliver Belle's father. Didn't get a parking ticket, didn't bet on a horse. Lived like Gary Hart should have.

  There was nothing else to wait for.

  7

  IT PLAYED the same way with Max too. He'd sit across from me, make the gesture for "Why?" I'd shrug my shoulders. Who knows? He never pushed it past that.

  Mama knew why. Maybe she'd told Immaculata, I didn't know. But she'd never tell Max.

  Only the white tapestry was in the window. I pulled into the alley behind the restaurant, just past the Chinese characters neatly marked on the wall. I didn't bother to lock the car.

  I went through the back door, barely glancing at the collection of thugs pretending to be the kitchen staff. Took my table at the back.

  Mama was saying goodbye to a customer at the front by the cash register. She didn't put her heart and soul into it—the customer had only bought food.

  She came back to where I was sitting, waving her hand at the waiter. He knew what to do.

  I got up as she approached. Thick glossy hair tied in a rigid bun at the back of her head, plum–colored sheath covering her from neck to ankles, same color nail polish and lipstick. Dignified, not sexy. Mama never got older.

  I bowed to her by way of greeting. "Cops all gone?"

  "They come back soon."

  "I know."

  "Something else happen. Soon enough. Police get tired easy."

  "Yeah."

  The waiter brought a steaming tureen of hot–and–sour soup. Mama filled my bowl first, then hers.

  We ate the soup in silence. She filled my bowl again. I finished it. Shook my head no at her unasked question. The waiter took the bowls away.

  I lit a smoke. "It's done," I told her.

  "All finish now?"

  "Yeah."

  She bowed slightly. "Soon, be yourself again?"

  I tried a smile, watching her face. She knew a three–dollar bill when she saw one.

  "Max on his way."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Time to stop all this, Burke. Max your brother."

  "You think I don't know that? It's not my fault. I did the right thing."

  It didn't even feel right saying it.

  I felt Max behind me. I didn't turn around. Lit a cigarette as Mama bowed to him. She went back to the front desk. He flowed into the booth across from me, watching my face the same way he had ever since he came back from Boston. Where Mama had sent him on a phony mission to clean up some problem she was supposed to be having with a street gang shaking down one of her joints.

  Max the Silent doesn't speak. He can't. He was a freelance warrior until he met Mama. I met him in the jailhouse—he brought me to Mama when we got out. I took a fall that was part his years ago, when the wheels came off a sting we'd put together. I was there when he met his woman, Immaculata. His baby daughter, Flower, was named for another baby—a baby who never lived to grow up. A baby a chubby little blonde fought a death–duel to avenge. Flood was her name. She loved me and she went back to Japan.

  I used to dream about her coming back.

  I don't have any more dreams.

  He didn't ask me today. The waiter brought him a bowl of fried rice and a pitcher of ice water. I watched him eat, smoking another cigarette. I wasn't hungry.

  The waiter took the rice bowl away. I got up to split. To go nowhere. Max pushed his hand toward the tabletop, like there was a delicate bubble of air he was holding to the surface. Stay for a minute.

  I sat back in the booth. He pointed to the empty place next to me.

  Floated his hands before me into a kung fu dragon–master opening. I nodded my head. Yeah, a karate–fighter. So?

  He pointed a finger to himself—weaved his own hands in an answering gesture.

  I nodded again. The man wanted Max. Wanted to challenge him to a duel.

  He pointed at me again, made a gesture of dismissal. He flipped a chopstick between his fingers—snapped it like a dry twig. Right again. I'm no karateka—no match for a master.

  Max took a sip of water, his eyes pinning me. He waved his hands again, another challenge. Shook his head no. Held up his hand like a traffic cop. Shrugged his shoulders. No big deal. Max the Silent didn't fight for fun. He'd just walk away. It wasn't an ego thing.

  He spread his hands in the "why?" gesture again.

  It didn't matter anymore.

  I jerked a thumb to my right, indicating the challenger. I pointed at Max, put my hands on the table in front of him, two fingers down from each fist. Men walking. I had them approach each other. Stop. One finger pawing the air before the other. Turned one hand and had the fingers walk away. Felt his eyes on my hands. I pulled one hand off the table, flattened it into a wall, slammed it down in front of the two fingers walking away. No. You can't walk away. His eyes lifted to meet mine. I took the hand that had been a wall and brought it to my chest. Made the sign of rocking a baby. Pointed to him. Your baby. I lifted one hand gently to where the baby's head would have been, watching my brother's face. Held his eyes as I slashed a finger across the child's throat. The karateka's ante in the death–game. Somebody dies. "I can always make a man fight," the maniac told me.

  Max locked my eyes, making it not true in his mind. But he knew. I heard a sharp crack. The water glass popped in his hand. Blood flowed across the knuckles.

  My brother bowed slowly to me. And then he was gone.

  I lit another cigarette. Mama came back to the booth. A waiter made the blood disappear.

  "You tell him, yes?"

  I didn't answer her. She lef
t me alone.

  8

  WEEKS WENT by like that. Slow, gray time. Like being inside. I stayed where I was, not even waiting. McGowan's partner took his shot too. Morales, a thickset Puerto Rican. He got right to it, bracing me in the basement poolroom. I was pushing the balls around the green felt by myself when he walked in. Took a seat and watched me for a while, not saying anything. The stick artists ignored him—the salesmen moved away from our area. There's rooms upstairs you can rent by the hour.

  He tilted his hat back, small dark eyes like bullet holes in his head. Watching.

  I stroked the bright orange five ball into the corner pocket. The cue ball reversed itself on the short rail and slapped into a cluster of balls, scattering them.

  "Nice shot," Morales said.

  I chalked my cue. Nudged the four ball into the same pocket.

  "You're a good shooter, I hear."

  I tapped the thirteen, sliding it toward the opposite corner. Chalked my cue again.

  "Funny game, pool," he said. "You shoot a ball, you do it right, and it just disappears right off the table."

  I banked the ten ball into the side pocket.

  He got up, poked through the racks of standing cues, found one that suited him.

  "Let's you and me play a game," he said, sweeping the loose balls together into the triangular rack. Nine balls.

  "Five and ten?" I asked him.

  He tilted his head toward a dirty hand–painted sign on the near wall. No Gambling.

  "It wouldn't be," I told him.

  His lips curled. He didn't pretend it was a smile. "One money ball—a dime on the nine?"

  I nodded. He reached in his pocket for a coin, started to toss it on the table.

  "Do it," I said, sitting down.

  Morales broke the balls the way he'd like to break mine. With a hard, straight–ahead slash. Lots of power, no stroke. The balls scattered, running for cover. The three dropped in. He power–slammed the one ball, not even thinking about running the table. A slugger—no finesse. When the dust settled, there were still eight balls on the green cloth.

  He sat down, watching. I tapped the one ball down the long rail, leaving myself a clear shot at the two. Dumped it in. I kissed the cue off the four ball into the nine. The yellow–and–white striped ball went home. Morales got up to rack the balls. I raised my eyebrows at him.

  "Put it on my tab."

  I flicked my eyes to the No Gambling sign.

  His face went dark. He took a deep breath through his nose, remembering why he was there. Tossed a crumpled ten–spot on the table. I picked it up, smoothed it out. Left it lying on the rail.

  I made the nine ball on the break.

  Morales put another ten down on the rail. Racked the balls.

  I broke again. Two balls dropped. I lined up on the one.

  His voice was light, hard–cored. Honey–coated aluminum. "Upstate, when you come in on a homicide beef, you know what they say about you?"

  "Tough luck?"

  "They say you got a body. Nice, huh? Some punk snuffs an old lady for the Welfare check, he struts around the block saying, 'I got a body.' You ever hear that one?"

  "No."

  I ran the rest of the table. Morales put a twenty down, taking back one of the tens. He racked the balls. I chalked my cue. Lit a smoke.

  "We met once before, remember?"

  "No."

  "You remember my name?"

  I locked his eyes. "Something with an 'M,' right? Miranda?"

  "Smart guy. You got a body, Burke?"

  My eyes never left his face. "You guys have one?" I asked.

  "See you soon," he said, walking away.

  I put his money in my pocket. Went back to pushing the balls around the table.

  9

  I DIDN'T NEED need the cop's cash.

  There'd been a fifty–grand bounty on the Ghost Van. A killing machine for baby prostitutes. Pimps put up the coin—it was bad for business. Marques Dupree made the offer in a parking lot. Take the van off the street and collect the money. It was supposed to be a four–way split: me, the

  Then it went to hell. A karateka who called himself Mortay was bodyguarding the van. The freak was a homicide–junkie. He fought a death–match in the basement of a porno circus. The players liked it even better than watching pit bulls or cockfights. And after that he walked through Times Square, frightening even the hard–core freaks. But the whispers stayed on the street. Max the Silent. The life–taking, widow–making wind of death, as the Prof named him years ago. Max could beat this Mortay.

  The freak wanted Max. I tried to talk to him and he raised the stakes. Max fights him or Max's baby goes down.

  I dealt Max out. Called in my chips. One of Mortay's boys was gunned down in a Chelsea playground. By El Cañonero, rifleman for the UGL, the underground Puerto Rican independence group headed by my compadre Pablo. Another was dog food. Belle dealt herself in. The van was scrap metal. And Mortay himself—they'd need a microscope to find the pieces.

  I had a lot of bodies. And the cold ground had Belle's.

  I didn't have to look for Marques. He called Mama—left frantic messages all over the city. Couldn't wait to put the cash in my hand.

  I split it with the Prof and the Mole. The junkyard–genius would take care of Michelle. Belle left a stash behind—that was mine too.

  Bail money. For a jail I couldn't walk out of.

  10

  BY THE TIME summer left the city, I thought the heat would leave me alone. But even months later, there was no place to go.

  I was in a bar off Times Square. Sitting with the Prof, waiting for Michelle. I got up to get the Prof a brew. The place was packed, music screaming so loud the heavy metal clanged. The whole joint was about as much fun as chemotherapy. I bumped into a stud hustler on my way back to the table. He muttered something. I kept moving.

  Michelle slipped her way through the crowd. Wearing a white beret, deep purple silk blouse, white pencil skirt, spike heels to match the blouse. An orchid in a sewer. She kissed me on the cheek, her big dark eyes wary.

  "How you doing, honey?"

  "The same."

  The stud hustler I had bumped came over to our table, thumbs hooked in a bicycle chain he used for a belt. Pretty boy. Short spiky haircut. He leaned forward, eyes on me. His buddies behind him a few feet.

  "You made me spill my beer."

  His voice sounded tough. The way a worn–out car with a bad muffler sounds fast.

  I threw a five–dollar bill on the table. "Buy another."

  "How about an apology?"

  I felt a tiny pulse in my temple. I crumpled the bill in my fist, tossed it onto the dirty floor.

  Muscles flexed along the surface of his bare arms. "Get up!"

  Michelle lit one of her long black cigarettes. Blew smoke at the ceiling. "Sweetie, go back to whatever you were doing, okay?"

  He turned on her. "I don't need no fucking he–she telling me what to do."

  Two dots of color on Michelle's cheeks.

  The Prof turned his air conditioner on the heat. "There's no beef, Chief. Take the five and slide."

  "You got nice friends," the hustler said. "A cross–dresser and a midget nigger."

  The Prof smiled. "I'm a thief, boy. I may pull a little vic, but I don't suck dick."

  The hustler's face went orange in the nightclub lights. "Let's go outside," he suggested to me, pounding a fist into an open palm.

  "He don't have the time, sonny," the Prof answered for me.

  "It won't take long."

  One of his friends laughed.

  The Prof wouldn't let it go. "Yeah it would. About ten to twenty years, punk. Even if they let it slide with manslaughter."

  I pushed back my chair.

  "Burke!" Michelle snapped.

  The place went quiet.

  "That's you?" the hustler asked. His voice was a strangulated hernia.

  "You know the name, you know the game," the Prof answered for me.
<
br />   "Hey, man… it was a joke. Okay?"

  I sat there, waiting. He backed away. He didn't bump into his friends—they were gone.

  It wasn't just the cops who knew I had a body. And whose body I had.

  11

  ON THE STREET outside the bar, Michelle grabbed my arm. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She wheeled on the Prof. "And what about you? You turning back the clock twenty years? This idiot's back to being a gunfighter and you're his manager, right?"

  "My man's in pain, lady. Give us some play, back away."

  Michelle's eyes glittered, hands on hips. I put my hand on her arm—she shrugged it off.

  "This isn't like you, baby. You're making me nervous."

  "It's okay," I said.

  "It's not okay. You want to go back to prison? Over some stupid argument in a bar?"

  "I'm not going back to prison. Just take it easy. We'll drive you home."

  She turned and walked away, heels clicking hard on the concrete, not looking back.

  12

  THREE MORE dead days later, they took me down. Right off the street. The Prof spotted them first.

  "Rollers on the right," the little man said under his breath.

  "Probably behind us too. Call Davidson," I said. I tossed my cigarette into the gutter, slipped my right hand into my coat pocket to make them think I might not go along nicely, and slid away to draw them from the Prof. I quick–stepped it along Forty–fifth Street, heading west toward the river. Feeling the heat. Unmarked cop car running parallel to me in the street. Spotted a gay–porn movie house. Heard car doors slam as I slid my money through the slot for a ticket. They wouldn't want to follow me inside. Two slabs of beef shouldered in on each side, pinning my arms, pulling my hands behind me. Cuffs snapped home. They spun me around. A cop I hadn't seen before sang their song.

  "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…"

  They patted me down before they shoved me into the blue–and–white that pulled to the curb.