Hard Candy

by Andrew Vachss

  Nobody said a word on the ride downtown.

  They left me alone in a holding cell for an hour or so. I didn't ask to make a phone call. I did that once, when I was a kid. Just to be doing it—I had nobody to call. Now I knew better. On both counts.

  They brought me into the interrogation room. Two detectives I never saw before shouldered in behind me. Street cops. Wash–and–wear suits, bad haircuts, sidewalk shoes. They looked alike. Same size, same weight. Same eyes.

  "You want a smoke?" the first one asked.

  "How much are they?"

  The second one grunted. "On the house," the first guy said.

  I nodded. He tossed a pack on the table, pushed a dull metal Zippo across to me. I rolled my thumb carefully across the surface of the lighter, held it up to the light, slid it back to him. The second guy laughed. Threw a book of paper matches at me. I lit a cigarette.

  "You want to make a statement?"

  "About what?"

  "You're busted. Homicide."

  I blew smoke at the ceiling.

  A knock at the door. The second guy opened it. The new guy was flashier. Younger. Nice suit, silk tie, dimple under the knot. Spent money on his haircut. Mirror shine on his black loafers. Even had tassels on them. The B Team. He took the seat across from me. The street–sweepers stood in the background.

  "I'm Detective Lieutenant Swanson. And you're…"

  "Under arrest."

  One of the street cops snorted. The lieutenant gave me a hard look. "I thought you had more sense than that. What's it gonna get you, pal? You know the score. You don't give up your prints, we can hold you forever. You stand for the prints, your rap sheet falls on you and the judge is gonna remand your ass. You're looking at a few months on Rikers Island even if you beat this."

  "I already gave you my prints."

  One of the rollers laughed. The lieutenant looked unhappy. "Don't play games, okay? You know how it works. We got some homicides, we got a building blown all to hell in Times Square. We got feds taking fucking bows with their big score. We want ours, okay?"

  "What's yours?"

  "You tell me, pal. It could be you. It don't have to be. Understand? You got something to trade?"

  I ground out my cigarette.

  The lieutenant looked at his watch. Two gold bracelets on his wrist. "Last chance," he said.

  I lit another smoke.

  "Don't you even want to know who you killed?"

  I blew smoke in his face.

  He pushed his chair back. "Book him," he snapped to the two street cops, walking out the door.

  This time all three of us laughed.

  13

  IT WAS ONE in the morning before they brought me downtown for arraignment. The Lobster Shift: they run arraignments twenty–four hours a day in Manhattan. Seven days a week. I spotted Davidson in the front row, dressed like he was going to face a jury, wide–awake. I waited for my name to be called.

  Wolfe was arguing with the judge. If she was standing up at a night arraignment, the defendant must be some major degenerate. She was standing by herself at the counsel table, ten pounds of paper spread out in front of her, a guy who looked like a bouncer in a waterfront bar just behind her. Her voice was soft, but it carried.

  "Twenty–nine counts, Your Honor. Twenty–nine separate counts. Seven complaining witnesses. That's seven children. The People respectfully request that the defendant be remanded until trial."

  The defendant was sitting straight up, facing the judge. Well–dressed, dignified. Looked outraged to be in such a place. His lawyer was an older man, beautiful shock of white hair falling almost to his shoulders, church deacon's voice.

  "Your Honor, if I may be heard. Doctor West is a prominent member of the community. A man without a scintilla of a criminal record. A family man, whose wife and children are shocked by these obviously false allegations. The People's request for a remand is simply outrageous. I assure you we intend to fight these scandalous charges on the merits, and we are contemplating the appropriate civil remedies against the parents of these obviously misguided children. I'm sure this young lady means well…"

  "Don't patronize me, you pompous clown!" Wolfe's voice lashed out.

  "That will be enough," the judge said, looking at Wolfe.

  "From who?" she snapped back.

  "From both of you. The Court has heard enough. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars."

  The white–haired lawyer smiled.

  "Application to surrender his passport, Your Honor"—from Wolfe.

  "Your Honor, I really don't think…"

  "Granted," said the judge.

  One of the fancy lawyer's assistants walked over to the clerk to make the bail arrangements as they brought me forward for my turn. The white–haired lawyer walked up to Wolfe. "My client…"

  "Tell him to go play with his nitrous oxide," Wolfe snarled at him. She looked up as Davidson stepped in next to me. A lovely woman, tall and shapely, her dark hair drawn back from her face, streaks of white like wings sweeping through it. Our eyes met. She said something out of the side of her mouth to the heavyweight who was with her. Swept her papers into a big briefcase and walked away. We all watched her leave, spike heels clicking on the old marble floor.

  The heavyweight stepped in next to me, barrel chest against my shoulder. "You got money on the books?" You go down broke, you stay broke. Wolfe knew what you have to do to get cigarette money inside jail. And she didn't want me doing it. The kind of law enforcement they never taught her in the DA's Office.

  I nodded. He left to follow Wolfe, covering her back like he always does.

  I shook hands with Davidson. "You didn't make a statement," he said, making one of his own.

  The ADA who took Wolfe's place was a young guy. Tired–looking. Mustache too big for his face. The B Team detective was standing next to him, looking more like a lawyer than anyone else there.

  The judge stared down from the bench. I stared back—I'd seen him before. One of those "why not the best?" political appointees who climbed the ladder using Preparation H for lip gloss. "Gentlemen…any point in discussing this?" He wasn't talking to me.

  The ADA started to approach the bench.

  Davidson stayed where he was. "No" is all he said.

  The ADA went back to his stand. "Judge, the charge is Murder Two. The defendant has an extensive criminal history, including the use of firearms to commit violence. He has no roots in the community, and there is a significant possibility he will flee before trial."

  Davidson's face was already red. "What trial? There isn't going to be a trial, Judge. This was a pretextual arrest, and the People know it. Or they should know it. This case won't survive the Grand Jury. I examined these so–called papers I was handed an hour ago," he barked, waving the yellow–backed sheaf that signaled Felony. "My client is alleged to have killed one Robert Morgan, whoever that is, several months ago. Period. I don't see a hint of what this arrest was based on: no statements, no evidence…we aren't even told how this person allegedly died…was he shot, stabbed, stomped, poisoned…what? My client was arrested on the street. If he was going to flee, he's had enough time to circle the globe, much less leave New York. Where's the connection between this Robert Morgan and my client? Where's the motive? Hell, where's the body?" he sneered, looking directly at the detective. Telling him he knew.

  The judge was unmoved—he only jumped for state senators on up. "Mr. Gonzales?" he asked the ADA.

  "Your Honor, Mr. Davidson knows he can file discovery motions and learn the substance of the People's case. This is an arraignment, not a trial."

  "Probable cause!" shouted Davidson.

  "We don't need probable cause for an arraignment!"

  "You need it for a damn arrest!"

  "Gentlemen! Approach the bench, please."

  I couldn't hear what they were saying. Davidson kept shoving his husky body at the ADA, his face turning as dark as his beard. The ADA kept shrugging his shoulders, tilting his
head toward the detective. The judge called the detective up front. Listened, a flat, skeptical look on his face.

  Davidson came back to the counsel table. Whispered "Three days" under his breath.

  The judge swept the tables with his eyes. "The defendant is remanded for three days. Three days, Mr. Assistant District Attorney. During which time there will either be a felony hearing or this matter will be presented to the Grand Jury. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "And if it is not, the defendant is to be released on his own recognizance, by agreement of the People. Yes, Mr. Gonzales?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Next case."

  I shook hands with Davidson again. They took me away.

  14

  WHEN THEY CAME to my cell the next day and told me I had a visit from my lawyer I knew it wasn't Davidson. That wasn't the way he worked.

  They brought me into a private room. Toby Ringer stepped in. Toby's a Bureau Chief in the Manhattan DA's Office. A stand–up guy, killer trial lawyer, homicide specialist. He plays the game square. I don't know how he's kept his job this long, but he'll never be a judge. Neither will Wolfe.

  He offered his hand. I took it. And the three packs of cigarettes he pulled out of his briefcase.

  "You know why I'm here?"

  "No."

  "The arrest won t stand up. We all know that, okay? Nobody thinks you smoked this Robert Morgan. Somebody dropped a dime, but the word is that he won't testify no matter what. But we do know Morgan was tied in with the Ghost Van, and we know the Ghost Van's gone. Couple of more guys gone along with it. You know the story."

  "So?"

  "That was your work, Burke. It's all over the street. Wall–to–wall. The word is you're a gun for hire now. Contract hitter."

  I dragged on my smoke.

  "I don't think that's true either, okay? But whoever blew up Sally Lou's operation, he left a big fat hole. And the wiseguys are stacking up to fill it. It was his time, anyway."

  I looked a question at him.

  "Yeah, there was a contract out on him. Four big guys have been hit in the past few months. And the Italians are getting real nervous. They can't figure out who's moving on who."

  I shrugged.

  "Yeah, right. Why should you care? Here's why we care. They're scared, Burke. So they went to the well. Dead bodies. And more coming. Wesley's back to work."

  The little room went dark in the corners.

  "That's who we want, Burke. Wesley. That's why I came out here. To give you the message."

  "You bring any cheese with you in that briefcase?"

  He took a breath. Snorted it out. "Save the speeches, hard guy. We all know you're not a rat. I'm telling you this for your own good."

  "Sure."

  He leaned across the desk, his voice a clean, sharp whisper. "Sally Lou, he was just a pain in the ass. The wiseguys—they could've just warned him away. But he got himself some muscle. Guy named Mortay. A very, very bad guy, I'm told. So bad he wanted a match with Max the Silent."

  Nothing moved in my face. Toby didn't waste his time watching. "This Mortay, he went to see one of the big guys. In the middle of the night. Right past the guards, past the dogs, past the alarms. Woke him up in bed. Broke his forearm with one finger. Told him to stop playing with Sally Lou. They went to Wesley."

  I watched Toby, waiting.

  "Mortay was on Wesley's list, Burke. And Mortay's not around. Way I hear it, you're Wesley's competition now."

  I went back to my cell.

  Rikers Island. Even when summer's over, just as hot as Hell is supposed to be. I said Wesley's name in my mind and turned my cell into a refrigerator.

  15

  I DIDN'T GET any more visitors. They let me out when they were supposed to. I caught a cab back to the city. Switched to a subway, walked the last few blocks to my office. Pansy was right where she was supposed to be too—on guard. She made a growling noise in her throat, so glad to see me she vibrated. Doing a five–day bit wasn't any big deal to her, but she hadn't liked the food any better than I had. I opened the back door and she lumbered up the iron stairs to the roof. I folded the heavy sheets of vinyl I leave spread over a section of the floor into a giant garbage bag and tied it closed with a loop of wire. Opened the back window to air the place out. I had a system for leaving dry dog food and water for her when I had to be gone for a while, but depositing her loads was always a problem. That's what the roof was for. I took an aerosol can of pure oxygen from the bathroom and emptied it into the room she had used. It wasn't the worst thing I'd smelled in the past few days.

  16

  I TOOK a shower. Shaved. Opened the refrigerator and gave Pansy a quart of vanilla fudge ice cream. She snarfed it down while I made myself some rye toast. I fed it into my stomach slowly, sipping ginger ale. Scratching Pansy behind her ears the way she liked. Talking softly to her—praising her for protecting our home while I was gone. Working on calm.

  Changed into a dark suit, a pale blue shirt, and a black tie.

  Davidson's office is in midtown, a rifle shot from Times Square. The receptionist was a light–skinned black woman with a severe face. When her smile flashed, her face turned beautiful, then went back to business. She goes to law school nights, waiting for her time to come. I gave her the name Davidson and I agreed on. She buzzed back, got the word, told me to go ahead.

  The meeting didn't take long. "What they got is a bad bust," he told me. "An unsolved homicide wouldn't make them that crazy, so it's something else running. You know what it is?"

  "Maybe."

  "Any chance…?"

  I knew what he meant. "No," I told him.

  "If they need us back in court, I'll get a call."

  "Okay. We're square for now?"

  "Yeah."

  I shook hands and walked out. Davidson would do his piece, but he was a lawyer. For him, survival was a Not Guilty verdict. The jury of my peers was still out.

  17

  IT STAYED that way for a while. Hard looks. Role–playing. I felt Wesley's chill but it never got close to the bone. I drifted back to the anchor. Calmed down. Davidson said the murder charge would stay open, but they'd never press it. I worked the perimeter, nibbling. Some good scams were cooking all over town, but I didn't see my way in.

  Another college kid killed his parents. Said "Dungeons and Dragons" made him do it. A creature killed a woman because she tried to leave him after twenty years. He told the cops she was his. His daughter. A beast slaughtered his girlfriend, raped and killed her teenage daughter, stabbed his seven–year–old son in the heart, and set fire to the apartment. The little boy lived. Identified him at the trial. The jury acquitted him. He went to court and demanded custody of the boy. The Transit Authority set up bulletproof token booths so they couldn't be robbed. Anyone who's done time knows what to do about that—you fill a plastic bottle with gasoline, squirt it through the slot, toss in a match, and wait for the clerk to open the door for you. One of them couldn't get the door open. A youth worker confessed to sodomizing more than three dozen boys over a ten–year period. The judge wanted to sentence him to a speaking tour. Gunfire crackled like heat lightning on streets where the franchise to distribute rock cocaine was disputed by teenage robot–mutant millionaires.

  18

  IMMACULATA sat across from me in the last booth. Max's woman. Mama was at her front desk with the baby, bouncing the plump little girl on her lap, telling her how things worked.

  "It's okay now," Immaculata said, voice thick with something I didn't recognize.

  "Sure."

  "Max understands. He was just…hurt. That you left him out."

  "I had to."

  "I know."

  "Yeah, you know."

  "Burke, why be like this? You made a judgment… it was your call to make. It's over."

  "But you think the judgment was wrong."

  "It was just an ego thing, yes? It's hard to believe this man would have killed our baby just to mak
e Max fight him."

  I looked up. Her eyes were veiled under the long lashes but it didn't help. She couldn't make it stick.

  "I have to stand with Max," she said.

  I bowed, empty. Her eyes were pleading with me. "You still have your baby," I said.

  She put her hand over mine. "You still have your brother."

  The pay phone rang in the back. Mama walked past, the baby balanced on one hip.

  She came back in a minute. Handed the baby to Immaculata, slid in next to her.

  "Call for you. Woman say old friend."

  A honeycomb of tiny bubbles in my chest. Flood. How could she have known now was the time?

  It must have shown in my face. Mama's voice was soft. "No" is all she said.

  I lit a cigarette, biting into the filter. The little bubbles in my chest popped—a tiny string of explosions, like baby firecrackers.

  "Woman say old friend. Need to talk to you. Very important."

  I looked at Mama. Her lips curled, short of a sneer. "Always important. Woman say to tell you Little Candy from Hudson Street. You know her?" Mama asked, handing me a slip of paper with a telephone number.

  I nodded. It didn't matter.

  19

  MAX WENT everywhere I went. Behind me, not with me. Guarding my back. Protecting me from a ghost. His warrior s soul screaming for combat to make it right. Too late for the battle.

  We were on a pier near the Yacht Basin, waiting for a buyer to show up. The buyer had advertised over an electronic bulletin board, using the modem on his personal computer. He wanted a little girl. No older than ten. White. Someone he could love. He'd have ten grand with him. To prove his love.

  Max took a restaurant napkin out of his pocket, a felt–tip pen from mine. Drew a rising sun, touched his heart gently. Pointed at me, turned the finger around to include himself. We could go to Japan. Find Flood. Bring her home.

  I shook my head. She was home. So was I.

  The headlights of the buyer's car flashed. Once, twice. Max merged into the shadow next to my Plymouth. I walked over to the buyer's car, a beige Taurus station wagon. The driver's window whispered down, air–conditioned breeze on my face. It didn't make sense for that time of the year until I saw the fat man inside. Ice–cream suit, straw hat, sweating.