Hard Candy

by Andrew Vachss

  One shelf was wigs, carefully positioned on Styrofoam heads. Blondes, brunettes, redheads from soft rose to flame. Every style from flower child to Dolly Parton. A wall of cosmetics: lipstick with all new, gleaming, fresh tips, standing in rows like large–caliber bullets…blusher, body powders, eyeliner, prefitted fingernails, polish, false eyelashes. Makeup table with a round padded stool, tiny row of frosted light bulbs surrounding another mirror, this one three–paneled.

  The far wall looked flat. She slid back a panel. Fur coats. Fox, ermine, sable, mink, leopard. Others I didn't recognize.

  Another panel. Cocktail dresses, formal gowns, yuppie go–to–business outfits. Leather miniskirts. Dresses from silk to cotton. Jumpers and pinafores.

  Another section was shoes. Lizard–skin spike heels, black leather boots from ankle to mid–thigh, shoes trimmed with rhinestones, jogging shoes, little girls' shoes with Mary Jane straps, sandals.

  Rows and rows of built–in drawers. She opened them smoothly, stepped aside, gesturing with her hand like a wrongly accused smuggler sneering at a customs agent. G–strings, silk panties, bikini briefs, garter belts, teddies, camisoles, cotton panties in a dozen colors. Panty hose still in the original wrappers. Stockings from fishnet to sheer. Push–up bras, front–opening bras, bras with holes for nipples to poke through, bras with straps that crossed over the back. Red, black, white, and a pastel rainbow.

  There was another panel to the wall. She slid it back. Riding crops, handcuffs, lengths of thin steel chains, a leather–handled stock, leather straps at the end, like a shortened cat–o'–nine–tails. Leather belts, from spaghetti straps to thick slabs. Something that looked like a black rubber sweatshirt. Dog collars. A leather face mask, laced up the back, the mouth a zippered slash. Hairbrushes, Ping–Pong paddles, some foam–padded, others covered with sandpaper. Rings, clamps, vibrators. Dildos, from pencils to sausages. A bullwhip of braided silk.

  "Seen enough?"

  Her eyes were a challenge. My face was flat. I nodded.

  She held out her hand again, turning it so I could hold her by the wrist. The next room down the hall was a teenage girl's bedroom: Heavy Metal posters on the wall, fluffy quilt on the big bed, stuffed animals, pink telephone. A leather–bound book next to it. It said "My Diary" on the cover in gold. Bathroom off to the side.

  Three more bedrooms. A single working girl. A movie star. The last one had a black leather psychiatrist's couch in one corner. Rings bolted into the floor. The walls were lined in dark cork.

  She took me back into the front room. My cigarette had burned itself out. I let go of her wrist—lit another one. She walked out of the room. I picked up the phone, hit the * button, watched the thin slash of liquid crystal fill up with the same number I had dialed before. The Prof answered. "Okay so far," I said. Hung up again.

  She came back in again. "You think of a name for me yet?"

  "There's lots of names for it."

  "Money is the name for it. Nothing's changed."

  "I haven't got any money."

  "Yes you do, bounty hunter. I know what you do. But it's not your money I want. It's money I have for you—something I want you to do."

  "There's nothing I want to do."

  She took off her top. Her breasts stood out hard as white marble. "Silicone. The very best—envelopes, not injections." She licked her lips. "Collagen. Here too," she said, patting her seamless face. She stood, dropping the denim shorts to the floor in the same motion. "This is mine," patting her butt. "Hard work. Three times a week on the machines." She took a deep breath through her nose—her waist wasped. "I can do more crunches than a bodybuilder. Six days a week." The soft patch between her legs was dark, gleaming, heart–shaped. "Electrolysis. Once a month," she said, holding out her arms for me to see.

  "You don't miss a trick."

  "Don't be nasty, Burke. I'm proud of you—you got what you wanted. Can't I do it too?"

  "What did I want?"

  "You think I don't remember? A name. You got a name now. The whole street knows your name. After Mortay…"

  She caught me looking at her, felt the chill. "I'm sorry. I know better. Don't say anything. I know the rules. There's something I need you to do—something you know how to do. And there's money. A lot of money. Just think about it, okay? And call me. You have the number. I'll come wherever you want…tell you what I need."

  I stood up. "One more call," I told her. She shrugged, walked over to the window, naked in the light. The glass had a faint orange tint. One–way. I picked up the phone, dialed 958–2222. A recorded voice spat back a phone number. Ma Bell's black box telling the phone repairman that he was working on the right account. It wasn't the number I had called her on. I said "Okay" into the phone and hung up.

  She came over to the door with me. "Whatever you want. And the money," she whispered. "Call me." Her lips flexed like she was going to kiss me. Saw me watching her face and pulled the punch. The door closed behind me. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, met Max on the stairwell. I pushed an imaginary button with my finger. We split up at the bottom of the stairs. When the doorman went to the back to answer the buzzer I walked out the front door.

  30

  I DROPPED the Prof off at the edge of the Village, turned the Plymouth toward Chinatown. Max spread his hands, asking me "What?" I shrugged. I pulled over to the curb when we got near the warehouse where Max had his temple. His face was a mask, staring out the windshield to some other place. His hand dropped on my forearm, a leather–colored bone sculpture, a ridge of horned callous raised along the chopping edge, the first two knuckles enlarged, a white slash across the back from an old razor scar. He wasn't going to move. I turned to see what he wanted.

  The mute Mongolian took his hand from my forearm, tapped two fingers against my chest. Where my heart would be. He put his fingertips together, elbows extending in a straight line. Slowly opened his fingers, tilted his face up. Sunlight? I looked a question at him. He went through the whole thing again. He wasn't getting through. A thick finger drew a cross in the dust on the dashboard. I watched. He put an arrow at the top of the cross. A compass? He extended the right–hand line of the cross all the way to the end of the dash. East? He made the gesture again. I nodded. The Rising Sun. Japan. I said her name. Flood. His hands came together in a prayerful gesture. Pointed at me. At himself. Extended his arms in a child's gesture of an airplane banking through the sky. We could go to Japan. Find her. Bring her back.

  I shook my head. No. Again.

  He bowed slightly. The way you do before the fight starts. Opened the door and he was gone.

  31

  WHEN I GOT to the junkyard, Terry let me in. "They're fighting," he said, leading the way back to the bunker.

  The Mole was a sodden lump, seated on one of the cut–down oil drums he used for chairs. Elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. His coveralls were so dirty they worked like camouflage—his dead–white face looked suspended in air, light shifting on the thick lenses of his glasses as he followed Michelle's swooping circles around him. She was wearing a white raw silk coat that reached past the tops of her black boots. A black cashmere turtleneck sweater and black slacks that puddled over the tops of the boots. Long strand of pearls around her neck. Her hand flicked them back and forth as she snapped at the Mole. Simba sat next to the Mole, head cocked, ears flared. Fascinated.

  She whirled as we came into the clearing, hands on hips.

  "Stay out of this, Burke."

  "I came to see Mole," I told her.

  "You'll see him when I'm finished with him."

  "Mom…" Terry started.

  All the hardness went out of her face. "This doesn't concern you, sweetheart. You know the Mole and I argue sometimes. Soon as we're finished, I'll let you take me out to dinner in town, okay?"

  The Mole's head swiveled toward me. "She wants to have the operation."

  "Mole!"

  "You think the boy doesn't know?"

  It went quiet then. I l
it a cigarette, waiting. Terry went over to Michelle, took her hand. "It's okay, Mom."

  She kissed him hard on the cheek. Pulled away from him. Walked right up to the Mole, leaned into his face. "It's me. I waited for this. I know I kept talking about it, but now's the time."

  "It's dangerous."

  "It's not dangerous. You think this is like a coat–hanger abortion? They know what they're doing."

  His head swiveled to me again. "She wants to be a citizen."

  "I know."

  "None of you know."

  The Mole's eyes were liquid pain behind the glass. "You can't live out there, Michelle. It's not for you."

  "You just don't want to lose Terry. How selfish can you be, Mole? You want him to spend his life in this junkyard? Never go to school?"

  "I go to school, Mom," the kid said quietly.

  "Oh, sure you do, honey. I'm sure you know all about tapping telephones and beating burglar–alarm systems. Maybe someday the Mole will teach you how to blow up buildings."

  The Mole's head came up. "Tell her," he said, his voice rusty. He didn't use it much.

  Terry tapped Michelle's hand, making her look. "Mom, I study physics. And chemistry. And math. I do. Ask me anything. Burke got me the textbooks for all the first–year courses at college. Mom, I already know the stuff. Mole is the best teacher in the world."

  "And what are you going to do with all this knowledge, baby? Go to med school?"

  "I don't want to go to medical school."

  "No, you want to live in a junkyard with this lunatic. Well, you're not."

  "Mom…"

  "Don't 'Mom' me, Terry. You want to end up like Burke? You like the idea of going to prison?"

  "The Mole doesn't go to prison."

  "Ask him why. Ask your teacher why he didn't go to prison."

  "I know why, Mom. I know Burke took the weight for him that time in the subway tunnel. Mole told me all about it. That's what family does."

  "That's what good criminals do, honey."

  "That's the rules."

  She grabbed the boy by his shoulders. Shook him roughly. "I know all about family. My biological parents taught me very well. They weren't family, so I picked my own. And we picked you. All of us, not just the Mole. You're not growing up in the underground. You're not going to spend your life like this."

  Tears ran down the kid's face but his voice was steady. "I lived with them once. The citizens. Remember, Mom? Remember how you found me?"

  Michelle dropped to her knees in the junkyard, clutching the boy's legs, crying. He patted her head gently, whispering to her. The Mole moved away. I followed him.

  "It's not safe" is all he said.

  "The operation?"

  "The boy. He can't live out there. Maybe Michelle could. Go back and forth all the time. It's not right to split him like this."

  We walked through the twilight, jagged shadows spiking from the cannibalized cars. I moved between two of the cars. Stopped short when I heard a snarl. A white pit bull was lying against an old Cadillac, tiny squealing puppies nursing underneath her. Even Simba stepped around her.

  "I never saw a pit bull here before. I thought they were all dog fighters."

  "Terry found her. They were fighting dogs on the other side of the meat market…you know just past where the trucks pull in?"

  "Yeah."

  "She lost a fight. They left her there to die. We fixed her up. Now she's part of the pack."

  "Like Terry."

  He didn't say anything for a while. I lit another smoke. We made a wide circle, giving Terry and Michelle plenty of time.

  "The boy knows Hebrew too," the Mole said, defensively. I dragged on my cigarette, remembering the boy's Bar Mitzvah.

  The kid already knew how to blow up buildings.

  32

  WHEN WE got back to the clearing, Michelle was perched on the Mole's oil drum, a fresh blanket beneath her. The boy was sitting on the ground, her hand on his shoulder. They were waiting for us.

  The Mole went into his bunker.

  "I'm still having the operation," she told me, defiance lancing through the fear in her voice.

  I bowed.

  A half–smile played across her lovely face. She patted Terry's shoulder. "Sweetheart, just tell me you don't want to be like Burke—that's all I ask."

  "I want to be like Mole."

  "Honey, the Mole's a genius. I'd never take that away from him. And he's a wonderful man in many ways. I know he's taught you a lot. And I know he loves you, although I'm sure he's never told you."

  "He told me. He said he was proud of me."

  "I know, baby. But…to live like this. You'll be a man soon. The Mole…I mean, you want to live out here? Never have a girl of your own?"

  "I'll have a woman, when I'm ready. A mate. Like the Mole said. A man has to have a mate."

  "But the Mole…he doesn't…"

  "Mom, I thought you…"

  It was the first time I ever saw Michelle blush.

  33

  WE WERE crossing the Triboro Bridge before Michelle spoke.

  "You think the Mole feels that way about me?"

  "You know he does. Always has."

  She lit one of her long black cigarettes. "He never said…"

  "Neither did you."

  I hooked the East Side Drive, high–rise lights flashing past us.

  "You miss her?"

  "I'll always miss her."

  "Belle's dead, baby. You know who I mean."

  The Plymouth sharked its own way through the light traffic.

  "Sometimes," I said.

  34

  I PULLED UP outside Michelle's hotel. "You working tonight?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Take me to the Cellar."

  "Who's playing?"

  "Who cares? If we don't like it we can split."

  "Okay," I said, turning the wheel to slip back into traffic.

  "Hold it! Where're you going?"

  "You said…"

  "Honey, I've been in a junkyard. Park this car, wait downstairs in the bar. I'll be changed in a minute."

  Right.

  35

  THE BAR had one of those giant–screen TV sets suspended in a corner. I ordered a vodka and tonic, telling the barmaid not to mix them. Sipped the tonic.

  Some pro football game was about to start. Three guys in pretty matching blazers were talking about it like they were about to cover a border dispute in the Middle East. "This is going to be a war," one of the white announcers said. The black announcer nodded, the way you do when you hear irrefutable wisdom. The guys along the bar murmured agreement. Sure, just like the War on Drugs. If it was really going to be a war, one team would blow up the other's locker room. The Mole was right—we could never be citizens. Where I was raised, there's no such thing as a cheap shot.

  "What do you see as the key to this match–up?" one of the announcers asked.

  The guy he asked said something about dee–fense. Chumps. The key is the team doctor. The only war in pro football is chemical.

  The barmaid leaned over to ask me if I wanted a refill, her breasts spilling out of the top of her blouse. I thought of Candy and her silicone envelopes. What's real?

  Michelle tapped me on the shoulder. She'd changed to a red–and–black–striped skirt that pinched her knees close, the hem just peeking out under a black quilted jacket with wide sleeves. Her hair was piled on top of her head, most of the makeup gone. She looked fresh and sweet. I left a ten–dollar bill on the bar and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Nobody watched us leave—it was kickoff time.

  36

  I WAS GOING through the motions. Playing out the string. Not waiting for full bloom, like I had been all my life. Full bloom had come to me. Just for a visit.

  Jacques called me at Mama's. He's a gun dealer, runs a sweet little operation out of a rib joint in Bed–Stuy. I found a pay phone, called him back.

  "I have a client for some of my heating units, mahn"—his West Indi
an accent singing over the line.

  "So why call me?"

  "This client, he's one of those Haitians, mahn. Spooky, you know. All that zombie–talk…"

  "Yeah." There's an army of Haitians between Brooklyn and Queens, waiting for the day when they take back their land from the Tonton Macoutes. They don't fear the living, but Papa Doc's spirit still frightens their children.

  "I don't travel, mahn. You know this. And they don't come to my place. I need a traveling man."

  "I'm not doing any deliveries."

  "Of course not, mahn. You know how this works. You go there, they pay you. You call me. I tell them where to pick up the units."

  "And I wait with them while they send someone to do the pickup?"

  "Sure."

  "How much you paying hostages these days?"

  "Oh, mahn, do not speak like this. Nobody going to cause trouble. These are not drug dealers, you understand?"

  "Sure."

  "Let us do business, mahn. Good business for me, good business for you."

  "How good?"

  "Couple of hours of your time, say…five?"

  "Okay."

  "Yes?"

  "I'll see you in a couple of days," I told him, hanging up.

  I heard the surprise in Jacques's voice. A deal like this had to net him six figures, and I was going cheap. But I had a secret he didn't know about. I didn't give a fuck.

  37

  I LEFT THE Plymouth just off the West Side Highway near Forty–second and walked over to Eighth Avenue to catch the E train for South Jamaica. A young white dude was sprawled on a bench, chuckling over something he was reading in a magazine. I put one foot on the bench, lit a smoke, took a look over his shoulder. An article about how to make your car burglarproof.

  I dropped underground, fishing a token from my pocket. A young black woman dressed like a nun was sitting just past the turnstiles, a flat basket full of coins in her hands. Her face was calm, eyes peaceful.

  "Help the homeless?" she asked.

  "Say something in Latin first."