Hard Candy

by Andrew Vachss

  "So he wins no matter what happens?"

  "That's what he thinks. Ugly evil old man. He feels strong when he thinks of the don cowering in his basement, afraid of the dark. But when he thinks of me, his strength is gone. That's why he has to go. He thinks it's my time. Time to free himself But it's his time. I waited long enough."

  "He's got to leave that basement sometime." Thinking of Train, safe in his house. With his human polygraph and his bodyguards who made little girls' bodies disappear.

  She leaned into me, head against my chest. I'd never seen a black orchid, but then I knew what one smelled like. Her hand went to the inside of my thigh. "I'll tell you a secret now. In the chair."

  "Jina…"

  "Please."

  Such a strange word from a witch. I sat in the big chair. She squirmed into my lap, lips against my neck. I heard every word, like she was talking into my brain.

  "The don can't stay in the basement. He'd lose it all. The others, they'd know. And you know what happens then. When you drop the leash, the dog bites. So every Monday night, he meets with his captain. On the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge."

  "How do they work it?"

  "The captain's boys park on the Manhattan side. The don's boys park on the Queens side. Then they walk across. Soldiers in front, soldiers behind. They do their business and they go back."

  "Every Monday night."

  "At one in the morning."

  She turned sideways so her thigh was across my lap. "I'm a good girl," she whispered in that witchy little girl's voice. Reaching for my crotch. Nobody home.

  "Let the beast out," she said. "I know what to do with him."

  "Ssssh" I said in the darkness. Patting her just above her hips, stroking her back. "It doesn't matter. There is no beast. You are a good girl, Jina."

  Her hand came away from my crotch, pulled gently at a button on my shirt. "Sleepy," she said.

  I shifted my weight. Her skirt rode up. A faint trail of light on her stockings. I wrapped my other arm around her, rocked her gently. "It's okay, girl."

  She took my thumb into her mouth. Didn't bite it this time, or suck on it. Just left it there, touching it with her tongue. Made a quiet noise in her throat.

  I held her for a long time while she slept.

  114

  "WAKE UP," is the first thing I heard. She was still there, face softened by sleep, hair tousled.

  "I'm awake."

  "It'll be light soon. Time for you to go."

  "Yeah."

  She got off my lap, pulled her skirt down. Shook her hair loose. The sleep fled her eyes. She bent forward, face inches from mine. The witchy hiss was back. "Julio goes too."

  I nodded.

  115

  I WAS AN HOUR EARLY to the meet with Morehouse. Pansy prowled a tiny circle in front of the car while I was doing something under the hood. Nobody came close enough to find out what.

  Morehouse pulled up in his Datsun, fifteen minutes late.

  "I was looking for your other car, man. Been cruising the area for a half hour. I…what the fuck is that?"

  "Pansy!" I snapped, throwing her a hand signal. She hit the deck, watching Morehouse like a Weight Watcher about to jump ship.

  Morehouse's lip curled. "Was that a dog once? Before it swallowed a car?"

  "I thought all West Indians loved dogs."

  "No, man, you got it wrong. All West Indians are dogs. Just ask my girlfriend. Anyway, I got what you wanted."

  "I just hope it's not that fairy story about the old man being holed up in a fortress in Sands Point."

  Morehouse was too cool to give it all away, but his eyes slid away from me just far enough to let me know I'd hit the target. "Well, that's what's on the street."

  "Yeah. And Donny Manes stabbed himself to death."

  "Hey, man, that was the word. Is the word. From on high."

  "From on the pad."

  "I didn't say that."

  "Okay. Thanks anyway."

  "That's it?"

  "What else is there?"

  "Our trade, man. What is wrong with you? I'm not done—I can still come up with the winner. Italians dropping like World War II out there. You were right. Something's coming. And I want to be in the paper with it first."

  "I get it, you'll get it, okay? I may have something else for you too. Interested in a cult that traffics in babies?"

  "Adoption ring?"

  "No. A breeder farm. Using little girls just about old enough to bleed."

  "You know I am."

  "Want to help out?"

  "How?" Suspicion all over his face.

  "Switch cars with me."

  "What would you want with this old wreck?" he asked, waving his hand at his city–beater.

  I pointed at his license plates. NYP. New York Press. Everyone in this city has special plates: doctors, dentists, chiropractors. Everybody but lawyers—it wouldn't be safe for them. "Your plates go anywhere. And even the Italians won't dust a reporter."

  "What's this got to do with the baby–seller?"

  "Everything."

  He reached in his pocket. Tossed me his keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."

  "Mine too."

  Morehouse was born to be a reporter. He walked to the Buick, opened the door, one eye on Pansy. He pulled the papers out of the glove box. "Who's Juan Rodriguez?"

  "Quién quiere saber?"

  He laughed.

  I snapped my fingers, opened the door to Morehouse's wreck. Pansy launched herself into the back seat. "I'll call you," I told him.

  He stood close to me, voice low. "Burke, there's one thing they say about West Indians that is true. We do love children."

  116

  I PARKED Morehouse's car behind the restaurant, let myself in through the kitchen. Stashed Pansy in the basement. Grabbed the pay phone. Rang Wesley's number. Three times. Hung up.

  I was on my second helping of soup when the phone rang. "What?"

  "Time to meet."

  "You got it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Tonight. Same deal."

  "Right."

  "Bring the Chinaman."

  When Max came in, I was working on a plate of fried rice with Mongolian ginger–beef I told him we had a meeting that night. He had his own sign for Wesley: an X drawn in salt spilled on the table.

  Mama gave me a gallon container of steaming meat and vegetables to take down to Pansy.

  Max showed me a copy of the racing form. I shook my head. No. Not yet. But when he dug out a deck of cards, it was okay. We played gin until it got dark. Immaculata came in with Flower. Max took the child from her, parading into the kitchen to show the assorted criminals working back there his prize.

  "Hi, Mac."

  She leaned over. Kissed me. "Max is back, Burke. I don't know what you…"

  I held up my hand. "It's not over yet."

  "It doesn't matter. Whatever happens." She bowed. As if to fate.

  I took Pansy back to the office. Showered. Changed my clothes. Lit a smoke and watched the darkness outside my window.

  117

  MAX RAPPED a knuckle against the windshield as I pulled off the road. I looked where he pointed—a tiny Day–Glo orange dot glowing to the side. It blinked off as I watched. I braked gently, waiting. The light glowed again. Okay. We left the Datsun by the side of the road, walked in the direction of the light, Max first.

  Under the network of girders the wind made hunting sounds. The light didn't go on again, but Max walked like he was following a neon strip in the dark. He stopped when we came to a clearing in the jungle. Broken glass on the ground. Tire carcasses. Rotting pieces of car upholstery. Discarded furniture. Shipping crates. A bicycle without wheels. Max slapped his hand lightly against my chest. Stop. Here.

  I lit a cigarette, tiny red light of my own. A siren screamed above us. An ambulance—racing the hospital against the morgue.

  Wesley was in front of us, just a thin strip of his face showing.

  "How's h
e do that?" he asked me.

  "What?"

  "He can't hear, right? But he don't make a sound when he moves."

  "I don't know," I told him. Not blowing him off—it was the truth. "That's the real reason they call him Max the Silent."

  "That isn't your car."

  "Julio, he knows my car."

  "Okay." Wesley sat down on one of the crates. I sat across from him. Max stayed where he was. Not watching Wesley, eyes sweeping the area.

  "Tell him it's safe here," Wesley said. "I got trip wires strung all around except for the way you came in. And you're sitting on enough plastique to knock down the bridge."

  "That's your idea of safe?"

  "The cover's too thick. And if they charge, we all go together."

  "Great."

  Sarcasm is wasted on machines. "You got it?" he asked.

  "The don is holed up. They have a compound of some kind in Sands Point."

  "I know where it is."

  "Yeah. But he never leaves the basement. And the place is set up like a bomb shelter."

  "You sure?"

  "Sure. He's scared to death, Won't even talk on the phone."

  Wesley went as silent as Max. Time passed. Finally he spoke, voice just past a whisper but with no breath in it. "Fire fixes it."

  "What?"

  "The place burns bad enough, he has to come out."

  "If he has it right, he won't have to. The place could burn to the ground, he'd still be okay in the basement. He has the cash to fix it that way. Some of those rich geeks, back in the fifties, they fixed up their basements like the Russians were going to drop the bomb any day. All the survival–freaks aren't living in the mountains. It wouldn't work."

  "Yeah. Maybe you're right. I saw one of those basements once. Guy even had the place soundproofed."

  "I got one more thing. The don, he has to meet his underboss. And he won't talk on the phone, remember? So every Monday night, he meets. On the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge."

  "Out in the open?"

  "Yeah." I told him what Strega told me. He made me go over it twice more, taking each word in a single bite, chewing it slowly.

  "He probably stands behind the pillars…so even if we drove by in a car, there'd be nothing to shoot."

  "Sure." Thoughts flashing. Who'd drive the damn car anyway?

  His voice was calm, talking about the weather. "This was another time, it wouldn't matter. I got him in a box. I got nothing to do but wait. But I'm in a box too. I got to finish my work."

  "And get paid?"

  "They'll pay me. When my work is done, I'm all paid up."

  "Julio, he still wants me to bring money to you. It'll be a trap, but…"

  "No good. They wouldn't send the big guys. They try something, everybody gets blown up. We don't get to take them with us. Like when I was in the Army. The soldiers die, the generals find new soldiers."

  "How come you didn't stay in the Army?"

  "When I went in, I did it like doing time, right? Keep your mouth shut, stay out of trouble, wait till they open the gates. I didn't talk, so they figured I was stupid. I was a good shot too. So they make me a sniper. We had this platoon leader, some college kid. He talked to us like we were dogs. Nice dogs, dogs he liked and all. But stupid, you know? Especially the blacks. He made things simple for us. Every time we go out there, it's the fucking gooks keeping us from going home. To our families and all. One day, we're in a firefight. Charlie's winning—got too much juice for us. Time to split, come back another day. But this asshole, he wants us to hold our position. Wait for the choppers to spray the area. Or until they drop napalm on us. Four of our guys got wasted the last time they did that. It came to me. In a flash–second, didn't even think about it. We was supposed to kill gooks cause they was keeping us from going home, right? And now it was this lieutenant keeping us from going home. I put a few rounds into his chest. He goes down, I step up and yell, 'Retreat!' I'm the last one out. I got a Bronze Star for it. I had a good war record. So when they court–martialed me later they let me out with a dishonorable. No stockade time. I stuck up a liquor store the night I got back to the city. Everything went smooth, but the night clerk called the cops when I came back to the hotel. That's when I caught up with you again. In prison."

  "What'd they court–martial you for?"

  "I was in Japan. On R and R. In a bar. Some Marines got into a fight with some Navy guys. I was halfway out the door when one of them jumped me. I went down. Came back up, chopped the guy in the back of the head with this glass ashtray. He turned into a cripple behind it."

  "An accident…"

  "Didn't make no difference. I was glad to go. I'm not a soldier. Like the scams you run."

  "You mean the mercenary thing?"

  "Yeah. They talked to me once. Guys with British accents, only they ain't British. Fight communism, right? Sure. I don't fly nobody's flag."

  "Does Julio know your face?"

  "I don't have a face. I met him once. He gave me the go for this Mortay freak. But it was dark and he was scared—he couldn't pick me out of a lineup. It was like it is out here—you can't see much."

  "He's part of this now."

  "I know."

  "No you don't. I made a trade. For the information I got. About the place in Sands Point. And the meeting on the bridge."

  "You got to do Julio?"

  "Yeah."

  He went into himself I could feel the edges go soft, merging with the darkness as the center hardened. I lit another smoke, cupping the tip. Max watched. He could feel the changes in the air like a blind coroner doing an autopsy.

  "That's the one thing I know. Really know," the monster said. "Murders. In some countries, the leaders get whacked all the time. You know why? 'Cause the people doing the killings, they're not professionals. They're willing to fucking die to get something done. Trade their life for another. Over here, we never get close, you know. Only lunatics do it that way. Remember that guy who shot Reagan? I was that close to him, I'd have so much lead in his body they'd need a crane to get him off the ground. You kill people for money, you have to live to spend it."

  "So?"

  "Julio's no problem for me—he's a problem for you. Even if this informant of yours didn't want Julio dropped, you know he's setting you up. So it don't make a difference—he's gotta go. And the don—he's no problem for you, right? He don't even know you exist. And he don't care. You ever think of just taking me out…? Max, he's close enough now. Maybe. You bring the don my head, you're off the hook."

  "No. I never thought about it."

  "You're a dancer, not a killer. You don't understand the way things work. Death makes it right. Wipes the slate clean."

  "I wouldn't know." Thinking of Belle. Death hadn't made it all right. Not because the wrong man died—because the wrong man did the killing.

  "I know a way to hit the don," Wesley said. "But I need three, four people to make it work. You got the people. You help me, I'll do Julio for you."

  "It's just me and Max."

  "He's in?"

  "Yes."

  "You got more people. More brothers."

  "I have to ask. They're my brothers, not my soldiers."

  Wesley's voice dropped just a fraction. "Here's the way it goes down," he said. I listened to his toneless voice, thinking how easy he would have taken Mortay. How I should have jumped off the track.

  It took a while. "Okay?" he asked.

  "I'll be there. Max too. And I'll have the other stuff in place. I'll ask, like I said. Maybe I'll have the other people. If not…"

  "It'll still go. Just won't be as safe."

  I took a deep breath. "I'm going back in. To see Train. Speak with him. Just so you know."

  "He's last. Before I finish up."

  "Wesley, you remember a girl from the neighborhood? Little Candy? From when we were kids?"

  "No."

  Max led us back to the car in the darkness.

  118

  IN THE WAY back to the cit
y, I called the junkyard. We stopped in, spoke to the Mole. He'd place the cars. I didn't ask him to do anything else.

  It took us a couple of hours to find the Prof. He was working Penn Station, deep in talk with a couple of guys stretched out on sleeping mats made from cut–up cartons. A two–wheeled shopping cart stood between them, full of magazines, empty plastic bottles, a Cabbage Patch doll with only one arm on top. As we closed in on him, I recognized the two pups from the shoeshine stand.

  They recognized me too. The bigger one snaked his hand into the cart.

  "Chill it, fool," the Prof snapped at him. The pup listened to his teacher. The Prof walked over to us. We stood against the corner as I ran it down.

  The little man thought it over. "There's always danger from a stranger."

  I thought of what the Mole said about Wesley. "He's not us, Prof. But he's not them either."

  "I'll drive. From the far side. Couple of hours. You don't show, I go." Dealing himself in. One piece left.

  I rang Michelle's room. "Are you decent?" I asked her.

  "No, but I'm dressed."

  Max and I went up to her hotel room. She was wearing green Chinese pajamas, makeup in place, hair still up. Smoking one of her long black cigarettes.

  She kissed Max on the cheek, reached over, squeezed my hand. "What is it?"

  "Monday night, late. I need someone to drive me and Max. Wait for us. Couple of hours. We don't show up, take the car and split."

  "What's the risk?"

  "Not much. The car'lI be clean when you're sitting in it. We come back on the run, you can still fade."

  "Somebody's paying?"

  "Somebody."

  "I'm in for a piece?"

  "We're not stealing, Michelle. Flat rate. You call it."

  "I'll have to take the whole night off. Say, two large."

  "Okay."

  "You're different now. Different again."

  "What?"

  "You don't feel like a gunfighter to me anymore. But you're not back to yourself. Something's still missing."

  I knew what it was: I didn't feel afraid.

  119

  IT WAS getting light when I took Max back to the warehouse. I waited while he got my mail from upstairs. Same old stuff.