Hard Candy

by Andrew Vachss

  Always danger from a stranger. Somehow I knew he'd be awake. I dialed the number from the basement. Told the man who answered the phone what I wanted. Waited.

  "Mr. Burke."

  "Train. I'd like to make an appointment to see you. Continue our dialogue. Tie up the loose ends."

  "What loose ends?"

  "Questions you asked me. About…security. I believe I have some answers for you. And maybe we could do business."

  "I see. Around noon?"

  "I'll be there."

  120

  I LEFT Morehouse's car on Remsen Street, where it was legal to park with NYP plates. Max and I walked the rest of the way.

  The same young man we saw the first time let us in. No karate outfit this time. The chairs were already in place in the top–floor room.

  "My brother will wait outside, with your permission. I don't think anyone needs to hear this."

  His eyes were a bright blue. "My staff has rather strong feelings about me…about my safety."

  "You're safe with me. Sometimes it's safer to talk privately."

  "The last time we talked. About security. You said something about me having to leave this place sometime. It seems to me that you're already back inside."

  "I'm a businessman, not a kamikaze."

  "Very well."

  Max stepped outside. We were alone. I rotated my head on the column of my neck. To get the kinks out, break the adhesions. And look around. Glass brick ran in a long loop around the top of the room. I had to play it like they were listening—walk the tightrope.

  I lit a smoke. "You have enemies. Personal enemies. I think that's part of the cost of doing business for you. That wouldn't frighten you."

  "You think I'm frightened?"

  "Concerned, okay? Intelligently concerned. About a problem you have. I think one of your personal enemies realized his impotence. And went to a professional. I don't think your security questions were academic."

  "Are you guessing about all of this?"

  "No."

  The blue eyes honed in. That was his wake–up call. "Are you…involved?"

  "Not yet. I thought I might be. If we can do business.

  "I'm not certain I understand."

  "You have a sweet business here. Making wine out of rotten fruit, that's a technique. I admire your insight, your skill."

  He bowed slightly, waiting.

  "The way it works, you cruise the streets. Look for old furniture that people throw out on the sidewalk. Then you refinish the furniture, remodel it, paint it. You sell the furniture to people who want that kind of stuff in their houses. And it's all profit. Garbage into gold. Dirt into diamonds. Why should anybody be mad?"

  "Indeed."

  "Once in a while…not too often…somebody wishes they had their furniture back. But you've got this rule—you won't sell it back to anyone who put it out on the curb in the first place."

  "They threw it away. It's not theirs."

  "Yes. You're a street–cleaner. A scavenger. But you know how people are—they never miss water until the well runs dry."

  "You're a perceptive man. I believe we…I misjudged you."

  "That happens. You have resources, you can ask questions. You know when the truth is around. When it isn't."

  "Yes?"

  "The truth is around. Here. Now. One of these people who discarded his furniture, he wanted it back. There was a disagreement of some sort. But this individual, he couldn't go to the authorities. The law's on your side. Once you throw garbage out at the curb, it belongs to anyone who picks it up."

  He bowed again. Just a slight movement of his head.

  "So this individual, he goes outside the law. To a professional. Somebody wants you. And by now you know it isn't me.

  "You came for Elvira."

  "And I returned her."

  "She told you some things…"

  "And I brought her back to you. I'm not the man who's looking for you."

  "No? Then what are you?"

  "I'm the man you're looking for."

  "How so?"

  "Every profession has competition. You have your work, I have mine. I wouldn't know your competitors, you wouldn't know mine. You thought I was here for a particular reason. You were wrong. But someone is out there. For you. Someone I can deal with."

  He made a slight "keep talking" move with one hand.

  "I have two professions," I told him. "One of them is finding people. I can find this person."

  "And then?"

  "My other profession."

  "And what of my profession?"

  "That's your business. It seems you could use a man like me."

  "I have people."

  "You have children."

  His eyes locked in. "My children."

  "Children deserve protection."

  "Yes. I must do what is best for my children. Anything else would be immoral."

  "Morality can be costly."

  "Whatever…"

  "Very costly."

  "Yes?"

  "Fifty thousand."

  "All right." Unfazed. "I assume you want some sort of…preliminary payment."

  "It's not necessary.

  "I'm not familiar with these things. I just thought…"

  "I know where to find you. After it's done."

  "How would I know?"

  "I'll bring the proof. If you're not satisfied, there's no charge." He stroked his face, pretending to think about it.

  "It's for the children," I said.

  "Yes. I have no choice. My obligations. You won't mind if I check…?"

  I nodded, knowing what he meant. It didn't matter. Wesley had his work and I had mine. And I was back to it. The day I couldn't scam dirtbags, I'd go straight.

  I didn't see the signal. Reba came into the room. A white silk robe with a hood, white sash around her waist. Nothing else. She sat next to me on my left, hooking one thigh over my legs, pulling the robe around her shoulder like she was cold. Her hand found my heart.

  Train gazed at the ceiling. His voice went thin, dry–washing his hands.

  "Is someone looking for me?"

  "Yes."

  "To hurt me?"

  "Yes."

  "You know who it is?"

  "Yes."

  "You could stop him?"

  "Yes."

  "Could I stop him?"

  "No."

  "Would he take money?"

  "No."

  Reba's hand shifted, shielded by the robe. Fingers trailed across my cock. She wiggled her butt like she was trying to get comfortable. I couldn't see her face.

  "Are you the man who is looking for me?"

  "No."

  "Do you believe Elvira is safe here?"

  "Yes."

  Reba's hand cupped my balls. A gentle squeeze. Her thumb stroked my cock. It stirred. Stiffened.

  "Are you working for Elvira's mother?"

  "No."

  "Did you ever?"

  "When I brought the girl back to her."

  "The man who's looking for me…is he for hire?"

  "Yes."

  Reba ran two knuckles of her hand up and down the shaft of my cock. Found the tip with her fingers. Squeezed. It was a piece of steel, threatening the zipper.

  "But not by me?"

  "Not now."

  "Because he's already taken someone else's money?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know whose money?"

  "No."

  "How would he come for me?"

  "By fire."

  He nodded. Reba slid off me, gathering her robe, whispering, "It's all the truth." I crossed my legs as I reached into my coat for a smoke. Lit it, waiting. Reba padded out of the room.

  "You'll tell me when it's done?" he asked.

  "I'll show you."

  Max was outside, standing alone.

  121

  ALONE IN my office, I stroked Pansy's soft fur the way the New Age lunatics rub crystals. Getting apart from myself, wrapping what was left in my o
wn fear. Letting the core speak to me.

  Being the answer.

  "Nobody knows where Wesley's going, but everybody knows where he's been," the Prof said.

  I lit a smoke, replaying every square inch of the chameleon's apartment. Everything I'd seen. Waiting for it to kick in. It would come. Reba knew.

  122

  CANDY answered her phone.

  "It's me," I said quietly. "You were right. I want to get it back. Hold the leash in my hands."

  "I don't like the way you left me the last time."

  "I did. That's how I knew you were telling the truth."

  "That's my baby. Anytime after three, okay?"

  "I'll be there."

  123

  THE DOORMAN was sneaking a smoke just outside the building. The Prof yelled "Yo', Roscoe my man!" at nobody and the doorman turned. Max and I went inside. I took the elevator to the top floor.

  The wig was strawberry blond this time but the yellow cat's eyes were her own. Wearing a white terry–cloth bathrobe. "It all starts back there," she said. "Come on."

  We went to the last bedroom. She dropped the robe to the floor. The choke collar was around her neck, leather leash dangling to her knee. I sat on the psychiatrist's couch, pulling hard on the leash. She came to the couch obediently, eyes dreamy. I pulled again. She sat on the couch, slipped onto her hands and knees. I stood up. "Stay there," I told her.

  I walked behind her. She dropped her shoulders to the couch, her round butt seemed to shimmer in the dim light. "Stay the way you were," I said.

  She pushed herself back up on her hands, saying nothing.

  "I know where the stuff I want is. Stay there."

  I went to her closet. Found what I needed. When I walked back, she hadn't moved.

  "Put your hands behind your back."

  The handcuffs were leather–lined. I snapped them home. Looped the leash through one of the rings in the floor.

  She licked her lips. Cold cat's eyes. Feral and fearless.

  I knotted the leash. Her shoulders came forward, bent, touched the couch. I stepped behind her. Her slim ankles were close together, muscles bunched on the backs of her thighs. I cuffed her ankles together. Held a length of chain in my hands. She crooked her feet back over her butt in an arch, holding her cuffed hands back toward her ankles, waiting to be hog–tied the way another woman would wait for a bus. I linked the chain to the cuffs holding her ankles. But then I pulled back, hard. The front of her calves hit the couch. I tightened the chain around one of the couch legs. She was spread out, on her stomach, chin on the couch. The way I'd been on those subway tracks.

  Her body was faintly coated with sweat, like she'd been oiled. I put a tube–shaped leather pillow under her hips.

  "I can't move an inch," she purred. Like it was magic words.

  I put one knee on the couch next to her. Patted her butt lightly. Slid my hands up to her shoulders.

  "There's a mirror. Behind the screen. If you want…"

  She was still talking when I pushed the ball gag into her mouth, slipped the elastic over her head.

  Then I went looking for what I'd come for.

  There had to be another room someplace. I found it off the dressing room. A butcher–block desk with one of those tiny designer lamps. A high–tech phone with a row of unmarked buttons down one side. I wrapped a handkerchief over my finger. Pushed each button, watching the stored number come up on the liquid crystal screen. I filed the numbers in my head, hanging up before they could ring even once. Ten buttons. Only four had numbers stored.

  I stepped into one of the bathrooms. Flushed the toilet. Candy had it backwards. It wasn't her who knew me. Now.

  I was back inside the last bedroom in a couple of minutes. Slipped the elastic off her head. The ball gag popped out.

  "You okay now, baby?" she asked.

  "Not yet."

  "I thought…"

  "I'm not finished," I said, unlocking the cuffs from her ankles. She wiggled her hips. It wasn't to get the feeling back. I unlocked the cuffs from around her wrists. She waited. I unknotted the leash. Pulled her to her feet.

  "Get dressed."

  Her eyes were downcast, voice soft, feeling her way. She wasn't good at ad–libs. "Tell me what to wear. Tell me everything—I can't get dressed unless you tell me what to put on."

  "A sweater and a skirt."

  "Should I wear a bra, honey?"

  "Yeah."

  "Panties?"

  "Yeah."

  "What color?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "I…"

  "Pink, okay? Do it quick."

  "Should I wear stockings? Heels?"

  "No."

  "How old am I?"

  "You'll see," I said, pulling hard on the leash. "Hurry up."

  I pulled her down the hall to her dressing room. Watched as she dressed.

  "Where's the key to this place?"

  She handed it to me. I put it in my pocket. "Come on," I said, bunching the leash in one hand, holding it behind her neck. Even when we were kids, that was the way I held her—never her hand.

  I led her to the front door, opened it, pushed her outside. She didn't say a word. The hall was carpeted. I took her to the stairwell door. One short flight to the roof. Twenty flights below us. A naked red bulb was the only light. Emergency Exit. I prodded her forward. Pulled the leash. She stopped. I was one step behind her.

  She knew what to do. Grabbed the railing with both hands as I lifted her skirt from behind. "What if somebody comes?" she whispered. Making it come back.

  "Too bad for them." Max one flight below us. Only one person was going to come.

  My zipper rasped. Her hands went behind her, thumbs hooking the waist of her panties. She had them down just before I slammed into her.

  I felt the muscles inside her grab and hold. I never touched the silicone.

  It didn't take long. She made a greedy noise as I shot off inside her. Pulled up her own panties. Never turned around. Like old times.

  124

  BACK IN her apartment. Candy sitting on her couch, the leash a dark line between her breasts inside the bright yellow sweater.

  "You'll get her back for me now?"

  "Yes." I took her key out of my pocket, running my fingers over it, rubbing hard. I tossed it to her. It bounced off her shoulder. She never took her eyes from me.

  "I always loved you," she said.

  125

  I TOOK THE stairs down with Max.

  The Prof was waiting in Morehouse's car. I handed him the soft plastic block from my pocket. The key to Candy's apartment was sharply outlined on its face.

  "Tell the Mole I need two, okay? He can leave them in one of the cars for Monday night."

  "It's done, son."

  126

  MONDAY, MIDNIGHT. Max and I pulled off the FDR, leaving the car to the darkness. Michelle was in the back seat. Max waited while I walked along the riverbank with Michelle. She leaned into me, her hand on my arm.

  "Here's the papers you wanted," I told her.

  "This is pretty thick for just a passport," she said, putting the packet into her purse.

  "The rest is from the Mole."

  She stopped in her tracks. Slit the envelope with a long thumbnail while I lit a smoke. I saw a wad of greenbacks. And a note on the graph paper the Mole uses for stationery. I left her to herself, smoking in silence. When she turned her face to me, tears streaked the perfect makeup.

  "After tonight, I'm gone from here."

  "I know."

  "When I come back, I'll be me."

  "Yeah."

  "I love you, Burke," she said. Pulled my face down to kiss my cheek. "You watch out for my boy—you take care of him."

  I didn't ask her who she meant. "Come back at one, okay?" I told her. "You'll hear some kind of a big bang. Wait five, ten minutes. We're not here, go. If we're coming, we're coming fast. You see us coming toward you, just walk away, leave the keys in the ignition."

  "I'
m not running around in this mess in my good shoes."

  "I mean it, Michelle. Don't wait. We don't need a driver."

  She gave me another quick kiss. "Take care of Max," she said.

  The ground felt squashy under my boots as we made our way down to the river. Manhattan is a big island; the East River separates it from Queens, dotted by smaller islands. Welfare Island. Roosevelt Island. Once they used them for insane asylums, hospitals, leper colonies. Now they use them for luxury co–ops. Other islands too. Real small ones. Just clumps of dirt and trees sitting in the river. You could get a good view of the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge from them.

  Michelle would wait on the Manhattan side. We couldn't just stash a getaway car in that neighborhood—it wouldn't be there when we needed it. The Prof was in place on the Queens side. When the pressure came, we'd move away from it. If we could.

  Wesley was waiting. A darker–than–night shape near the water. He handed me the Uzi. A soft hiss as the rubber boat inflated. He pointed to a pair of duffel bags and a large tool chest with a handle on top. Max took the two duffels in one hand, the tool chest in the other. Wesley didn't seem surprised. We boarded the boat. Wesley sat in front, steering. Max and I alternated strokes with the paddles. The river's only about a quarter mile wide where we were working, with the island sitting in the middle. It didn't take long.

  We beached the boat. Wesley set up a pair of tripods in the soft ground, pressing down hard to make sure they were firmly seated. He bolted a spotting scope on top of one, a rifle onto the other. No talking— sound carries over water. No smoking. He pointed to the sniperscope, pointed at me. Blew a sharp puff of air. I nodded. Wesley settled in behind his rifle, making himself at home. He swept the bridge with his scope, nodding in satisfaction. He pulled a bullet from his jacket pocket. Long, slender bullet. A soft snick as he chambered the slug. I was inside his mind. Target rifle. One target, one bullet.

  Wesley sat behind his rifle, eyes somewhere else. Nothing to do but wait. A foghorn sounded far down the river. The Harbor Patrol had passed almost half an hour ago. They hadn't even swept the island with their searchlights.

  I saw the line of humans moving. Walking the bridge. The spotting scope picked them out. Three up front, a man in the middle, three behind. I swung the scope to the Manhattan side. Four men, walking together. I blew a sharp puff of air, imitating Wesley. He settled in behind the scope, moving the barrel in tiny circles. A snake's tongue. Testing. Waiting. Fangs sheathed.