Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [1]
My eyes flicked to the I–beam girder on the corner. Something moving in the shadows. Her pimp? No, one of the triple–threat street skells: clean your windshield, sell you a vial of crack, or slash at your face while another snatched at your wallet. Whatever pays.
I slowed the Plymouth to a crawl. Empty parking lot to my right. A black girl detached herself from the lineup, cut diagonally across the block toward me, streetlights glinting off her high cheekbones, crack–lust in her dead eyes.
"Want to give me a ride, honey? Change your luck?"
"Not tonight," I said, my eyes over her shoulder.
"She underage, man. Jailbait, big time."
I lit a cigarette. Shook my head. The black girl stepped aside. Walked away, switching her hips out of habit. Her other habit. AIDS and crack—racing to see which would take her down first.
Marilyn came over. Tentative. "You want to party?" Watching my face. Wanting me to say no. Not wanting me to. Lost.
"How much?" I asked, so she wouldn't spook.
"Fifty for me, ten for the room."
"What do I get for the fifty?"
Her eyes were somewhere else. "You get me. For a half hour. Okay?"
"Okay."
She walked around the front of the car, her head down. Resigned.
She got in the car knees first, the way a young girl does. Closed the door. "Take a left at the corner," she said, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. I knew where she wanted me to go—one of the shadowy deserted parking lots on West Twenty–fifth. In case I wanted to save the ten bucks for the room. She looked up as I drove through the green light, heading for Ninth. "Hey…I said…"
"Forget it, Marilyn." Using her name so she wouldn't think I had violence on my mind. Her pimp would have warned her about men who wanted to hurt her for fun. He'd tell her this was all about business. Beat it into her if she didn't understand. Beat her again to make sure.
"Who're you?" Everything in her voice running together in a sad–scared baby–blend.
"It's not important. Your father said you ran away, so…"
"You're taking me back there."
"Yeah."
She snatched at the door handle. Jiggled it. Hard. No go. Looked at my face. She knew. Started to cry.
She didn't look up until I pulled in behind Lily's joint. Max flowed out of the back seat. I lit a smoke, waiting.
"This isn't my home."
I didn't answer her.
Lily came back with Max, her long black hair bouncing in the night breeze. She opened the passenger door, said, "Hi, Marilyn," and held out her hand. The kid took it. They always do. Lily would keep her for a while, talk to her, see what happened, and why. Then, if it was okay, the little girl would make a call and her father would come in and get her. If it wasn't okay, Lily knew what to do.
I've been doing this for a long time. Cruising the cesspool flowing around Times Square, trolling for runaways. Sometimes the pimp is around when I work—that's why Max was along.
I used to bring them straight back where they came from. Now I know better.
It's a new game, but the same old rules—her father had paid me up front.
2
I LEFT MAX at Lily's. His woman, Immaculata, worked there too. They'd go home together. The Prof's home was in the streets. I went home alone.
Pansy's huge head loomed out of the darkness as I entered my office. Her ice–water eyes were glad to see me—disappointed that I was alone. A Neapolitan mastiff, she runs about 140 pounds. In the office shadows she looked like a muscular oil slick. I took out two hot dogs I had wrapped in napkins from my coat pocket. The beast curled into a sitting position, slobber erupting out both sides of her jaws, waiting. I gave it a few seconds. Finally said, "Speak!" and tossed the whole mess at her. It disappeared. She gave me her usual