Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [13]
"That sounds like a threat."
I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth–breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef—couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight–by–tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine–grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf–length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side–shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light–colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"
White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty–five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"
His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.
"Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room—maybe he wasn't so stupid.
The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"
"Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty–two, twenty–three by now. She came to you, right?"
He nodded.
"Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"
"Sixteen."
"Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty–five, that's good–faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up–front payment, he sends you the rest."
He nodded again.
"I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"
"Half."
"How'd she do it? You first?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"
"Sure."
"She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."
"She didn't threaten you?"
"No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."
This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"
"Yeah."
"So you're not going to be stupid."
"No. Not twice."
"I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"
"You won't tell him?"
"Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."
An oil–slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.
I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.
"Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"
"This is the toll," I said.
14
SOME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.
I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags—the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.
The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out