Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [14]
I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty–five grand under the front seat.
Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.
A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot–high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten–dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.
"Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.
We always know each other, those of us missing some parts.
I got out at Seventy–seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co–op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.
"We're alone," he said. Like I cared.
His study was just what you'd expect if you read a lot of magazines that never leave the coffee table.
He gestured to a leather chair, took one himself. I lit a smoke. He frowned. "My wife doesn't like smoking…I'm afraid there's no ashtrays anywhere in the house."
I took out a metal Sucrets box, popped it open, tapped my cigarette into it. Handed him the envelope.
"Did you look inside?"
"No."
He was a tall, thick–bodied man, graying hair carefully coiffed to hide a receding hairline. Light brown eyes held mine. His famous "anti–corruption stare" the TV cameras liked so much. On me, it was as useful as an appendix. He dropped his eyes, opened the envelope, held the pictures so I couldn't see them. Leafed through them, one by one. I watched his face. Melissa's rightful prey: he'd never want a woman grown enough to judge him.
He put the pictures away. Five to one he wouldn't burn them. "You do good work, Mr. Burke."
"That's what I'm paid for," I reminded him.
"Oh. Yes." He handed me a #10 business envelope. Heavy, cream–colored stock. "You want to count it?"
"I trust you, Senator," I assured him.
He stroked his chin in a gesture so practiced it had become habit. "I never did anything like this before." Meaning deal with thugs like me, not fuck underage girls. "It seems to have worked out well. Perhaps I'll have something for you to do in the future."
"Anytime."
"You came highly recommended. I didn't want to deal with…you know…"
I knew.
"I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…" Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.
I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.
15
THE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush–faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper–scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind–the–back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.
Another leaflet–dealer at the next corner. Look down or look hard. I grabbed his eyes as I closed in, my hands clenched into fists. "Don't look so angry, chief. I saved one for you," he sang out. Fuck it, I took one. Jews for Jesus.
A derelict combed his hair, holding a rearview mirror from a car in one hand, adjusting his look. Fancy