Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [18]
A transsexual who could never have a child. And a solitary genius who never would. Terry was their child. Snatched from the night. Blooming in a junkyard.
The Mole drove me over to a gypsy cab joint where I could catch a ride to the airport. He didn't wave goodbye. If it wasn't Nazi–hunting, it wasn't on his list.
20
I FLEW IN TO MIDWAY on a Thursday night, traveling light. Adjusted my watch to Central Time. A city snake shedding its skin, coming into a new season.
The countergirl confirmed my reservation, asked me if I was interested in an upgrade. She made the word sound so orgasmic I went for the optional car phone.
She didn't blink twice at Mitchell Sloane's American Express gold. It wouldn't bounce. I'd had it for years. Charged something every couple of months, paid the bills by check. Sloane was a solid citizen. Had the passport to prove it.
I would rather have paid cash, not left so much paper behind me. But the drug dealers ruined that: paying cash is a red flag to the DEA, and everyone has a phone. I was lousy with cash. New York cash Enough to live on for years if I went back to my underground ways. After Belle went down, I went crazy. Off the track. I had the bounty money the pimps had paid me to take the Ghost Van off the streets. All the money Belle had been saving for her wedding day. But I went after more. Not for the money—just to be doing something. Cigarettes by the truckload from North Carolina. Cartons of food stamps, sold to bodegas with nothing on their shelves—you can buy TV sets with them in Puerto Rico. Extortion. Rough stuff. Scoring like a madman. Never getting square.
Until a dead man pulled me out of the pit. Wesley.
21
I KNEW WHERE to go. The Lincoln Town Car had a full tank of gas. Clean inside, but not fresh. Like a motel room where they put a sanitation band across the toilet seat.
The road to Indiana smelled like steel and salt. Near the water it smelled like sewage. Near the mills, like rust.
The motel was outside Merrillville, where Virgil had his house. One story, X–shaped. Mid–range: not classy enough for the desk clerk to tell me about their fine restaurant, not raunchy enough to ask me if I wanted anything sent to my room.
I set the door chain, unpacked, clicked on the TV set. I balanced a couple of quarters on the metal doorknob, positioned a glass ashtray on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.
When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid–innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.
22
THE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove–gray summer–weight silk–and–worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip–ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attaché case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.
The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.
Pleasant–faced middle–aged woman at the front desk. "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"
"Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager."
"Certainly, sir. Your name, please?"
"Sloane."
She tapped one of the buttons on her console. "John, a Mr. Sloane to see you." A pause. "Well, I don't know, do I?" She gave me a flash–smile, shrugged her ample shoulders. "He'll be right out."
The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open–necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his