Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [2]
"You want to go out?" I asked. She was indifferent, but walked over to the back door out of habit. I watched her clamber up the fire escape to the roof. Her yard was all concrete.
Like mine was once.
3
IN THE STREET the next morning, I dialed the pay phone in the back of Mama Wong's restaurant. My number—the only one anyone has for me. Mama answered the way she always does.
"Gardens."
"It's me."
"You come in, okay?"
"Now."
"Yes. Front door, okay?"
I hung up. Pulled off the highway, heading east for Chinatown. Past the tiny triangular park at the back of Federal Plaza Watched an ancient Chinese lead two middle–aged women through an elaborate Tai Chi, oblivious to the bench–covering winos.
The white dragon tapestry stood alone in the front window of Mama's joint. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't the law and it wasn't trouble.
I parked the Plymouth in the back, right under the Chinese characters neatly printed on the alley wall. I didn't bother to lock the car—I couldn't read Chinese but I knew what the sign meant. Max the Silent marking his territory.
The blank–faced steel door at the back of Mama's opened just a crack. I couldn't see inside. They could see me. The door closed. I walked through the alley to the street, turned the corner. Bells tinkled as I opened the front door. A red light would flash in the kitchen at the same time.
Mama was at her altar. The cash register. She bowed her head slightly, motioned me to her as I returned her greeting. I glanced toward the back. A woman was in my booth, facing away from me. Dark chestnut hair spilled over the back of the blue vinyl cushions.
"For me?" I asked Mama.
"Woman come in yesterday. Just ask for Burke. Say her name Rebecca."
I shrugged. It didn't ring any bells. Even alarm bells.
"Woman say she wait for you. I tell her, maybe you not come in long time. She say she come back. I tell her to wait, okay?"
"She's been here ever since?"
"In basement."
"She carrying anything?"
"Just message."
"That's it?"
Mama bowed. "You talk to her?"
"Yeah."
I walked over to the back. Sat down across from the stranger.
A slim woman, small face framed by the thick chestnut hair, dominated by big dark eyes, hard straight–cut cheekbones. No makeup. Her lips were thin, dry. Polish half flaked off her nails, roughened hands. Hands that had been in dirt, dishwater, diapers. One of Mama's waiters leaned over, put a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the table. Replaced the overflowing ashtray. Caught my eye. I shook my head slightly. I still didn't know her.
"You want to talk to me?" I asked the woman.
"I want to talk to Burke."
"That's me."
"How would I know?"
"Why would I care if you know?"
"I'm Virgil's wife," she said, watching my face.
"Who's Virgil?"
"If you're Burke, you know."
"You having a good time, lady? You got nothing better to do?"
Her voice was hard coal, from a deep vein. "I got to know. I'm on my own here. My man's in trouble. He said to find his brother. Told me where to go. I couldn't call on the phone. He said it would be hard. Said you'd be hard. Ask me what you want first…get it over with."
"Who's Virgil?"
"If you're Burke, he's your old cellmate."
"What's his trouble?"
"Prove it to me first," she said, watching.
"Virgil went down for a homicide. Manslaughter. He stabbed…"
"I know about Virgil. I want to talk to Burke."
"You want the secret code?"
"Don't mock me. I have to be sure. These Chinese people, they kept me here. Searched my pocketbook. I don't care. If you're not him, tell me what I have to do to meet him. Whatever it takes."
"I'm Burke. Didn't Virgil describe me?"
Her smile didn't show her teeth. "Lots of men ain't so good–looking. That don't narrow it down much."
"Virgil's no Cary Grant himself."
"My husband is a handsome man," she said. Like she was telling a moron what day it was.
"Virgil I knew, he was a quiet man. Hillbilly. Didn't do much talking. He came