Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [48]
"I'm here." Nothing in my voice. In my mind: how did she get the number?
"I need to talk with you. Can you come by this afternoon? After closing? I get off at four."
Not at six, like Cyndi? "Okay," is all I said.
"Come around to the back. You…"
"I know where it is."
67
I HAD THE WHOLE rest of the day to think about it. Eight hours.
A day to a citizen, a lifetime to a convict. I was born sad—I don't remember another time. Sadness was never my friend, never coming into me like those electric fear–jolts when I needed them. It was just always there. Ground–fog on my spirit. I'd go deep into myself, the only safe place I knew in the places where I grew up. Dropping so far down nobody could see me. But the sadness would float on gray tendrils too soft to tear, finding its way between the cracks. I'd feel its misty wet weight settle on me. I could never chase it, so I lived in it. Surviving.
There was something fine about being where I was. Not in Indiana. With my brother. In a place where I wasn't a stranger, an outsider. New York was a rancid underbelly turned on its back—the maggots at home, not running from a sun that would never shine. A city of ambulatory psychopaths, choking on ethno–insanity. Unsafe even for predators.
A city that taught me whatever ugliness prison left out.
You want to make obscene calls, you go where the phone book's the thickest.
68
SHE WAS STANDING just to the side of the back entrance when I pulled up to the diner. Wearing her white uniform, a canvas sack that looked like a horse's feedbag slung over one shoulder by a thick strap. I wheeled the car around so the passenger door was parallel to the steps. She climbed in without a word. Reached up and snapped her seat belt into place. Tilted her chin toward the highway. I pulled out into the light afternoon traffic.
"You know how to get to Hammond?"
She didn't seem surprised when I turned left at the first light. I let the Lincoln find its rhythm inside the knots of cars, not pushing her. A pickup truck rolled past on our left, two high school girls in the back in shorts and T–shirts, their legs draped over the side, giggling girls' secrets.
Blossom sat straight–backed in her seat, knees together primly under the white skirt. A faint trace of lilac perfume mingled with cooking smells.
"You mind if we wait until we get to my house?"
"It's your play."
She nodded, calm inside herself. Her face straight ahead, eyes sweeping the interior of the Lincoln, the big car as anonymous as a motel room. If she was looking for clues, it was a dead tie at zero.
Something about the way she sat in the big car. With me, but by herself.
Just outside Hammond, we drove up on a freestanding drugstore, as big as some supermarkets. "Can you pull up there for a minute? I need a couple of things."
I nosed the Lincoln into the mostly empty parking lot, figuring to stay in the car and wait for her. A car engine roared on my left, freezing Blossom to her seat. Screech of tires. An orange Camaro was leading a black Ford and a blue Nova in a tight circle, pebbles and dirt flying off the blacktop. The Camaro pulled out of the circle, looped back and shot toward the center, bisecting the other two cars. It looked like aerial maneuvers on the ground, the cars peeling off to dive–bomb the center.
The cars fanned out and we both saw it at the same time. A seagull, one wing extended, dragging on the ground, awkward on its webbed feet. Trapped—beak hanging open, its orange eyes watching the cars.
I saw a little boy, tears swelling his eyes, his face red from the last slap, backing away from his bunk. Three bigger boys moving in on him. Laughing, taking their time.
I was inside the gull's mind. Knowing what he knew. Waiting for humans to hurt him. Wanting only to get one good rip in with that beak before they took him down.
Something crackled in my chest. My hand shot inside my jacket. Found only my pounding heart. I jammed the Lincoln into low, stomped the gas and stormed between the gull and the prancing cars.
When I hit the apex I jammed