Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [6]
"So I'll live by my wits."
"That what they call being half safe?"
"I know what I'm doing."
The little man ignored me. The way he always does when he's on a scent. "What you want to mess with all those beady–eyed, inbred Bible–thumping farmers?"
"Virgil was with us," I told him.
"Was was yesterday. This ain't. The straight track never goes back."
"I'm not asking you to come along."
"That's right. Be crazy by your ownself. You know how to work it. Lay in the cut, work the shadows. Talk loud and you draw a crowd."
"Okay."
The Prof snorted his disgust. "I ain't your parole officer, bro'. Why you reporting in?"
"Backup."
The little man nodded. "You need a loan, pick up the phone."
"The Mole, okay?"
"I'll give him a play. Once a day."
"Thanks, Prof."
He extended one hand to the counter, helped himself to my cigarettes, pocketing the pack as he lit one. Nodded his head and went back to his hustle.
7
I HAD ONE more job to wrap up before I left the city. The call had come in a few weeks ago and I'd been dancing with the freak ever since. He'd called a few times. Always the same thing: told Mama he had some information he wanted to sell. About a missing kid. He wouldn't leave a callback number. Wouldn't say when he'd call again. Wouldn't drop the kid's name.
Mama reads phone voices the way some Gypsies read palms. She'd been screening my blind dates ever since the first call, years and years ago. When I thought I could scam my way through this junkyard of a life. "Twisted man," she'd said. Voices came through the phone wire to Mama's filter all the time. Dope dealers, gunrunners, porno merchants, mercenaries and missionaries, cops and gangsters. They all knew where to find me.
They thought.
If Mama said the man was twisted, he'd bounce every needle on a psychiatrist's scale.
One night, I'd been there when he called. In the basement with Max. Mama called me to the phone. I picked it up.
"Okay. Talk to me."
"This is Burke?"
"Yeah."
"I got something." A young man's voice. "Something I want to sell."
I let him feel the silence. Feel what was in it. Waited.
"A missing kid. I know where he is. What's it worth?"
"To who?"
"That's not my problem. That's yours. You make the connection, get the cash. And we'll trade."
"Trade for what, pal? Is there some kind of reward out for this kid?"
"No. He's been gone a long time."
"So?"
"So I figure…you talk to his people …see if they're willing to pay. I don't…I can't call them myself. I don't even know where they are."
"Give me a name."
"Not a chance."
"The kid's name, pal."
"Oh."
The line went quiet again. I cleared my mind, listened: the freak's bad breathing, wires humming. No background noise. A pay phone, somewhere quiet.
"Jeremiah Brownwell."
"Never heard of him."
"Just check it out. I'll call you back."
8
THERE'S ALL KINDS of registries for missing kids, from federal to local. None of them would tell me what I needed to know to put this together. I called the cops.
The postcards show the Brooklyn Bridge from the top. From the bottom, it wouldn't attract any tourists. There's an opening at ground level along Frankfort Street just past Archway Seven. Big enough for a football game. A long time ago, they rented out the space. You can still see what's left of the faded signs: Leather Hides, Newsprint, Packing and Crating. One Police Plaza to the north, high–rise co–ops to the south.
Four in the afternoon, the moist heat working overtime. The streets would overflow with yuppie traffic in a short while, heading for South Street Seaport bistros to unwind, cool down after a hard day worshiping the greed–god. When it got dark, the urban–punk killing machines would become sociopathic clots in the city's bloodstream, preparing themselves to defend their graffiti–marked territory. Merciless and coarse, their only contribution to society would be as organ