Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [63]
"Yeah. Like you said before. Anyway, there's a bar just down the road. Freestanding, big parking lot. Sign out front says they have fashion shows there."
"Fashion shows?"
"You'll see. Look for a white Chevy Blazer, little Confederate flag on the antenna. White Power bumper sticker." He pulled out a notebook, wrote something, tore out the page, handed it to me. "License number. David Matson is the owner. In his forties, about six one, about half bald, always wears some kind of cap, even indoors. He's the head of the local chapter."
"Of…"
"Of whatever they call themselves this week. But it don't matter, Matson'll be the boss."
"Thanks."
I dropped him back at his cruiser. He turned to me, getting out of the car. "You said this wasn't about race. What is it about?"
"Sex."
"People get those mixed up around here, my friend."
After he left, I called Blossom from the car. "You want some company?"
"I want yours."
92
LUNCH WAS a salad, all red and green.
"You'd rather have meat, wouldn't you?"
"I guess."
"This is better for you."
"I'm sure"—wondering when it was coming.
"You take vitamins?"
"Ginseng."
"That's not a vitamin, it's an herb. You're going to smoke, you should take nine, ten thousand milligrams of Vitamin C a day. And fifty thousand IU of beta–carotene."
"IU?" I asked, pretending like I was listening.
"International Units."
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay, boss."
Her laugh was throaty. "You never had a boss in your life."
"I've had cottage leaders, counselors, directors, superintendents, wardens…you name it."
"No employers?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
"You think you know me, girl? You talked to Sherwood, maybe got a look at my rap sheet. Watched me around the diner. Drove around in my car…"
"Held you in my hands."
"That too. Think you know me?"
"Yes."
"Why am I here? Right now."
"You want to see if I'm still having an estrogen–fit."
I locked her eyes, voice serious, just the edge of a chill. The same voice that's backed up punks all through the underground. "I'm here because I got work to do…we got work to do. The cops think they got a pattern to the killings, but there might be more. Random shootings. Not deaths. Shootings. Maybe this freak dipped it, got it wet before he plunged in. We could get it out of the newspapers, but it might take weeks of work, go back a couple of years. So what we need is a reporter. Every paper's got at least one real one. Some hungry guy, wants to know what's going on. That's why he's in the journalism racket, to know things. We find one, get his nose open. Make him a deal. Tell him why we're looking, get him to go through the clips. Attempted murders, shootings. Drive–bys would be the best. Or sniper–shooting into some woman s window. See? Give us a few more pieces.
"I…"
"I'm not finished, Blossom. This pattern thing, it could lead to nothing. I don't know where the flower is, but I know the root. Like a preacher knows the devil. But where I have to look, it'll take a scam. And a doctor, now she'd be just perfect for it." I lit a smoke, pushing my salad plate away. "Now you understand what I came here for?"
She got up, walked around behind my chair, put her hands on my shoulders, her lips against my ear. "I'll carry your gun in my purse, in case you get stopped again. Besides, you probably got no room in your pocket, all those rubbers you brought with you.
93
IT TOOK ALMOST an hour for her to come out of the bedroom. I looked up from the newspaper. Blinked.
Blossom in a teal–blue silk sheath cut an inch or two above the knee, thin black belt at the waist, black spike heels with ankle straps, tiny black–faced watch on her wrist. A pair of black gloves in her hand.
"Like it?" she said, twirling a full spin, looking at me over one shoulder. Showing me another side of her, promising more. Her lemon–blonde hair was swept off her face, done up in a thick French braid. A touch of soft blue eyeliner, lips glossy and full. Seamed stockings caught the afternoon sunlight.
"You're a doctor…I look dead to you?"
She let me hear a grown–up girl's giggle,