Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [13]
16
IT WAS dark by the time l turned into the narrow street behind the old paper–tube factory where I have my office. The garage is set into the building just past the sidewalk. When the landlord converted the joint into living lofts, he bricked up the old loading bay, where the trucks used to pull in, to make room for storefronts. The garage only has room for one car, right at the end of a row of little shops. I pulled in, hit the switch; the door rattled down, leaving me in darkness. I locked the car, took the steel steps up four flights, walking quietly past the entrance to each hallway. The doors lock from the outside and I keep them that way. There's another flight of stairs at the far end of each floor. If there's a fire, the tenants know which way to go.
When I got to the top floor, I let myself into the hall. I closed the door behind me. It looked like a blank wall.
There's no sign on my door. My name's not on the directory downstairs. As far as the tenants know, the fifth floor is sealed off. Most of it is.
I don't have a lease. I don't pay rent. The landlord's son did something very stupid a few years ago. The landlord is a rich man, and he spent the right money in the right places. The kid has a new name, a new face, and a new life. Home free. Until I found him. I wasn't looking for the little weasel, but I knew who was. They still are.
It's not a home, it's where I live for now. When the time comes I have to leave, I won't look back. I'll take everything I need with me.
And when I walk away, there won't even be a fingerprint left for them to play with.
17
I TURNED the key ,listening to the bolts snap back. Three dead bolts: one into the steel frame on the side, another at the top, the final one directly into the floor. The hall's too narrow for a battering ram. By the time anyone broke in, I'd have long enough to do anything I needed to do.
Another key for the doorknob. I turned it twice to the right and once to the left, and stepped inside.
"It's me, Pansy," I said to the monster sitting in the middle of the dark room.
The monster made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a growl. A Neapolitan mastiff, maybe 140 pounds of muscle and bone, topped with a head the size of a cannonball and just about as thick. So dark she was almost black, Pansy blended into the room like a malevolent shadow, teeth shielded, cold–water eyes unflickering. Pansy can't handle complex thoughts. She wasn't sure if she was glad to see me or sorry she wasn't going to get to tear some flesh. Then she smelled the Chinese food and the issue was settled. The snarl changed to a whine, and slobber poured from her jaws. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay!" and hit the light switch.
The office is one small room. Desk facing the door, one chair behind, one in front. No windows. Couch against one wall. To the left, there's another door, leading to the office where my secretary works. The door's a fake. So's the secretary. The other wall is covered with a Persian rug that never got closer to Iran than 14th Street. The floor is covered with Astroturf. I told my decorator I wanted low–maintenance modern.
I pulled the rug aside and stepped into another room, even smaller than the office. Tiny stand–up shower I installed myself, sink and toilet in one corner. Hot plate and refrigerator in another. A cot between them. The back door opens out to a landing. The fire escape rusted off years ago.
I opened the back door, calling for Pansy, and stepped out to the landing. Watched the Hudson River slime–flow to the west, patting my dog's head as she stood next to me. Three rooms, with view.
Pansy ambled past me, taking the stairs to the roof. She's been lumping her loads up there for years. There's stuff growing on the roof I don't even want to think about.
Pansy came back