Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [2]
Still no sign of the target. I had followed him for three weeks straight, charting every step of his lunchtime route. The calligrapher on the blanket had to be the switchman—it was the only stop the target always made. I rotated my head gently on the column of my neck, working out the stiffness, keeping my eyes on the street. Invisible inside the shadows of my room, I lit another cigarette, cupping the wooden match to hide the flare, and went back to waiting. It's what I do best.
2
I WAS working in a dead–end hotel, but I'd gotten the job in the back seat of a limousine. The customer was a Wall Street lawyer. He dressed the part to perfection, but he didn't have enough mileage on his clock to make it seem like sitting in a hundred–thousand–dollar taxi was an everyday thing for him.
"It took quite a while for you to get back to me, Mr. Burke," he said, trying for a tone that would tell me he wasn't a man used to waiting for what he wanted. "I reached out for you yesterday morning."
I didn't say anything. I'm not in the phone book. You have to have a phone of your own to qualify for that. The lawyer had called one of the pay phones in the back of Mama Wong's restaurant. Mama always answers the same way: "Mr. Burke not here, okay? You leave message, okay?" If the caller says anything else, asks more questions—whatever—Mama just runs through the same cycle. She says it enough times, the caller gets the message: If it's not okay with you, it's too fucking bad.
The lawyer tried another ice–breaker. "My firm has a problem, Mr. Burke, and I was told you might be the ideal individual to assist us."
I shrugged my shoulders slightly, telling him to get on with it. He wasn't in a hurry—that's the problem with paying guys by the hour.
"Is there any particular reason why we had to meet out here?" he wanted to know, gesturing toward the Hudson River with an impatient sweep of his hand. He had a nice watch. Pretty cuff links.
"Who gave you my number?" I asked, stepping on his question.
The lawyer swallowed his annoyance, reminding himself he wasn't speaking with an equal. Time to put me in my place. "Do I have to say anything more than 'Mr. C.'?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes," I said.
He looked honestly puzzled. Since he was a lawyer, only part of that could be accurate. "I thought that would be enough. I was given to understand that a recommendation from Mr. C. would be all that you would require."
"Give the understanding back, pal. And tell me who gave you my number."
"I told you."
"You saying Mr. C. spoke to you?" I asked him, watching his face.
"The number came from him," he said, answering questions the way a lawyer does.
"Have a nice day," I said, reaching behind me for the door handle.
"Wait a minute!" he snapped, putting his hand on my sleeve.
"You don't want to do that," I told him.
He jerked his hand away, sliding into his speech. "I can explain whatever is necessary, Mr. Burke. Please don't be impatient." He shifted position on the soft gray leather seat, pushed a button, and watched proudly as the padded wall between us and the driver opened to reveal a well–stocked bar. "Can I get you a drink?"
"No," I told him, taking a single cigarette from my jacket. I put it in my mouth, reached the same hand back inside for a match. I kept the other hand in my pocket, where it had been since I climbed in the limo. The gesture was wasted on him.
"Would