Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [116]
“Not gifts of love,” came back the answer.
The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough.
He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk, glanced at the Mole, then back to me. “Anything else?” he asked.
“If the boy’s picture, the one I want, was taken for sale, not by a boy-lover—I couldn’t find it?”
“The original? Not in a million years,” the man said. “The commercial producers will sell to anybody. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it was in a private collection.”
“Say I didn’t give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around, see if you could find the picture I’m looking for?”
“No,” he said. “I would never betray the trust of my friends.” He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away.
“And you don’t deal with any of the commercial outlets?”
“Certainly not,” he sniffed.
This freak couldn’t help me. “I understand,” I said, getting up to leave.
The man looked at me levelly. “You may show yourselves out.”
The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first.
“One more thing,” the man said to me. “I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find some basis for agreement.”
I didn’t move, willing my hands not to clench into fists.
“I am a believer,” the man said, “and I am ready to die for my beliefs.”
There’s our basis for agreement, I thought, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the stairs.
It all came back, in thick blocks of memory, exploding silently, like mortar rounds hitting near you when your ears are already so clogged with fear-blood that you’re deaf. And when I replayed the tapes in my head, I understood why it had to be him. Because I’d gone back to see him years later. Not to kill him, to try and play him into doing something. And he’d gone for the bait.
“You!” he said, a whisper-hiss of surprise.
“Can I talk with you?”
“We’ve already talked.”
“I need your help.”
“Surely you know better than that.”
“If you’ll hear me out … it’s something you’ll want to do. And I have something to trade.”
“You’re alone?”
“Yes.”
He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside.
“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the staircase.
The room hadn’t changed. Old-money heavy, thick, and dark. Only the computer marred the antique atmosphere—a different one from last time, with a much bigger screen that blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare.
“Notice anything new?” he asked, pointing to the chair I’d used last time.
I sat down and eye-swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, with wide white stripes outlined in black.
“This is different,” I said. “What are they?”
“Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are perculas,” pointing at a fat little fish near the top. “And we have tomatoes, maroons, even some flame clowns—my favorites.”
The flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes—the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank.
“Saltwater fish?” I asked him.
“Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually.”
“They’re beautiful. Are they rare?”
“More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact—they stay with their own kind, even in a tank.”
“They don’t fight for territory?”
“No, they don’t fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with another species.”
I watched the aquarium.