Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [14]
Time passed. I was alive in every nerve ending, but I didn’t have much left in my tank. If a roving wolfpack of teenagers decided to have some fun with the bum, I wouldn’t be able to stop them. And if the cops were close by, if they had an alert out to Transit, I’d have to keep faking it. Tell them some story about “going home” to … I don’t remember.
The downtown No. 6 finally pulled in. I shuffled aboard. The car was about half full. I wanted to keep away from people, but I needed to sit down, too. I was still making up my mind when a woman who looked like she worked till midnight cleaning offices got up. I took her seat. I wanted to thank her, but her face told me why she got up—she figured I must come with a smell to match my looks, and she didn’t want any part of that.
The train let me out at Canal and Lafayette. Plenty of people; plenty of traffic, too. I couldn’t tell if anyone was paying attention. I started my walk.
Chinatown runs twenty-four/seven, but most of the activity isn’t on the streets once the tourists clear out. And I was close enough to a batch of different homeless camps so that I didn’t get a second glance as I shuffled along, watching as close as I could to see if I had company.
The way you signal Max’s dojo is to push the bell for the warehouse loading bay three times, fast. A light flashes in Max’s place, on the top floors. He’s deaf. If he’s around, the side door will click open. You step into murk, even in daylight, but Max can see you from the landing.
I prayed for that click. When it came, I slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind me. There was a blur in the blackness as Max vaulted down. I felt him land next to me. Opened my hands to tell him I was …
I woke up inside Max’s temple. I recognized it right away. No disorientation. Just … weak. Sunlight slanted in through a window above me. I was under a sheet, naked. And safe, for the first time since I wrapped myself in Kevlar and went out to trade some money for a kid. I felt myself drifting off. Didn’t fight it.
Max was there when I opened my eye. I shaded that eye with my left hand, turned my head from side to side, signing “looking.” Then I pointed at myself. Max shook his head “No.” I used both hands, made the sign for opening a newspaper, moved my head to show I was scanning it. He shook his head “No” again. Then he put his fists in front of his eyes, opened them to make the sign for glasses. Thick glasses. The Mole. On his way.
I made a gesture of thanks. Max ignored it, stepping over to me, running his fingers all over my body, checking. When he pushed against any part of me, I pushed back, letting him test.
Then he moved away from me. Held his hands far apart, pointed two fingers at each other, and brought them together so they touched. I sat up. Tried the same thing. Missed by a few inches. Shook my head, concentrated. I couldn’t make the connection. I tried it again, slower. No go. One finger was closer to my body than the other. Instead of touching, they kept overlapping.
Max closed one eye. Used the other to make sure I was watching him. Then he brought his two fingers together so quickly it was like watching a vapor trail. They hit as precisely as if they’d been on rails. He pointed at me. Then at his wrist, where a watch would be if he wore one. Sure.
It would take time, but I could do it.
Max bowed slightly, disappeared.
I started to practice.
The Mole was cutting through the bandages on my head, using scissors with the lower blade in the shape of a spoon. As soon as he finished, Michelle unwrapped them, slowly.
I looked around the room. Nobody said anything.
“Do you want a mirror, honey?” Michelle asked.
“I … guess so. It’s that bad, huh?”
“It just … doesn’t look like you anymore, baby. They had to … you know, to …”
“I know.”
The mirror they handed me was a 2× magnifier. The man looking back at me had a shaven skull, crisscrossed with stitches. I knew there was