Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [40]
I don’t know how he did it. I can’t imagine he’d be able to put it into words if anyone asked.
The crowd was insane … and under control. His control. He was dealing for real, and the crowd was in his hands—spontaneous reaction to spontaneous combustion. As he teased an impossible run of unreal notes out of the steel slide, a thick-bodied man in a yellow silk shirt stood up and yelled out, “That’s the real thing, brother!” as if he were waiting on a challenge.
You could almost see the notes flow out of that black guitar—a liquid ribbon of honey and cream, draped over concrete and barbed wire. For a slice of time, I was transported. Lost in the truth. Feeling … connected to something more than me and mine. I reached for a cigarette. Came up empty. Zeffa was next to me, on my left. Her hand dropped to her purse. She flicked it open one-handed, pointed to a pack of Carltons. The pack was right next to what else she was packing—a dull-black Glock.
I thanked her with a nod. Lit the smoke. Took a deep drag. It tasted like crap, no hit at all. I put it in the ashtray and let it burn down.
The man with the black guitar finished his set … barely. The crowd kept demanding “One more!” and he kept going with it. Finally, he just bowed slightly, touched the brim of his hat, and stepped off the stage and out the back.
“Son Seals!” the announcer shouted, as the man walked off with his black guitar.
“Come on,” Zeffa said.
We followed her to a basement where ratty old couches were stacked against one wall. Son was seated, alone, smoking a slim black cigar. Zeffa introduced us. I didn’t know what to say, so I just said the truth.
“You’re the ace,” I told him.
“Thank you,” was all he said. Not grabbing the title, but not disclaiming it, either.
Clancy made a motion with his head. I came over to where he was sitting. The basement was filling up, people clotted, waiting for a chance to spend a minute with the legend. Zeffa watched them warily, making the access decisions one by one.
“They’re gone,” Clancy said, no inflection.
“How do you—?”
“They slipped up. Or they couldn’t stand paying taxes under two IDs. INS still has them in Chicago, but that’s no big deal, they’re both green-carded, both waiting on citizenship. Once applicants get to that level, INS figures it’s their job to keep in touch, see?”
“Sure. If they miss an appointment, it’s their problem. Might even delay their application. But it’s not a problem for the government, so long as they pay their taxes.”
“Right. And they’re okay with the IRS. But we’ve got a state income tax here. And they haven’t filed in almost three years.”
“Maybe they didn’t have any income.”
“That’s possible. Here’s what’s not: neither of them has visited a doctor or a dentist for all that time.”
“How could you know that?”
“They have medical insurance. A very good plan, not one of those HMO deals. And they haven’t filed a claim. Not one.”
“Maybe they gave up the plan, and they’re paying cash. Or maybe they switched plans.”
“Sure. But if that’s so, why would they keep paying the premiums?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And why would they keep paying big numbers to insure their cars, but not maintain them?”
“How can you be—?”
“One,” he said, tapping his index finger, “they each have a Mercedes. Two, both of the cars are still under warranty. Three, neither car has been serviced at the local dealer in all this time. And four, both cars are insured to the max, including zero-deductible collision. And they haven’t missed a payment.”
“You think …?”
“What?”
“There’s a garage, right? Around the back, maybe?”
“Around the back, yeah,” Clancy said. “Behind the house, set off to the right. The driveway—you know, that horseshoe shape?—it spins off to the side to connect there.”
“Would you happen to know if—?”
“There’s no alarm. The garage is the same material as the house. Stone. Three-car size. Automatic