Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [61]
“I do want you to. I have been … unfair.”
“Gem, I told you, it isn’t your—”
“Not about the … outfit. I mean … when you … retained me, you knew … what about me?”
“That you were fluent in Russian. That people who my people trusted vouched for you.”
“And …?” she asked, covering her face and neck with cold cream.
“That’s all,” I told her, truthfully.
“The woman you call Mother—”
“Mama.”
“Is that not the same—”
“No,” I said, crimping that wire before it sparked.
“She is well known. To the people from whom I get my … assignments. Very respected.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yes. And … I made some inquiries. You understand, it is good to know the people with whom you work,” she said. I didn’t say anything, not sure if she was insulting my own professionalism for not getting more info on her, or rolling out the carpet to a door she was about to open. I shifted my posture to tell her I heard what she said … and was waiting for the rest of it.
She started to remove the cream. Gently, patting it off with a washcloth. “There are many … rumors about you, Burke.”
“Sure.”
“They cannot all be false.”
“Is that some mathematical certainty? Some law of nature?”
“In a way, it is,” she said, seriously. “Some rumors must have a factual basis, if they are to stay alive long enough.”
“Or they have enough people continuing to come forward and say, ‘Yeah, I was abducted by aliens, too.’ ”
“You may have your jokes,” she said, calmly, doing something around her eyes with a makeup pencil.
“I’m not making fun of you. Just of people who take rumors to the bank.”
“You have been in prison.”
“That’s no secret.”
“Some say you have killed,” she said, no emotion in her voice, all her focus on the dark-red lipstick she was carefully applying.
“See? There’s the difference between facts and rumors.”
“And some say you are insane.”
“I’m sure.”
“A very selective insanity,” she said, eyes very wide in the mirror, working on her lashes. “It is said that when children are hurt you go blind with rage.”
“Is that right? Who says that?”
“Some of the same people who say you have killed.”
“Naturally.”
“No,” she said. “Many say you have killed. Some say you kill for money, a professional. Different people speak of your rage. A professional has no rage.”
“You’d know that,” I said, flat-voiced.
“Yes,” glancing at me in the mirror. Her eyes were heavily shadowed by then, a bluish-green color.
“Is this another disguise?” I asked. Meaning all the makeup she was piling on.
“Not yet. Be patient,” she said, now painting her fingernails the same shade as her lips.
“All right.”
“I want to go out later. Is that okay?”
“You don’t have to ask me if—”
“No. I don’t mean I am going alone. I want you to take me.”
“To eat, right?”
“No.” She giggled. “I am aware that you consider me a sow. Where I … live now, there is a little bar. It has a pool table. I always watch, never play. I would like to play. I understand it takes practice to play well. But I need to know the rudiments of the game before I can practice. And I hoped you would teach me.”
“What makes you think I—?”
“Am I incorrect?” she asked, gravely.
“No.”
“Ah.” She smiled, waiting.
“I don’t know a poolroom around here,” I lied, smoothly.
“There is one very close by. And there is another, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes away by car. Probably that would be best …” she said, thoughtfully.
“Because …?”
“Be patient,” she said, again, combing out her midnight-thick hair.
I lay back on the bed, slitted my eyes, watched as she climbed into a micro-pair of near-transparent panties, then sheathed her legs in sheer stockings with seams down the back. She turned to face me, looked over her shoulder at the mirror, snapped the elastic tops of her stockings experimentally, checked the seams. Then she put on a pair of gleaming black spike heels with ankle straps. Checked herself again. A piece of red jersey the same shade as her lipstick expanded from its tube shape to cover her bottom … and not much else. She slipped a black silk tank top over her shoulders. It fell short of the skirt’s waistband. A necklace of tiny