Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [79]
“He did. And I’m grateful. I owe him, no argument. But that’s not the same as trusting him.”
“You trust Byron. And Byron trusts—”
“Byron trusts him, that’s right. And he took some real risks—”
“Lovers do incredible things for each other,” Gem said, solemnly.
“But lovers fall out,” I reminded her. “And when they do, things change.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” I agreed. “But there’s other reasons, too.”
“What are those?”
“Brick is a pro. But even pros make mistakes. If he thinks I’m back in New York, that’s all the information anyone can get out of him. He’s an agency man. My name may trip some wires inside his shop. He has to be loyal to them. And loyal to Byron, too. I don’t want to put him in a cross. This way, it gets tight, he can tell them what he knows, and it still won’t be a problem for me.”
“So where will you go, then?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But this room—”
“Sure. I have to leave the hotel. But that’s all. I’m going to stick around.”
“And do what?”
“Lurk.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deal, little girl. I can look for … this person I need over the phone. And I can work that from anywhere. But I can’t be sure of finding him at all.”
“Oh.”
She went back to packing, fussing over the task long after she should have been finished. I’d been ready to go for an hour, but I didn’t say anything.
“If you cannot find this person you seek …?” she finally asked.
“Then I’m going to go back and visit those Russians.”
“Oh,” she said again, still not closing her little suitcase.
I went back to waiting.
Minutes passed before she said, “You don’t have to … lurk close by, do you?”
“Not necessarily. But travel is a risk. Exposure. I need to go to ground. And I need to be close to the Russians.”
“But you don’t know anybody in Portland?”
“No. But I can always—”
“I have a better plan,” she said, zipping up her suitcase with authority. “Now I must make a call myself.”
The Metalflake maroon ’63 Impala SS coupe glided to the curb where Gem and I were waiting, in front of the Melody Ballroom on Southeast Alder. The same Mexican I’d seen on the dock when I first met Gem got out, wearing a black wool baseball jacket with white leather sleeves. The trunk popped open. I wasn’t surprised to see the battery nestled back there, or the monster stereo system. The trunk was huge, but with all the electronics, there was barely room for our bags.
Inside the car, another Mexican occupied the passenger seat. Gem and I climbed in the back. Gem threw one bare leg over my thigh, said, “This is Burke,” to the two men. Then, nodding her head toward the driver: “Burke, this is Flacco. And this is Gordo.” Both of them were solidly built, but neither remotely qualified as skinny or fat. They didn’t offer to shake hands.
Gem pulled my arm around her like she’d done in the poolroom, nibbled at my thumb until it was in her mouth, then went to work like a little girl with a lollipop.
Neither of the Mexicans spoke. When the driver kicked over the engine, you couldn’t mistake the sound.
“A 409?” I asked him.
“Sí! You like it?”
“I love it,” I told him, truthfully, running my eyes over the white Naugahyde tuck-and-roll interior. “This is a thing of beauty.”
“My heart is in this ride, hombre. My heart, and all my damn money.” He laughed.
“Looks like you spent it well. Taking a piece from each, that’s the only way to go.”
“What do you mean, a piece from each?”
“You could have cherried it out, pure resto, all numbers matching, that kind of trip. And you do have some of that—looks stock from the outside, except for the paint. But this interior, that’s custom. And that sound system … that’s extreme. You didn’t go lowrider, but it’s dropped. And it’s sure not back-halved, either; but I checked the big meats and the three-inch cans out back.”
“It’s all new underneath,” the passenger put in. “Konis, air bags, and Borla out the back.” He was wearing the same kind of jacket as the driver.
“You keep the dual quads?” I asked.
“That’s right. And the rock-crusher’s original, too.”
He meant the M-22 four-speed tranny he was gently