Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [106]
I finally decided—just a straight frontal approach, offer the maggot some serious money or maybe if that didn’t work let it leak that I could square the snuff-film beef with the federales if I was paid enough. I would have to improvise on the spot, so I didn’t pack any weapons at all except for the usual stuff in my overcoat. I put on a set of G.I. fatigues over a red T-shirt, some soft old boots, a tired felt fedora. I slipped a pair of thin suede gloves and some tinted glasses into the coat pockets, gave Pansy some food, and went back down to the garage.
I didn’t have much time, so I used it trying to add another layer of protection—but a quick run down to the docks came up empty, and the Prophet wasn’t in any of his usual spots. You can’t always find a Prophet in New York. I drove over to Mama’s, had something to eat, and got the first part of my alibi established. I sat down at my table and wrote out everything I knew about Goldor to leave for Max, just in case. Besides survival I don’t believe in much, but I have a soft spot in my heart for revenge.
Mama knew something was up, but she just took the paper I left for Max and put it someplace safe. If things went wrong, Max would go to the office, put Pansy in the Plymouth and deliver her to Simba-witz—he would keep the car. I hadn’t bothered to tell him where I stashed any of the emergency money he didn’t already know about, and I knew he would strip the office without me telling him. Not much of a will, but then I don’t have much of an estate to worry about.
As I turned the key in the ignition in Mama’s back alley I got hit with a fear attack. I get them sometimes—everything starts to break up inside of me and I want to find a hole to crawl into. I never get one when I’m in a situation, just sometimes before and sometimes after. I knew what to do, so I let the fear wash through me and fly around my nerve endings until it finally went out my fingertips. I held my hands in front of my face and I could almost see the fear-bolts jump from my fingers. You have to breathe very shallow, no movement. The fear would never really go away, but sooner or later it would move to someplace where I was more comfortable with it. As always, when it finally moved out my brain felt like it was washed clean and sensory perceptions flooded in—the texture of the leather cover on the Plymouth’s steering wheel, the tiny imperfections in the windshield glass, the muted sounds of a Chinese argument several doors down from me. When I finally turned the key I could feel the bicep muscles send a message to my wrist, and I actually heard the exact moment of ignition before the Plymouth rumbled into life. I pulled out of the alley with less concern than usual for the narrow opening—even my depth perception was enhanced. My brain started to flicker in and out and around the edges of ideas—warming-up exercises before it was to be tested in combat. I kept it flickering, not wanting to focus until I hit something solid. I just let it flit around in the open spaces until it hit on something—no pressure, no suggestions from my so-called intellect to screw things up.
Max once told me that there is a martial arts style of fighting that closely resembles my way of dealing with fear. It’s called the Drunken Monkey, and the object is to have the fighter so completely dehumanized that he operates purely on instinct. Max told me this style is