Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [110]
I felt Flood vibrating next to me but I counted to ten and rapped twice more—still nothing. I shrugged my shoulders like I’d come back another time and turned as if to go back to the Volvo, giving Flood a look when she opened her mouth to say something. I started back through the archway, reaching my hand back out to Flood to make sure she came along, and the door opened—Goldor was standing there. I could tell it was him from the shape of his body and his bald head but I couldn’t make out his face in the light that was pouring out strong and harsh from behind him. He could see us, though—the setup was no accident. Flood stepped aside to let me talk.
“Mr. Goldor?”
“And who are you?”
His hands were clasped behind him so that he was standing in an almost military posture—chest out, stomach in, shoulders back. He was using an old bodybuilder’s trick to make himself look even more massive—squeezing his hands together behind his back to pump the blood through his arms and into his chest and neck. His voice was rich and full—friendly and confident, masterful, relaxed. Whatever else we’d done, we sure as hell hadn’t spooked him.
I knew I’d only get one shot with this guy. “My name is Burke, sir. And this is Debbie. I have something I would like to discuss with you, a matter of great importance, and I didn’t want to speak on the phone.”
No response from Goldor, he just held his pose, letting me go on. “So I took the liberty of calling on you like this. I apologize if it’s an inconvenient time and, if it is, I’d appreciate the opportunity of an appointment at your earliest pleasure.”
Goldor stepped just slightly to the side, still holding himself erect. He nodded his bald head toward us. “I see. Please come in, Mr. Burke. And you too, uh . . . Debbie.”
I stepped through the door with Flood at my side. Goldor bent his head forward again to indicate that we should walk ahead of him, and we stepped onto a thick carpet down a short hall. We heard “In there,” and followed his directions. I saw we were coming into a long rectangle of a room, but it was too dark to see much else and I stumbled down a couple of short steps—a sunken room of some kind. Flood followed, stepping lightly without a misfire. Goldor came right behind us and turned some kind of rheostat on the wall—a soft orange light came from the corners of the long room and I could see a black leather chair with bare wooden arms and some other blocks of furniture. The walls were hung with heavy tapestries. We turned to face Goldor, who said, “Are you a police officer, Mr. Burke?”
“No, sir,” I said earnestly.
“You work for them, perhaps?” still in that soft voice.
“No. I work for myself.”
“And you are here on business? You have business with me?”
“Yes. And I—”
“Are you wearing a wire, Mr. Burke?” I said no with a laugh and held open my army jacket so he could see I only had on the red T-shirt underneath. I saw his hand come from behind his back and the Buck Rogers ray gun pointed at me and I started to smile when I felt the three tiny pinpricks bite into my stomach and chest before my brain could register “Taser! . . .” I felt red-white pain tear through my gut and I was on the ground and my body was trying to be anyplace else. My nerve tips were screaming in agony and my legs wouldn’t work but I knew what I had to do and I willed my hands to pull out the wires.
But before I could reach for them Goldor must have squeezed the trigger again and I felt another jolt and I must have screamed—something came out of my mouth and I lay there looking up at Goldor.
He walked over to me, holding the Taser pistol—a little instrument that shoots three little darts attached to thin wires. When the darts make contact, one squeeze of the trigger and the batteries