Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [113]
“And you used to like pain, didn’t you? You can tell me. I understand. When you were younger, yes? You understand. You did wrong things and you were punished and you knew the truth and you felt better, didn’t you?”
Flood said yes again and kind of moaned, and I wondered if there was any way to shoot him with the lipstick so that he wouldn’t die and I could finish him off myself.
Goldor kept on. “Do you want me to help you? Help you get the things you want, be the woman you can be? A life, a life of truth and beauty and richness?”
“How? I mean, what do I—”
Goldor’s voice shifted pitch, got tighter and harder. “Go over to that table on your left, you see it?” Flood nodded that she did. “You’ll find something on it. I want you to bring it to me, Debbie. Bring it over here to me.”
Trancelike, Flood walked over to the table, bent and picked up something. She turned around and walked back to Goldor, holding a short whip with three separate lashes at the end. She bent forward slightly and handed the whip to him. He looked steadily at her, said, “Do you understand?” and she said, “Yes. The truth . . . to be free.” Goldor took the whip from her and climbed off the stool. He stood to one side, holding the stock of the whip in one hand and the tips of the lashes in the other. Flood stood there watching him, hands clasped just below her breasts.
“Now, Debbie, I want you to bend over, turn your head to the side and put your face on this cushion.” He indicated the bar stool.
“Can’t I . . . ?”
“Debbie, you have to do this. I have explained it to you. I don’t want to think you didn’t understand.”
“But first . . . I mean, shouldn’t I . . . ?”
“What?” The barest hint of impatience crept into that controlled voice.
Flood said, “Can’t I . . . ?” and reached down and unsnapped the button to the bottle-green pants.
Goldor’s rich, dark-toned laugh boomed out. “Of course. Debbie, my child, you understand so beautifully. Yes—most appropriate. I’m so glad you do see.”
Goldor patiently held the whip as Flood hurriedly jerked the pants down over her hips, hooking her thumbs so that her panties came down with them. She started to walk over to the bar stool, stumbled, let out a nervous laugh, and bent to unzip the white boots. She pulled off the boots, climbed out of the pants, kicked everything away from her, and walked to the stool again. Goldor saw the fire-scar on her rump and grunted in surprise—then smiled with teeth so perfect and even that they must have been false or fully capped.
Flood bent over the stool, flexed each leg like a ballerina warming up, and Goldor let out a moan like a man with stomach cramps and stepped toward her, raising the whip to his shoulder. I heard the whistle of the whip in the dead quiet of the room—Flood’s right leg flashed in the orange light and I saw a whitish blur and heard a thump like a boxer’s fist slamming into the heavy bag and Goldor went flying backward. He hit the floor like a bag of wet garbage.
Flood spun with the momentum of her kick like a kid’s top gone berserk until she was almost on top of Goldor. Another spin and her foot shot into his throat, lifting his heavy body right off the ground. Then she whirled and ran over to me. She unsnapped the straps from the chair’s arms, crying and trying to talk at the same time.
“Burke, Burke, are you all right? Oh don’t be dead, Burke. Burke . . .”
“Flood . . . I’m okay. Just help me get up.”
She pulled me to my feet and we walked over to Goldor. Forget it. The maggot had finally found the truth. He was as dead as a junkie’s eyes. When I put my fingers to the side of his neck to be sure, there was no pulse, no breathing. I felt