Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [135]
“This has something to do with the job for Margot?”
“I hope you heard about that from Margot herself.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise the individual involved may know more than he should.”
“Oh, Dandy knows from nothing, dear, but the Prophet’s been doing his Armageddon number so I trust whatever’s coming down will be here soon.”
“As soon as I find this freak.”
“Just you and me on this job?”
“And the Mole.”
“Oh goodie. I love the Mole.”
“Michelle, listen—don’t drive the poor bastard any crazier than he already is, okay?”
“Can I help it if I’m attracted to intellectuals? After all, it’s rare enough that a woman of my accomplishments can have a decent conversation with her peers.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’ll be good,” she promised with an evil smile.
We motored along sedately until we crossed the line to the Bronx. I found a working pay phone, reached the Mole, and set up a meet near the junkyard. I didn’t want to bring Michelle inside—I was afraid she’d insist on some major interior decorating.
We sat there waiting. It was a quiet night, except for the occasional howling of a dog or a police siren.
“I’m on a dead fucking blank, Michelle. He was here, somewhere in the cesspool, but he’s gone. I’m not going to find him now—he’s got to come to me.”
“You have to play the cards they deal you, baby.”
“Who says so?”
“The Dealer,” said Michelle. And she was right.
The Mole materialized now at the side of the car. I rolled down the window all the way.
“Mole, I need some work done in an office building—phones, lights, stuff like that.”
“So?”
“So I need it tomorrow. In Moscow’s building—the little place upstairs, okay?”
Before he could answer, Michelle draped herself halfway across my lap and fixed her luminous eyes on her target. “Well, Mole, don’t say hello or anything!”
“Michelle—” was all the Mole got out before she was off and running.
“Now, Mole, it’s not polite to just ignore people. Especially your friends.”
“I didn’t see you—”
“Mole, please. It is common knowledge that you can see in the dark. You wear some clean overalls tomorrow—I don’t want you tracking mud all over my . . .”
I elbowed Michelle sufficiently to get her back on her side of the car, shrugged what-can-you-do? to the Mole, who just said, “Tomorrow morning,” and disappeared.
Michelle pouted for a few minutes on the way back, then started to giggle. The Mole has that effect on her. We made all the arrangements and I said I’d pick her up tomorrow.
Usually I don’t dream. That night I dreamt of a leering lunatic standing over a fiery pit, throwing in one child after another. I knew somehow that when enough kids hit the bottom of the pit, it would reach critical mass and explode in his face. But I woke up before that happened.
49
WE GOT TO the new office around ten in the morning. I had already called Moscow the landlord and confirmed that the clowns had paid him a month’s rent in front for the two-room suite on the fourteenth floor. As soon as I heard that I sent Max over to see Moscow with the additional two hundred for the little room just above the suite. Two hundred for two weeks—that was the going rate with Moscow for the setup. He periodically rents the two-room suite on the fourteenth to one group after another. He has a long list of clients—I was just one of the list. When the wiseguys pull one of their bust-out deals on a garment center manufacturer or a restaurant they rent the suite as a front and take the little room right above it to have a place to go if things get ugly. And when some dingbat radicals decide to establish a new international headquarters, Moscow rents the little room upstairs to the federales so they can eavesdrop in peace and quiet. The little room upstairs isn’t much bigger than a closet, but it has an attached bathroom and decent ventilation. You can be comfortable up there for days at a time—I know.
Michelle and I took the stairs to the top—she bitched all the way about climbing in spike heels. I set her up in the little