Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [136]
I shook hands with James. “I brought you some stuff,” I said, opening the suitcase. He looked on happily as I brought out the letterhead stationery complete with cable address, envelopes, business cards, desk calendar, assorted legal pads, and ballpoint pens. Then I took out the Rhodesian army recruiting poster, and a black-and-white line-drawing of a soldier with his foot firmly planted on a mound of dead enemies. The soldier was holding a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. The poster said: “Communism Stops Here!” A couple of large maps of Africa completed the decorations, and we sat down to have a smoke. Comrades in arms.
Gunther strolled in, gave me what was meant to be a chilling look once he saw Max was not on the set. He grunted as he looked over my supplies but his eyes lit up when he saw the business cards. He immediately stuffed a bunch in his pocket—legitimate at last. I sat in the swivel chair, put my feet on the desk. “My man will be here in a while. He’s got an in with the phone company so you won’t have to wait for an installation. You give him a yard and by the time you get the first month’s bill you’ll be gone.”
It was okay by him—they were still playing with my money.
Both were in excellent spirits, smiling between themselves. You could see the idea of a real office and a front appealed to them. James was walking around the place, scratching his chin like he was deep in thought. “It’s going to work—work very well indeed, I can see that. But you know . . . it lacks something, some touch that would indicate the scope of our operation. Our dedication to purpose, so to speak.”
Before I could say anything Gunther smiled and pulled out a matte-black combat knife—the kind where the handle is a set of brass knuckles so you can break bones or tear flesh. He stared at my face, and I could see he was still hurting from what we did to him in the warehouse. He walked over to the desk where I was sitting and slammed the knife into the top so hard the whole thing jumped. He slowly removed his hand, watching me all the while, the knife stuck halfway into the desktop.
James said, “Yes, exactly. Just the right touch.”
Gunther glared over at me. “You said something about publicity?” He made it sound like a threat, and stalked off into the back room. Gunther was as tough to read as yesterday’s race results.
“Is he okay?” I asked James, just loud enough for Gunther to hear.
“Oh, he’s fine, Mr. Burke. Just nerves. Gunther’s more a man of action, you might say. I’ll handle the recruiting.”
“Okay . . .” Like I really gave a damn. There was a soft knock at the door and the Mole entered, wearing his Ma Bell uniform, carrying a toolbox and sporting a giant leather belt around his waist full of enough gadgets to perform brain surgery on a rhino. Not on Gunther, though—the Mole didn’t carry a microscope.
Without a word to anyone the Mole walked the length of the front room, his eyes blinking rapidly behind the thick lenses. He squatted down, pulled a couple of push-button phones out of his toolbox, and went to work. He put the white phone on James’s desk and went back to put the red one on the long table. Gunther gave him a fearsome stare and expanded his chest—the Mole never changed expression, just went on with his wiring job. The whole number took him about