Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [137]
James looked over at me. “Your man’s not much of a conversationalist, is he?”
“Try the phones,” I suggested.
James sat down at his desk, hit 411, asked the operator for the number of the Waldorf-Astoria, got the number, dialed the Waldorf, made reservations for two in a suite for one week from then. I guess he expected his ship to come in.
I got up to leave. “You’ll be hearing from this reporter I told you about. That should give you all the publicity you’ll ever need. Call me at this number,” I said, handing him a card, “and I’ll be back in touch with you within one hour no matter what time you make contact, okay?”
“Certainly,” said James, extending his hand. I shook it, waved at Gunther, who glowered back, and walked out to the elevator.
A few minutes later I was climbing the stairs to Michelle’s little room. As I got to the top step I saw the Mole standing in a corner, watching and waiting—even with his pasty skin you had to look twice to see him sometimes, he was so motionless. I waved him on and we went into the little room. Michelle was facing the door—she looked up from her book when she saw me and really flashed to life when she saw I wasn’t alone.
“Mole, baby! How’s things in the underground?”
The Mole blinked a few more times than usual, gave Michelle his best try at a smile, but said nothing, as usual. He began to empty out his toolbox with the sure movements of a professional. He didn’t need to check out the room, he had worked this place before. Out of the toolbox came a square metal rig with all kinds of toggle switches on its face as well as two little lights, one red and one green. He plugged in a phone mouthpiece and receiver, then ran some wires over to a little box that looked like the face of a pocket calculator. He opened up the mouthpiece, screwed in one of the supressor discs, ran some wires over to the wall, snapped in some other piece of equipment, touched two wires together, took a reading, opened a tripod with a flat top, and put the phone unit on top of that. All the time he was working, Michelle watched him with hawk’s eyes.
The Mole pulled out two more phone sets, plugged them into the major unit, and ran some more wires toward the back wall. All this took him the better part of a half hour. Michelle and I didn’t say a word—this was complicated work and we knew the Mole didn’t like kibitzers. He moved with assurance and grace—no microsurgeon could have been better with his hands. When he finished he played with the setup for a couple of minutes, wearing his rubber gloves, then finally turned to us. “When the red light is on you make no calls. Green light, it’s okay to use. The left phone picks up downstairs. The next phone is incoming to you from all the numbers you gave me. You dial out only with this box.”
“Thanks, Mole,” I said, slipping him his money, which disappeared someplace into his uniform.
As the Mole turned to go Michelle said, “Mole,” making him turn to face her. “Mole, you remember I asked you to find out about that operation? The one for me?”
The Mole nodded, blinking behind his glasses.
“Would it work, Mole? Would it be what I want?”
The Mole spoke like he was reading from a book. “The operation is for true transsexuals—only for transsexuals. Biologically it would work. Assuming competent surgery and proper postoperative care, the only associated problems are psychological.”
“You know what a transsexual is, Mole?” Michelle asked him.
“Yes.”
“What?” demanded Michelle, looking intently at him. For her, I wasn’t in the room anymore.
“A woman trapped inside a man’s body,” said the Mole.
“Do you understand that?” asked Michelle.
“I understand trapped,” said the Mole, not blinking so much now.
“Thank you, Mole,” said Michelle, getting up and kissing him on the cheek. I thought the Mole blushed, but I couldn’t be