Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [143]
When a reporter asked James if the Rhodesian groups were similar to the KKK that sprang up in the South after the Civil War, James, speaking with a faint British accent, replied, “You Americans are so strange about such things. Do you remember that scene in your Gone With The Wind where a wounded Confederate soldier asks for a lift from a carpetbagger and his darkie friend? Remember the darkie says, ‘You’d think they won the war’? The winners write the history books, and the history of Rhodesia isn’t ready for you writers yet.”
And his associate Gunther, pointing to a vicious-looking knife half-buried in the top of a wooden desk, flatly stated he didn’t expect any picketing from “Communists.” James was willing to discuss the Rhodesian situation at length, claiming that the blacks in power did not represent the true majority and that many “good coloreds” would prefer things as they used to be. But details as to his recruiting operation were not forthcoming. When asked what it would take to be accepted for enlistment, James said it would require a valid passport, military or law-enforcement experience, and “a certain something in a man—we know what to look for.”
Sgt. Jones reports that enlistments are down for the past year, but the mysterious Mr. James seems unworried, even though “only one out of five applicants is good enough to meet our standards.” Makes you wonder.
I looked up from the column at Michelle. It was perfect—if this didn’t bring the Cobra into the daylight, nothing would. The only way it could have been better would have been if the recruiters promised every new man the child of their choice to sodomize, but maybe Wilson would read between the lines and start thinking about the spoils of war. The column was all we could have wanted. I had to believe it—if the Cobra read the paper, he’d be coming around.
52
I LIT ANOTHER smoke and reread the column just to make sure there was nothing in it to spook our target. It stood up just fine—including the right amount of liberal outrage at the recruiting effort.
Michelle poked at my shoulder to get my attention. “Am I going to be here much longer, baby?”
“Not too much, I don’t think. Why?”
“Well, I’m not staying here another day without some cleaning supplies. Honey, this place is a dump. I am accustomed to better. I don’t need much—just some spray cleaner and some paper towels, maybe a dust mop. And some plastic bags for garbage. Actually a vacuum cleaner would be just the—”
“Would you forget that? Another day or so won’t make any difference.”
“Burke, I’m telling you—I don’t like being in dirty places—not when I have to live in them. You know what kind of woman I am,” she said, her eyes snapping.
“Just another day or so. I have to go out and dig up the Mole. He’s going to stay up here with you for a while, set up some things for me.”
“Does he play Scrabble?”
“I don’t think so. Ask him to build you a ray gun or something. I’ll call you by early this afternoon, see how things are going. If the freak doesn’t bite in a day or so, we close this down, okay?”
“Okay, baby. Listen, I meant to tell you before. I saw Margot and she asked me to ask you if anything was happening on her case. She said you’d know what she meant.”
“Yeah, I know. This comes first, then I’ll see—”
“And I should tell her . . . ?”
“Tell her that you saw me and I was working.”
I drove the Plymouth to the Bronx, found the Mole, and made arrangements for some work to be done on the car—remove all the paint and coat it with dull primer. If the cops ask you about the primer you just tell them you