Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [147]
“And . . . ?”
“So I ran downstairs and followed the kid when he came out of the elevator.”
The Mole began in an injured tone, “I told her not to leave—”
“You don’t give me orders, Mole!”
“I could have followed him.”
“Cut it out, Mole—you couldn’t follow your nose,” Michelle shot back. I could see the two of them were prepared to spend hours over this, so I finally asked the key question. “What happened?”
Michelle preened her feathers before she answered, the little kid in school who had the right answer all along and had her hand up and was finally getting called on by the sluggish teacher.
“The kid was a street boy, you know? A real chicken-hawk’s special. Sweet little face, maybe ten years old. He looked like one of those Colombian kids they sell in the adoption scams—just a baby. He stops for a hotdog a couple of streets down from here. I thought he might be going to one of the flophouses or something. I was just going to get the address, that’s all.”
“Did he hook up?”
“He sure did, baby—but let me tell it. The kid bobs and weaves, the little clown. Takes a bus uptown, walks around near the park, then just starts to bop down Broadway like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Never goes near a phone. Finally he goes into Happyland. You know, that videogame arcade on Broadway? So I go in there after him and he meets up with a guy at the Space Invaders game in the back. And he gives him a piece of paper—it had to be the phone number.”
“Was it our man?”
“Honey, there is no doubt in my mind. He’s the same freak,” she said, holding up her Xerox of the mug shot.
“What did they do then?”
“Wait a minute, baby, slow down. It’s him, all right, except he’s dyed his hair blond. Can you believe it? But he’s the one. I even saw the tattoo. What a freak—he just stands there patting the kid on the back of the neck and whispering something to him. He gives the kid money and the kid starts to play the machine and this creep just stands there watching the kid play. He keeps trying to pat the kid on the ass and the kid just wants to play the game. You know that place—nobody gives a shit what happens as long as you put the money in. Times Square, right? So I made sure it was the same guy and I got to a phone and called the Mole and he told me something was coming down and to get back here and I did.”
Michelle finished her story, smugly looking at me for approval. What she got was, “You dizzy broad . . . that freak would put you down as easy as stepping on a roach if he saw you following him. The Mole was right.”
And before Michelle could answer that one the Mole said, “He called.”
“What?”
“He called. While Michelle was outside playing. I have the tape,” and he flipped a switch without saying anything else.
I heard the ringing on the phone through the speaker, and then I heard James’s confident voice. “Falcon. James speaking.”
In response, a voice with a threatening top edge. “I heard about your operation. You people on the level?”
“Certainly, my friend. What can we do for you?”
“I want some work. Overseas.”
“You are familiar with our standards?”
“Look, I’m a decorated combat veteran, all small arms, qualified jumper. And I’m a black belt in karate.”
“Do you have a valid passport?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got all that.”
“Well, my friend, we’d surely like to speak with you. Shall we make an appointment—say at four this afternoon?”
“No daylight for me, understand? I got problems here—nothing with the law, but I just came off a special operation and I don’t want to be walking around. Tonight, okay?”
“If you insist. Are you ready for immediate work?”
“Mister, I’m ready to leave anytime—sooner the better.”
“You understand that we can’t reveal the departure point until you’ve cleared our interview?”
“Yeah, yeah, how long will that take?”
“It depends on your references. But if all goes well you can expect to