Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [158]
“Sure. First stop, at least, New York fresh air.” I needed to assemble my people for this last piece, and I didn’t want to call from the hippies’ phone. “So get dressed,” I told her, “we’re going out.”
We spent the day at the Bronx Zoo. They have this re-creation of an Asian rain forest right inside the cyclone fencing—Bengal tigers, antelopes, monkeys, the whole works. You ride through it on an elevated monorail, and the driver tells you what’s happening over the loudspeaker. We did the whole place—everything but the Reptile House. When we got to the bear cages everybody was gathered around the artificial ice floe where a mother polar bear and her cub were basking in the sun. The mother bear looked balefully at everyone. One little kid asked his mother why the bear looked so mean—she told him it was because it wasn’t cold enough for them. Flood turned to the woman, smiled her smile, told her, “It’s because she doesn’t belong here—this isn’t her home.” We left a puzzled woman in our wake, but I knew what Flood meant, and it hurt. I pushed the feeling aside.
Afterward, as the Plymouth moved through the burnt-out hulks that were once apartment buildings in that part of the Bronx, I felt sorry for any of the animals that might work their way through the fence and get out. . . .
It wasn’t until late that night that we all got together in the warehouse: me and Flood, Mole, the Prof, Michelle, and Max. I had the floor plan of Dandy’s apartment Margot had drawn for me spread out on a bench, and Mole was using one grubby finger to indicate how he’d work his end of the deal.
It looked easy enough, provided Margot came through with the set of keys like she promised. If she didn’t the whole deal was off and she could go to the Consumer Protection Agency for her money.
“Michelle . . . any problems?” I asked.
“Don’t be funny, honey. My piece is a breeze.”
“Mole?”
“No.”
“You got all the stuff?”
“Yes.” The Mole was really being gabby. Usually he’d just nod.
“Prof?”
“His mind is on crime but his ass shall be mine. Revenge tastes even more sweet than a virgin’s—”
“Cool it, Prof,” said Michelle, “there’s ladies present.”
“I was going to say ‘than a virgin’s kiss,’ fool. What on your mind?”
“If it was the same as yours, it’d make me a lesbian.”
“That’s enough,” I told them. “Michelle, can’t you get along with anyone?”
“I get along with Mole,” she said, patting his hand.
The Prof looked like he was going to snap back but some glint from behind the Mole’s thick glasses must have convinced him that playing the dozens could be a dangerous game when you let lunatics participate. He let it slide.
“Flood, you’re sure you’re up to this?”
A brilliant smile, glowing even in the dim warehouse. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“You know what you have to do?”
“Burke, we went over and over it. I have it down pat.”
There was no reason to ask Max if he was ready—and not because he couldn’t hear the question.
“Okay, this is Wednesday. We do it Friday morning.”
“Say, Burke,” said the Prof, “you really going to use that damn dog of yours?”
“Why not? Pansy’s perfect for the part.”
“That beast is a monster, Burke. It makes me nervous just to be in the same neighborhood as he is.”
“As she is.”
“You mean that dog is a bitch?”
“Sure enough.”
“Well,” said the Prof, “I guess that makes sense, when you think about it.”
Thinking about it wasn’t something I wanted to do right then.
59
FRIDAY WAS A muggy, dirty morning on the Hudson River docks. A Jersey smog-fog was rolling in. It was break-time for the working whores—the truck-driver traffic finished for the morning, the first citizen-commuters not yet on the scene. Peddlers were setting up their stands on the hoods of their parked cars, free of the wolf-packs who were gone now—back to their dens, the roving bands dispersed with the coming of daylight.
The Plymouth was parked near the pier next to a standing pay phone. I was listening to Judy Henske on the tape, trying not to think about tomorrow. Flood was lying with her head in my lap. Pansy