Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [160]
No more time to search. I pocketed the Krugerrands and picked up Dandy’s green Princess phone. No dial tone. “Mole?” “Here.” “Let’s go,” I said, and hung up.
The door opened and Max walked in, holding Pansy’s leash. The Prof was with him. “Time’s short,” I said, and everybody went to work: Max opened his bag, started pulling out his gear. I took the phosphorescent paint and the thick brush, called Pansy over to me, and generously lathered her fangs with the stuff—I opened the container of pork fried rice I’d brought with me and left it on the floor so she wouldn’t notice the taste of the phosphorus. In the dim light of the apartment her teeth took on an unearthly, menacing glow. Pansy seemed to relish the thought, letting loose a few experimental growls that rumbled against the plaster walls until I told her to shut up and go lie down behind the plush purple velvet couch.
Max was exchanging his faded jeans and sweatshirt for a set of green silk robes. He checked himself in the full-length mirror in the second bedroom, nodded in satisfaction, and then took a hideously carved teak mask from his bag. The mask was hinged on each side of the jaw, an ugly thing with slits for eyes and a slash where the nose would fit—the eyes tipped with dark green paint and the rest just a shiny, smooth surface of dark wood. As Max fitted the mask to his face his ancestors smiled in approval from somewhere in the mountains of Tibet.
The Prof pulled off his ragpicker’s clothes. Underneath was a pristine white linen suit, the kind plantation owners used to favor years ago. He looked dazzling.
We worked together in silence, even Pansy. I got out the leather belt from Dandy’s drawer, showed it to Max. He took one end in each hand and gave it an experimental tug, nodded behind his mask to show me it would be okay, no problem.
I set up my instruments on the kitchen table. It wasn’t really clean enough for an operating room, but then again, I wasn’t going to be working on a human being. The syringe was full of liquid Valium, the fresh new hypodermic spike still in its plastic case. I screwed them together, squirted a bit of the Valium to make sure it was working. Next I checked the anesthetic nose plugs—and the gym sock full of fresh aquarium sand just in case we wanted to do the job quickly. The bedroom window opened easily onto an alley in the back of the apartment, just like Margot had told us. Finally I checked the three smoke canisters the Mole had left behind in the apartment, spaced equally around the bedroom. I worked rapidly in the thin rubber surgeon’s gloves—fingerprints weren’t going to be an issue in this case.
The phone rang once. Stopped. Rang again. They were on their way up. Pansy stayed where she was in response to my hand signal, the rest of us deployed like we had rehearsed.
A key turned in the lock, and Flood came walking through the door, Dandy right behind. A tall thin dude sporting a short afro, early to mid-forties. He was clean-shaven with a mouth full of good teeth. Flood strolled over to the purple couch and perched on the edge of the cushion. Pansy smelled Flood on the other side and gave out the tiniest of growls, inaudible unless you were listening for it. Flood stayed on the couch while Dandy paced the floor, rapping his rap. “Baby, if you choose in New York you choose for good. That’s the way it is. You working those tricks by yourself, you was bound to get yourself hurt. You need a man. That