Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [162]
“You have offended God. You were warned and you ignored the warning. You trade in the Devil’s work. In pain. It shall be no more.” Max then stepped forward, holding the leather belt before Dandy’s glazed eyes. Max took one end of the thick belt in each hand and pulled it apart like it was wet Kleenex, tossed the two ends contemptuously to the floor, and stepped back, his hands disappearing beneath his robes.
And the Prophet now said, “Your life in filth is finished. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, garbage to garbage. I have spoken.”
Max advanced slowly on Dandy—Pansy could barely restrain herself from burying her fangs in his flesh. The pimp didn’t resist when I stuck the nose plugs into the sockets. Two more gasping breaths and he was out again.
Max pulled off his mask and the green robes, the Prof donned his ragpicker’s outfit over the white linen suit, Flood packed everything away, including her whore-clothes. The smoke canisters were almost empty, warm to the touch—all went into the big suitcase. One last quick spin around the place to check everything, Pansy lumbering after me, growling her frustration. I’d have to take her down to the training compound and give her an agitator or two to play with.
All done. From the back pocket of his jeans Max pulled a green plastic garbage bag, the super-giant size. He snapped it open, gave one end to Flood and the other to me. We held it open and Max picked up Dandy like a load of rags and dropped him inside. I pulled the nose plugs out of Dandy’s face and we twisted the top closed, using three of the wire tags. The pimp would be out another minute or two—long enough.
I pushed the heavy curtains aside to check the back alley. It was still empty. Flood and I stood on either side of the window and shoved it open, then watched as Max tossed out the garbage bag. It sailed through the air, then hit with a dull thud. Green smoke started to billow out of the window and we slammed it shut.
I phoned the Mole that it was time to go. Max and the Prof went to the basement—the Mole had his own car parked nearby and he would take care of dropping them off. We walked to the Plymouth, me now wearing a different hat and Flood looking like a different woman in her pleated slacks and wool jacket.
Pansy went back to sleep, half on the floor and half on the seat. Flood held my hand in both of hers, and we drove back to my office.
60
WE WERE IN Flood’s studio, she was packing. There had been nothing in the morning papers or on the radio about yesterday’s action, but the afternoon edition of the Post had the coverage. Flood perched on the arm of the chair as I read aloud:
PIMP SAYS HE SAW GOD IN PLASTIC GARBAGE BAG
A man with a history of convictions for pimping was discovered early this morning unconscious, injured, and wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag, police said.
The man, whom police identified as James Tyrone Simmons, 41, was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he reportedly told doctors a bizarre story of how God and several fiery devils appeared to him inside the bag. He could not explain, however, what he was doing there.
Simmons was listed in good condition, suffering from a broken ankle and wrist and multiple contusions. He was being held for observation, according to a hospital spokesman.
“Except for some broken bones, he’s fine physically,” said Dr. Ito Kumatso, the hospital’s chief psychiatric resident. “But the story he told us is something else.
“He talked about having a vision from God. He said God told him to change his ways, and then sent down monsters and wolves with fiery fangs. There was also something about green smoke.
“It sounds like a TV horror movie, but his terror seems genuine enough,” Dr. Kumatso said,