Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [17]
Not a muscle shifted in my face as she studied it carefully. “So?”
“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“There’s pressure on now. There’s some people moving into things. People who hate niggers.”
“Moving into what?”
“Into the Square. With kiddie stuff—pictures, films, like that.”
“And?”
“I already said enough—maybe it wouldn’t work anyway, it’s just stuff I heard. Look, I just did you a favor, right?”
“If Michelle’s on Forty, you did.”
“She’ll be there, baby. I just did you a favor. If I needed one back, could I call you?”
I looked at her, trying to see the face behind the makeup, trying to see the skull behind the face. The sun was in her eyes, bouncing off the dark glasses she wore. I couldn’t see anything. Her hands were shaking some.
“You can call me at this number, anytime between ten in the morning and midnight,” I said, telling her Mama’s pay phone. She didn’t say a word, just moved her lips several times memorizing the number. Then she walked away again, without the exagerated wiggle this time. I started the engine, let it idle a minute, tossed the smoke out the window (you can’t use the ashtrays in this car), and took off for Pier Forty.
I spotted Michelle as soon as I pulled up. She was wearing a big floppy white hat, like you’d see in a plantation movie. It should have looked stupid with the blue jeans and a sweat shirt with some jerko designer’s name on it, but it didn’t. Before I turned off the engine she was already walking over to me. She jumped in on the passenger side, slammed the door behind her, leaned over to whip a quick kiss on my cheek, and draped herself back against the door. “Hi, Burke.”
“What’s happening, Michelle?”
“The usual, darling. The bloody usual. It’s getting harder and harder for an honest person to make a living in this town.”
“I’ve heard that. Listen, Michelle, I need some information about a guy who’s holed up somewhere near here. A stone freak, maybe a baby raper.”
Michelle looked over at me, giggled, said, “I’m your man,” and giggled some more. She’s not too concerned anymore about being what she is, says even the truckdrivers who pay her for some fast work with her mouth know she’s not a woman. She says they like it better that way—who knows?
“All I know about this guy is his name, Martin Howard Wilson. He calls himself the Cobra.”
Michelle cracked up. “The Cobra! Jesus have mercy—he’s not a snake-fucker, is he?”
“I don’t know, what’s a snake-fucker?”
“You know, Burke, the kind of guy who’d fuck a bush if he thought there might be a snake in it.”
“No, that’s not our boy. I don’t really know too much about him—no description, just the name and the nickname. But I thought you might have heard the name yourself—maybe have something for me.”
“Darling, I have never heard of this particular freak, believe me—but that doesn’t mean I won’t. But I’d have to hear it long distance, you know? The cesspool is even more slimy than usual, if you can believe that. It’s no place for a sweet young thing like me, honey. There’s people working the place now that make even the freaks look good.”
“I just heard something like that from your friend.”
“You mean Margot? She’s a trip, all right. Comes out here every day and turns down tricks. Can you believe it? Her man’s elevator must not go to the top floor. She’s smart, though—went to college and all. She’s one of the few girls out here I consider my intellectual equal, honey.”
“Does she know what she’s talking about?”
“If you mean about some new scum moving into Times Square, she sure does, baby.”
“Any idea why?”
“Yes, darling. There are people who are into sordid things who are not just businessmen—people who just don’t know how to act, if you catch my drift.”
“Margot said they hate niggers.”
“That’s part of it, I guess. There’s only a few of them now, and they’re Americans. But they all play like they’re foreigners.”
“From where?”
“Think of a country even more vicious to people like me than this one, baby. Think of a country where half the freaks in this country dream of going someday.”