Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [20]
As I walked past the attendant, I pulled my coat open with both hands to show I wasn’t glomming any of his merchandise. He gave me a quick glance and went back to whatever he was doing. I thought a moment and decided on the direct approach. No use flashing a phony badge down here. Half the quasi-cops (like the Civilian Patrol, or the characters that carry PBA cards like they’re members of a secret society, or the lames who send away to magazines for their International Organization of Private Investigators credentials) in the city hang out down here. I also know there aren’t too many independent operators left in the Pit.
After I loomed over the guy at the desk for a minute or so, he looked up. “I don’t want to waste your time,” I said. “I’m a private investigator looking for a young woman who’s got to be down here. If you can help me, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Look, pal. A lot of women come down here—you’d be surprised. I don’t take no notice. I just do my job.”
“The boss would want you to do this one, friend.”
“Huh?”
“Look, she’s a member of one of those wacko organizations that want to close down these dens of sin, you understand?”
“So? We get them in here all the time too—on tours or something. Don’t mean nothing.”
“This broad means business, my friend. She just got out of Mattawan for throwing a firebomb into one of these places—killed a guy. She said Jesus told her to do it. Remember, it was on Forty-fourth, about two years ago?”
He looked at me, mentally plodding through his file of potential dangers to himself. Balanced the odds. “So?”
“So Carlo gave me this job, told me to find her and take care of her before she blows up one of his joints, right?”
“So?”
“So I was promised cooperation from your boss, you understand?”
“My boss ain’t named Carlo.”
“Look, I’m trying to be reasonable. I thought I was dealing with an intelligent guy.” I imitated his squeaky voice: “My boss ain’t named Carlo!” His head shot up. I said, “You asshole—I mean your fucking boss, not the flunky who tells you when to open this dump—understand now?”
He looked around behind him like something was gaining on him. Then he glanced quickly over at the pay phone in the corner. I played out the string. “Look, pick up the phone, call your boss, and tell him Tony’s here to do a job for Carlo. You think you can maybe do that without getting confused?”
He looked at me again, trying to make up what some uninformed person might call his mind. I said, “Look, go ahead and call, I’ll watch the jerkoff artists for you,” and got his attention again as I pulled the .38 partway out of the underarm holster.
He rubbed the side of his head. “If you’re from downtown, what’s my name?” I looked into his eyes, seeing fear. He looked into mine and saw what he expected. I trotted out my whisper-of-the-grave voice. “Don’t make yourself more important than you are.”
We looked at each other. He blinked, wiped his forehead with a dirty sleeve. I opened the front door slightly as though to throw my cigarette butt into the street, at the same time making a quick gesture with my hand that he cleverly picked up with his sensitive vision. He decided. “You said there was something in it for me?”
“That’s what I said.”
“A cunt came in here maybe an hour ago—short blonde cunt. Asked me a lotta stupid questions about the kiddie shows over on Eighth. I thought she was comin’ on to me, you know? I said something to her and she fucking sapped me—right in the fucking face. I think she broke a tooth or something—hurts like a motherfucker.”
“She hit you with a sap?”
“I didn’t see it, but it must of been a sap. Didn’t even see her fucking hand move.”
“Yeah, she sounds like the one, all right. You did the right thing,