Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [21]
He looked gratefully at me. “Yeah, I figured she was carrying something, you know? What a sicko bitch.”
“You see where she went?”
“No, man. She just zipped out the door.”
“You call downtown?”
“Uh . . . no, man. I mean, I figured . . . she was just another sicko, like I said. I didn’t know anyone gave a shit.”
“Yeah, you did right. Okay.”
“You said there was something in it for me?”
“Yeah, I got something for you.” Against my better instincts, I reached in my pocket for a pair of twenties, folded the two bills, and stuffed them in the pocket of his knit shirt. He tried to display some class, but he had his hand in his pocket almost before I was out the door.
Back on the bricks I moved away quickly before he got the idea of making a phone call and picking up some congratulations for his cooperation. Flood was around. I knew she’d be down here—all guts and no brains—with a lousy interrogation technique and a worse temper. No surprises so far.
But where would she go next? Even someone like Flood would know better than to think she could just slap and kick her way down Forty-second Street until she got some answers. If I stayed on the trail long enough, I’d have to come up with some myself.
I had been walking aimlessly until I looked up and saw I was headed toward the Port Authority Building. Flood wouldn’t be there. Plenty of freaks, all right, but not the kind she was looking for. I kept walking—past the whores, the winos, the stud-hustlers, the dope peddlers and the rough-off artists, past narrow alleys. Nothing. I checked faces, looking for whatever—cold neon lights flashing off dead eyes, lost kids, dirtbags looking for lost kids to turn a profit, Jesus freaks, bag ladies, bored cops. Nothing.
Then I spotted a huge Spanish-looking kid sitting on a milk crate at the mouth of an alley, giant transistor radio held next to his head so close it looked like it was growing out of his ear. He was singing to himself. Other street kids walked by in front of me, checked out the Spanish kid, looked over his shoulder into the alley, and kept rolling fast. Something smelled. I walked by too, glancing over his shoulder, and saw a flash of white in the alley, no sound. Too many people around to take the kid out of the play—and I didn’t want him behind me if I went past. No time. Past the kid, I turned into the first door, a topless club next to the alley. It was dimly lit, blue smoke inside, disco music, no conversations. Sluggo braces me at the door: “Ten dollars cover charge.” Wonderful. Probably took him a week to memorize the words. I threw ten bucks at him and went past, checked out the topless dancers with their sagging bodies and dead brains, and walked the length of the bar. I kept moving like I was looking for a good seat.
Nobody was paying attention. I headed toward the back, my sense of direction distorted by all the twists and turns in the place. Found the door to the men’s room and walked in—a guy in a red leisure suit and white shoes was throwing up in the sink. I went past him. No windows. Nothing there. Back out the door, looking for the kitchen. I found a door with No Admittance in red letters, pushed gently, and it yielded. I shoved it open and walked inside like I knew where I was going. The cook looked up from a slab of metal that was once a stove and yelled “Hey!”, but I was already past him and up to the back door. It was bolted in three places from the inside. I shot the bolts back, stepped into the alley, and looked to my right where the Spanish kid was still sitting on his milk crate, now with his back to me. The bolts slammed home behind me and high, thin laughter came from my left along with the sound of shoes scraping on gravel. I moved in that direction, slowly now.
I turned the corner carefully and saw four of them frozen, waiting—one kid with a big afro who looked Spanish waving a length of bicycle chain, a smaller one holding an open stiletto, another one just standing . . . and Flood. She was backed against