Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [24]
Flood fired the lighter, sucked in smoke, blasted it out her nose like a little blonde dragon, and handed it to me. She didn’t smoke now, I guessed, but it wasn’t as if she never had. I smoked and looked out the car window. I could feel Flood next to me, but she didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally she asked, “You just happened along, huh?”
I looked her right in the eyes. I can lie to anyone—when I finally get to Hell, I’m going to convince the Devil he got a wrong shipment. But it didn’t seem worth it to lie right then. “I was looking for you. I decided that I’d take the case even without the information.”
The smile around her eyes dropped to her broad mouth for just a second. “That’s funny. I was going to look you up and give you the information you wanted.”
I was feeling better. “You still got the grand?”
That brought a happy little laugh and, “Yes, Mr. Burke. My own investigations were quite inexpensive.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I could see that.”
She lit another cigarette for me. I could have done if for myself by then, but what the hell. We had to get moving—the Plymouth was as anonymous a car as you could want, but Flood and I hadn’t made any friends in the last few hours and you never know. “Where to?” I asked her.
“I think you should come with me,” she said, “I have the information you want, but I can only show it to you where I live.” I nodded and she gave me directions. She knew the city better than I expected.
It was an old factory building on Tenth Avenue, south of Twenty-third. The sign over the entrance said Lofts Available for Any Commercial Purpose. Raw Space. No Living, and gave the name of some broker to contact. The directory board showed a variety of businesses, most of them the kind that cater to the twits who eat wine and cheese for breakfast and brag about getting the latest in venereal diseases.
Flood had a key and we took the freight elevator to the fourth floor. A small hand-lettered sign proclaimed this the Yoga Plateau, and Flood produced another key. Inside was a huge empty room, gym mats on the floor, plain white walls, stereo set in one corner, and speakers all over the place. One whole wall was industrial windows. A sprinkler system hung down from the ceiling, pipes all painted white. There was a tiny white plastic desk and white push-button phone. Even the bulletin boards were white. In the middle of the linoleum floor was a large square marked off with wide black industrial tape. Flood walked toward the square, then veered off to the side. I stepped into the square, and was stepping back out of it even as Flood shook her head no. She headed toward a door against the side wall away from the windows. She had the key for that one too. I followed her inside.
We were in a tiny private apartment. The stove had a large wok covering the only two burners; the waist-high refrigerator had a white wood cabinet on top; and there was a chest of drawers with an armoire standing next to it, both painted white. Through an open door, I saw a stall shower, sink, and toilet. The room next to the little kitchen had rattan mats on the floor, probably for sleeping. There was no other furniture.
Flood left the door open behind us. She tossed her purse on top of the chest, shrugged out of her jacket, spread her hand to indicate I should sit on the floor. I looked carefully around the little room—no ashtrays. She caught my eye, took a small red-glazed bowl from next to the sink and handed it to me. “Use this.”
I sat and smoked through a couple of cigarettes while Flood busied herself around the place. She asked me if I wanted tea, and seemed unsurprised when I said no. Finally, she came over to me and sat across from me in the lotus position.
“Mr. Burke, I have to explain some things to you. And I have to show you some things so you’ll understand why I have to find this person who calls himself the Cobra. Let me just tell you in my own way and when I’m finished you can ask any questions that you