Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [42]
Tacked to one wall was the Cobra’s collage of socially acceptable porn—ads for bluejeans with little girls sticking their little butts into the camera, underwear ads from the catalogs with children strutting their undeveloped stuff for the photographer. Some of the photos had been scissored out—maybe there were also some adults in the ads and the Cobra had been offended at their intrusion into his maggoty fantasies.
On the bathroom wall was one of those pressure-point charts of a human figure showing the correct spots to kill with a single blow. There was a filthy tub, no shower—a can of shaving cream was the only thing left in the medicine cabinet over the sink. Plaster covered the walls, sweating in the heat from the radiators—he must have split very recently or the super would have been up to shut them off.
I moved through the Cobra’s den, but it was no go—he was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back here. Flood had spooked him away somehow and he was running. I checked the whole apartment again, cursing myself—if I had just listened to my experience instead of that damn blonde, I might have had him on a plate. A waste—it told me nothing I didn’t already know.
I walked out the Cobra’s door into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me just as the pimp walked out of Number 6 across the hall, pushing a little girl out in front of him. I got just a quick flash of them as I stepped forward—a skinny girl, maybe thirteen years old, wearing an ankle-length maxicoat opened to display tiny white hot pants and a red top, thick-soled high heels—her face was closed behind a thick mask of makeup. The pimp wore a maxicoat too, his an imitation leopard. He had a safari hat with a leopard band—I caught the glassy flash of a fake diamond on his hand. The pimp caught my eye and then quickly booked away, but it was too late—by then I was on top of them. The pimp was yelling “Hey, man!” but I had the little cylinder of CN gas in my hand and I blasted him full in the face. I could see the gas turn to liquid on his skin right between his frightened eyes.
“Hey, mister—hey, please. Man, I didn’t know nothin’, man. I thought she was legal age, you know? Hey, man—I didn’t know.” he was screaming and clawing at his face at the same time.
I dropped the gas canister in my pocket and grabbed hold of two fistfuls of the pimp’s cheesy coat, jerking him off his feet and back into his apartment. He tried to stand against the wall, but a knee to the testicles doubled him over. I clubbed him sideways across the face with a forearm as he slid to the ground.
I dropped to one knee, still holding his coat with one hand. “Fuckin’ yom. You know who the fuck this is?” indicating the little girl who was huddled in a corner, watching with wide eyes. “That’s Mr. G.’s daughter, asshole.”
And then he realized this was more than a statutory rape beef—he was on trial for his life and the jury wasn’t too deeply committed to civil rights. He looked for a way out, tried to speak, but nothing came out. I leaned down so I was real close to his face, slipping my hand around a roll of nickels I keep in my coat, my voice a harsh jailhouse-whisper. “Go back to Alabama, nigger. Never let me see you again in life, you understand? I see you again and I got to bring Mr. G. your fucking face in a paper bag. Got it?” punctuating each unanswerable question with a punch to his side until I felt a rib go. I pulled his face right into mine and spat between his eyes. He never moved—he would remember my face—I wanted him to. The closer the better for work like that.
I got to my feet and switched the roll of nickels for the .38. I pulled the hat off my head and wrapped it around the barrel. The pimp knew what was coming next as I knelt next to him, he could hear the pistol cock. “Mister—mister, I’m gone. I swear . . . I swear to God, man!