Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [44]
“Thank God you’re back, anyway,” she said. “This place was beginning to smell and I didn’t want to leave the phones.” She picked up the ashtray and headed for the bathroom in the back. I heard the toilet flush, then a rush of air as she opened the ventilation shaft for a minute to clear out the room.
When she came back, patting her face with one of those premoistened towelettes every working girl carries, she asked me, “So?”
“He was there—and now he’s not. Gone. I have to start over.”
“Too bad, baby.”
“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t a total loss. I found another kid for McGowan.”
“McGowan’s a doll. If I was a runaway I’d turn myself in to him in a flash.”
“You were never a runaway?” I asked, surprised.
“Honey, my biological parents packed my bags and bought me the bus ticket.”
There was nothing to say to that—I knew what Michelle meant by biological parents. Once I had a teenage girl come to my office and offer to pay me some money to find her “real” parents. She said she was adopted. It made me sick—these folks adopted her, paid the bills, took the weight, carried the load for her all her life, and now she wanted to find her “real” parents—the ones who dumped her into a social services agency that sold her to the highest bidder. Real parents. A dog can have puppies—that doesn’t make it a mother. I took her twenty-five hundred and told her to come back in a month, when I gave her the birth certificate of a woman who had died from an overdose of heroin two years after the girl had been born. The phony birth certificate said “Unknown” next to the space for “Father”. I told her that her father had been a trick, a john. Someone who paid her mother ten bucks so he could get off for a few minutes. She started to cry and I told her to go talk it over with her mother. She wailed, “My mother’s dead!” and I told her that her mother was home, waiting for her. The woman who had died had just been a horse who dropped a foal, that’s all. She left hating me, I guess.
Mama still hadn’t called, which meant Max wasn’t at the restaurant. I told Michelle I’d drop her wherever she wanted, and we packed up the stuff together.
When I pulled the Plymouth up in front of her hotel Michelle leaned over and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Get a haircut, honey. That shaggy look went out ages ago.”
“You always told me my hair was too short.”
“Styles change, Burke. Although God knows, you never do.”
“Neither do you,” I told her.
“But I’m going to, honey . . . I’m going to,” she said, and bounced out of the car toward the steps.
Michelle had a place to live, and so did I. But we had the same home. I drove past mine to the place where I live.
16
YOU CAN WALK out of prison and promise yourself you’ll never be back, but it’s not such an easy promise to keep. You always take some of the joint with you when you go. The last time I got out, I told myself it would be great to get up when I wanted to—not when the damn horns went off in the morning. But it’s still hard for me to sleep late. Besides, Pansy isn’t the kind of cellmate who’s willing to sleep in and forget about hitting the chow line.
While she was out on the roof I looked out the back door toward the river. It was quiet up there, but I knew things were happening on the street. I’d never be able to live high enough up to not know that.
I went back into the living space next to the office and put together the stuff I’d need. All the firepower went back into the compartment in the floor of the closet except the .38, which would go back into the car. I put the clip-on car antenna into the breast pocket of an old tweed sportcoat, put it on over a plain gray sweater. Some tired corduroy pants, a battered felt hat, and a pair of desert boots completed the professor’s outfit. The hat didn’t really fit in with all the other stuff, but I don’t like to play stereotypes too rigidly.
I put the microcassette recorder inside the special pocket in the lining of my leather overcoat and connected the long flexible wire the Mole had made for me to the remote microphone sewn into