Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [50]
When we got to the Plymouth, I checked it quickly, opened my door, and Flood slid in first. We drove over toward the East Side Drive, down to the Park & Lock joint near the river. I wanted to approach the Daily News Building on foot. I turned off the engine, rolled down the window, lit a cigarette, and waited. It’s always good to wait. Most people lack patience, especially when they’re doing something they really don’t want to do.
It was quiet and dark in the lot, even in the middle of the day, and Flood didn’t seem in a hurry. She just sat quietly, watched me smoke, and finally said, “You’re not carrying guns today, are you?”
I turned away from the window. She was sitting with her legs crossed, elbow on one knee, chin in her hand. “Why do you say that?”
“A person walks differently when he’s carrying a weapon. He moves differently. You can always tell.”
“You learn that in Japan?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they told you wrong. I don’t walk differently, I don’t move differently.”
“Burke, you’re not carrying those guns.”
“I’m armed.”
She looked at me, smiled, and said “Bullshit” in a merry voice. I looked as injured as possible under the circumstances.
“You want to search me?”
Flood gave me a throaty laugh, said “Sure,” and put her hands inside my coat, under the arms, down my ribcage, around to my back, into the waistband of my slacks, dropped her hands to my ankles. Came up empty. She raised her eyebrows, patted my groin and round the inside of my thighs. Back to the groin again. “Is this what you mean?”
I tried to look serious, settled for a kiss on the tic-tac-toe scar instead and lit another cigarette. Flood looked pouty.
“Look,” I said, “those folks in Japan don’t know everything. I’m not trying to put them down, but you won’t survive long if you believe everything someone else tells you.”
“I still don’t see any guns.” Flood tapped her fingers on my knee as if she were patiently waiting.
I tightened my right fist, brought it up against my shoulder, flexed my bicep hard until I popped the Velcro flap inside the sleeve at the elbow joint. I pulled my fist rapidly away from my shoulder, opening it just in time to catch the short metal tube as it slid down my sleeve through the silk channel into my open hand. It wasn’t as smooth as Flood and her star, but her mouth popped open like she’d just seen magic. She clapped her hands delightedly. “Burke, what’s that?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Like a big fat lipstick.”
I held it in my hand and told her to look closely. The tube was perfectly machined steel, about two-and-a-half inches long. Inside was a .357-magnum hollow-point slug. All you do is press hard on the back of the tube and the slug comes out the front. The Mole wouldn’t guarantee accuracy over five feet but he did guarantee it would work. Flood reached for it but I jerked it away from her.
“Can’t you unload it and let me look at it?”
“You can’t unload it. Once you force the slug in against the spring, that’s it.”
“Can you reload it after you use it?”
“Nope. You shoot it once—it blows up a piece of your hand and whatever’s in front of your hand, and that’s all there is.”
“What a crazy thing.”
“You just searched me. Did you find it?”
“The star is better.”
“Better for you. It takes skill to throw that damn thing. All it takes for this is the guts to push the button.”
She sat there for a while, obviously thinking it over. Like she knew something was wrong but couldn’t get a grip on it. I smoked another cigarette while she was thinking. Finally she said, “It’s no good. It doesn’t even look like a gun. You couldn’t hold it on anyone and make them do anything. It wouldn’t scare anyone.”
“It’s not supposed to scare anyone. Nobody’s even supposed to see it, much less get scared by it. It’s just in case.”
“In case of what?”
It was my turn