Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [52]
I slowed down to light another cigarette. Opened my mouth to explain the reasons to Flood, who said, “You smoke too much,” and slapped the butt out of my mouth. She turned away so I couldn’t see her face. We both stopped in the middle of the block. She said nothing, just kept looking away from me. I was about ready to give up. “You’re a goddamned baby.”
She whirled around to look at me. Her eyes were almost bright enough to have tears in them. “I’m not a baby. But I’m not going to just do things. You have to explain them to me.”
“Flood, there’s a good reason for every single damn thing I told you to get. But we don’t have to fight about it out here in the street, okay? I’ve got to see this guy to get things ready. You can do one of three things: go and buy the stuff and meet me at the car; go and wait for me in the car so I can fucking convince you to buy the stuff; or go back to the Land of the Rising Sun.”
“I could find him myself.”
“You couldn’t find this freak if he was listed in the Yellow Pages.”
Flood faced me, held out her hand, palm up. I gave her the spare key to the door (it won’t work the ignition), told her how to work the lock, and she about-faced and marched off. I went up the block to the News Building and dialed the guy I wanted from the pay phone on the corner. He was in. I told him what I wanted on the phone—there’s no way I’m walking into a newsroom with all those nosy clowns around. Most of the younger reporters do all their investigating over the phone, but there’re a few veterans around who’d make my face and have it filed away forever. I told the guy I’d meet him in his favorite Irish bar in an hour and hung up.
I called Mama and told her to tell Mr. James that I’d be calling him that evening at the number he’d left, unless he wanted the number changed. Then I sat down with the racing form again for a half hour before calling Maurice with twenty across the board on a trotting mare I fancied, just to let him know I hadn’t left town. When I strolled into the Irish bar I found the reporter in a booth with a folder full of newsclips. I like this kid. He graduated from Harvard, has two master’s degrees, makes fifty grand a year, and talks like a mildly retarded working-class dropout with a philosophical bent. Maybe it works on women.
“Burke, here’s the dope you wanted. What’ve you got for me?”
“Got nothing now, kid” (he hates to be called kid) “but I’m working on a real scandal over at the courthouse.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I gave you that habeus canine piece, right?”
“Big fucking deal.”
“What do you mean, big fucking deal? I bet you copped a raise for such a sensitive piece of investigative reporting.”
“Look, Burke, don’t jerk my chain. You wanted the clips, I got you the clips. I know there’s a story in this someplace, so all I’m asking is that I get in first.”
“Kid, you know I don’t talk to reporters, right?”
The kid nodded—he thinks I’m in organized crime, one of the few Irishmen to break through the Italian barriers. The closest I ever got to a mob was at a wrestling match—some lunatic paid me good money to learn the true identity of the Masked Marvel for him.
I looked through the newsclips the kid got me from the morgue. My man was there, all right, just like I thought—Martin H. Wilson, arrested on charges of rape and sodomy of three Puerto Rican kids. No more on that story. Then Martin Wilson arrested on rape, sodomy, and murder charges of Sadie’s kid, D.A. asks $100,000 bail at arraignment. Then later on, court orders competency hearing after Wilson’s defense attorney says he’s a victim of Agent Orange poisoning in Vietnam. Then the other clips—I had a hunch about why Wilson wasn’t in the can waiting on a trial. Yeah, there it was: Elijah Slocum, major kiddie-porn dealer, arrested at his mansion in Riverdale by detectives from the Bronx D.A.’s office following a six-month investigation by undercover operatives. Slocum posts $250,000 bail, claims he was set up by his “enemies.” Slocum moves to reduce bail; several prominent citizens testify as character