Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [53]
Good enough. There was no picture of Wilson but I didn’t expect one. A Daily News photo would never be good enough anyway. All I really wanted were the dates. I put them in my memory, shook my head sadly, and handed the clips back to the kid. “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”
“This stuff is no good?”
“You got me what I asked for—I just came up empty, that’s all. Listen, I still figure I owe you one, okay?”
The kid nodded glumly, swallowed his beer in a single throw and signaled to the barmaid for another as I was getting up to leave. I said I’d give him a call. He mumbled “God bless” and started on another brew. I walked four blocks west, caught a cab, told the driver I wanted the U.N. Building, and got off near Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. Then I walked down to the river and south to the car where Flood was sitting in front seat reading a newspaper.
I let myself in, noticing the packages piled on the back seat. So far, so good. Flood looked at me expectantly. “I’ll explain when we get to the office,” I said, eased the Plymouth into gear, and set off for downtown.
21
HALFWAY DOWN THE FDR I realized that I wasn’t acting like I’d been trained to—I couldn’t really bring Flood back to the office without showing her too much. And I wasn’t ready to do that. “Flood, is anyone using your studio this time of day?”
“Why?” She was obviously going to stay hostile until I came up with some answers for her.
“Well, I can’t bring you back to the office without deactivating the dog, and that could take a couple of hours. Besides, I don’t want to do any business with clients until we’ve wrapped this thing up. I just want to concentrate on this.”
“There’s nobody there. They only have classes two nights and one day every week. But why can’t we go to your place?”
“I live in a hotel and there’s no way to get past the front desk without a lot of people noticing. I don’t want anyone to notice you until you’ve gotten into the disguise.”
“It must cramp your style, not being able to get by the front desk.”
“It cramps everyone’s style. That’s why I live there.”
Flood didn’t seem surprised that I knew the way to her place. I told her to go on upstairs and that I’d call her in a few minutes to see if anyone had been around asking questions. She made no move to take the packages out of the back seat when she got out.
I gave her ten minutes and called. A frigid voice just barely identifiable as Flood’s informed me that everything was as it had been and that I could come up when and if I decided to.
I carried the packages in, rang for the freight elevator, and waited until I heard it start to groan its way downstairs. Then I stepped back outside. When it came down empty. I pressed the switch to send it two floors above Flood’s place, and took the stairs—quietly. There were no sounds except the elevator. Waiting in the corridor on Flood’s floor, I heard the elevator creak to a stop somewhere above me and stepped into the studio. It was empty, the same as when I was there last. I walked back to Flood’s private place where she was sitting on the floor in that lotus position waiting for me. And my story.
I tore open the packages—tanning lotion, eyeshadow and eyeliner, a lustrous-looking black wig, a pair of pink toreador pants, a black jersey V-neck pullover, a black patent-leather belt, some black mesh pantyhose, and a pair of four-inch spikes in black pseudo-leather. Cheap junk, except for the wig. Flood said nothing, watching me.
“Okay, here’s the story. You can’t change your face, not really. But you’re going to have to be seen by some people—you dress like this and people will notice everything but your face. All they’ll remember is some pink pants and maybe black hair. Besides, you have to look kind of sexy and incompetent at the same time, because you have to ask some people for help. They won’t remember what they don’t see.”
“Burke, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Flood, for chrissakes, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t raised in a convent. The average man takes one look at