Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [57]
I drove past Mama’s to check her front window. Usually there are three beautiful tapestries of dragons on display—one red, one white, one blue. Tonight the white one was missing—undercover cops of some kind were inside. If the blue was gone, it would mean the uniformed police. I kept rolling like I was supposed to do. I could have gone inside, since only the red dragon standing alone meant danger, but I needed to find Max and he wouldn’t be inside, at least not upstairs with the customers. When Max wanted to leave he climbed down to the sub-basement, below the regular storage area. It was pitch-dark down there, and dead quiet. I was there once when two uniforms came looking for him. The young cop wanted to go down there after him but his partner had more sense. He just told Mama to ask Max to stop by the precinct because they wanted to talk to him. Going down in that basement after Max would be about as smart as drinking cyanide and have the same long-term effect.
I pulled into the warehouse with the headlights off, rolled down the window, lit a cigarette, and waited. It was quiet there, so quiet that I heard the faint whoosh of air before I felt the gentle thump on the car’s roof. I stared straight ahead through the windshield until I saw a hand press itself against the glass, fingers pointed down. I told Max that one day he would break his fool neck jumping from the second-story balcony on to the roof of cars. He thought that was hilarious.
We went into the back room and I pointed to one of the chairs, then spread my hands to ask “Okay?” When he nodded, it meant he’d wait there for me. He knew I’d explain when I got back.
The basement of the warehouse was my next stop. The only light down there came from the diffused rays of a streetlight through one of the dirty narrow windows, but it was bright enough for me to find the exit door behind a pile of abandoned shipping pallets. Inside one of the pallets was a rubber-covered dial telephone with two wires ending in alligator clips and a set of keys. One of the keys let me into another basement halfway down the alley, and the second got into the telephone wire box for the commercial building on the corner. It was peaceful—the collective of Oriental architects who inhabited the place in the daytime never worked at night. I checked my watch. Another three or four minutes until James would be expecting the call. I opened the telephone junction box, hooked up the handset, checked to see if anyone else was on the line, got a dial tone, and waited. At fifteen seconds to six I dialed the number James had given to Mama. Someone answered on the first ring.
“Mr. James’s wire.”
“This is Burke.”
“One moment please.” I was supposed to think I was calling an office. James came on, another voice, so at least two of them were in on the game. “Burke. I’ve been trying to reach you. You’re a hard man to catch.”
“Why didn’t you just stop by the house, pal?”
“I don’t know where you live.”
“That’s right, you don’t. What do you want?”
“I’ve got some business for you; something right up your alley. There’s a considerable sum involved. Can we meet?”
“You know somebody I know?”
“I don’t want to say names on the phone. But let’s say I know your reputation, and this would be something you would want to do.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I do think so,” his voice turning what he thought was hard and forceful, meaning that he was going to be a continual pain in the ass and stay on my case. It was better to meet him once and have done with it.
“Okay, pal. Tonight—all right?”
“Tonight’s fine. Just tell me where.”
“I’ll send a cab for you. The driver will bring you to me.”
“That’s not really necessary.”
“Yeah, it is.”
There was silence as he thought for a minute, not that there was much for him to think about. He was probably going to tell me to send the driver to some fancy hotel