Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [71]
I didn’t see Michelle so I headed for the long counter. As usual, Ricardo was in place. He serves as sort of a maitre d’ and bartender at the same time, selected more for his courtly manners than anything else, I suppose. I know for damn sure they don’t need a bouncer in that joint. One time some jerkoff sailors found their way inside and started some trouble with Ricardo. He didn’t participate personally—just watched while his customers made short work of the sailors. I don’t know if the Shore Patrol declared the place off-limits after that or what, but I do know the sailors’ threats to return and demolish the place never came to anything. “Ah, Mr. Burke,” Ricardo greeted me, “a pleasure to see you again, sir. Will you have the usual?”
I said sure without the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Ricardo thinks questions like that add a lot of class to the joint. He put some silly-looking glass filled with dark liquid and a slice of lime in front of me. I didn’t touch it—I don’t drink. I put a twenty on the bar, Ricardo made it disappear and threw a bunch of bills back in the original spot. I let them ride and asked, “Seen Michelle?”
“Today?” A blank look on his face.
“Ricardo, you know me—what’s the problem?”
He let his eyes drift down to the money on the bar. Sure—if I was there as a friend, why would I have to bribe this guy just to find out where she was? Ricardo wasn’t as dumb as he acted. So I said, “For my drinks . . . and hers, right?”
He smiled. The man had about twice the normal allotment of teeth. “She’s in the dining room, sir.”
The dining room crack just meant she was around someplace, and that he would let her know I was here. I don’t know how they do that, and I never asked. But the system works—in less than five minutes Michelle swished through the door of the ladies room and took the stool next to me.
“Looking for company, handsome?”
“Actually,” I told her, “I’m looking for the Prophet.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“No, baby, I mean Prof, you know?”
“Oh, that Prof. He’ll be here. This place is on his regular rounds. But I guess you knew that.”
“Yeah. Look, I have to ask you something about your friend Margot.”
“Ask me what, honey?” said Michelle, her face calm but her eyes alert.
“Is she straight?”
“She’s a who-ah, sweetie, a pros-tit-tute.”
“That’s not what I mean, Michelle. She told me some things, and maybe she asked me to do some things. I don’t want to get it caught in a wringer.”
“One of my friends got it caught in a wringer. It cost a lot of money—she should have gone to Sweden. You know they don’t do the operations at Johns Hopkins anymore?”
“Yeah, I know. Do you know Margot’s pimp?”
“Dandy? Yes, I know the swine.”
“A swine because he’s running girls or—?”
“A swine, darling. A pain-freak—there’s a lot of them around nowadays. I don’t even think he’s a righteous pimp, you know? Like he marks the girls in the face—what kind of pimp does that?”
“What’s his weight?” I asked.
“Strictly fly, baby. He came from Boston where he was working some runaways. That’s his real thing, you know. He has some boys too. I heard he was even pimping when he was in the joint.”
“Why would he come down from Boston?”
“Baby, don’t you know the way it works? It’s harder to pimp in a small town. You have to be in good with the locals, and you can make enemies so easily. Here in the Rotten Apple there is room for everyone—you don’t have to be connected to work street girls, you don’t have to make payoffs, don’t even need a trick book. All you need is meat on the street, just some meat on the street. Maybe he had some trouble back in Boston—who knows?”
“You saying Margot is good people?”
“Honey, for a biological woman, she’s all right.”
“Okay,” I said, “now what about the message you gave her for me?”
Michelle leaned against me, put one hand on the back of my neck to bring me closer to her