Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [73]
I passed an OTB parlor on the way. I don’t do business with them—at least I don’t place bets—but I do have one of those plastic credit cards that says I have a telephone account. Very useful. Not for betting on the phone, but for using the City of New York as a courier service. Here’s how it works: let’s say you’re rolling down the street carrying cash and some people know about it. They’d like to talk to you. So you duck into an OTB and make a cash deposit to your telephone account. You fill out a deposit slip just like in a bank, and they give you a stamped piece of paper for a receipt. Then you light a cigarette with the receipt and go back outside. If the people waiting ask you to step into their car and they search you, there’s no cash. They conclude you weren’t carrying the money on that particular occasion. Then, when you want your cash, you go to the main OTB branch on Forty-first Street, give them your account number and code word, and they give you a check that’s as good as gold. You can either mail the check to yourself or walk a half-block and turn it into cash. It’s a fine way to move money around the city, and OTB doesn’t charge a cent for the service. Even the checks are free.
When I got back to the office I let Pansy run on the roof again. She looked as calm as usual but that didn’t mean much—dogs don’t have long memories. The phone line was clear so I tried Flood again.
“Ms. Flood, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“You’re great at disgusing your voice, Flood.”
“Burke?”
“Yep.”
“I went to the court and—”
“Save it. Not on the phone. I’ll—”
“But listen—”
“Flood! Give it a rest. I can’t talk on this phone, okay? I’ll pick you up tonight, your place, at seven, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Can you wait in the lobby downstairs? Move out when you see the car?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t sound so depressed, kid. It’s coming soon.”
“Okay,” as flat as ever.
“Later, Flood.” I hung up.
I cruised over to Mama’s in the Plymouth, parked around the back, and went through the kitchen to look through the glass. The place was empty except for some dregs from the late lunchtime crowd. Stepping through the kitchen door sideways I entered the restaurant from the back like I’d been in the bathroom. I sat down at the last booth in the rear, the one with the half-eaten food standing around on the plates, and one of Mama’s waiters approached. “Will there be anything else?” I don’t know how Mama trained them, but they were good—I’d obviously been here for the past hour or so. I told the waiter I was satisfied and lit an after-lunch cigarette.
When the rest of the crowd moved out Mama left her place by the cash register in front and came over to sit with me. The waiter cleared off the table and I ordered some eggdrop soup and Mongolian beef with fried rice. Mama told the waiter to bring her some tea. “What is happening, Burke?”
“The usual stuff, Mama.”
“Those men on the phone—bad men, right?”
“Not bad like dangerous, Mama—just bad like lousy, you know?”
“Yes, I know, I hear in their voice, okay? Could be very bad people if you afraid of them, right?”
“Oh yeah, fear would make them tough for sure.”
“Max help you?”
“Sometimes.”
“I mean with those men, okay?”
“Max is my friend, Mama. He would help me and I would help him, understand?”
“I understand. Beef good?”
“The beef is perfect.”
“Not too hot?”
“Just right.”
“Cook very old. Sometimes you do thing long time you get very good, right? Some things you do too long, not so good.”
“Like me?”
“You not so old yet, Burke.” Max suddenly materialized at Mama’s elbow. She slid over in the booth to make room for him and signaled for more tea. Mama thought