Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [75]
It was about time to meet Flood, so I did the same.
28
IT WAS ALMOST seven when I poked the Plymouth’s nose down Flood’s block the way a ferret sticks his nose down a hole before taking the plunge. Everything seemed quiet, so I rolled down my window and snaked out the hand-held spotlight so it was pointed across the windshield directly at Flood’s door. When I flicked the switch the night turned into day—nothing happened, nobody jumped from the shadows. Flood walked out the door wearing an ankle-length maxicoat with a big pocketbook slung over one shoulder. She climbed in the car without a word and I set it rolling downtown.
As soon as we straightened out, Flood started pulling pieces of paper out of her bag and talking at the same time. “I did exactly what you told me. I looked through everything. There’s no name even like his anywhere. I even asked the clerk to help me and he did and we still couldn’t find anything.”
“Just calm down, Flood. It’s no tragedy. Did you write down all the docket numbers from the days I told you to check?”
“Every single one. There’s no—”
“Never mind.” I already had an idea about the Cobra, and if Flood had done her job we’d know soon enough. We still had a little time so I pulled into a parking place, got the pocket flash from the glove compartment, and took Flood’s notes out of her hand. I was trying to concentrate but I was slowly being knocked unconscious by Flood’s perfume—it smelled like Eau de Whorehouse and it was thicker than flies on a corpse.
“Flood! What the hell is that stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“That fucking perfume! It smells like a used motel room.”
“I thought it would go with my outfit,” she said bitterly, and the maxicoat fell open to reveal Flood. Revealed her because the clothes she had on obviously did nothing to cover her—a jersey sweater clearly worn without benefit of a bra, and pink pants so tight I could see the muscles of her thighs. Even the black wig said Slut.
“Flood, what are you doing?”
“Well, you said I had to wear this nonsense, so I thought—”
“Flood, for chrissakes, I said to wear the outfit to court, right? Not for the rest of your life.”
“You didn’t tell me I should change, so—”
“Don’t you have a fucking grain of common sense?”
“First I’m a dumb broad because I don’t listen to you—now I’m a dumb broad because I do. Which is it?”
“Flood, the outfit was for court, so they’d look at your body and not pay any attention to your face. Tonight we’re seeing an assistant D.A.”
“You think he won’t look?” Flood pouted like a real brat. I would have given her a smack if I wasn’t afraid of permanent injury.
“Sure he’ll look. But he’s a professional, not like those rumdums at the courthouse. He’ll remember your face anyway. And it won’t matter—he’s a straight citizen, not one of the bad guys.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘Oh.’ Wonderful.”
“You want me to go home and change?”
“There’s no time. We can’t be late for this. Besides, you’d have to take a bath for a month to get that smell off.”
“I only did it because—”
“Bullshit, Flood. You’re not that dumb. I think you like wearing that get-up.”
Flood got a dangerous edge to her voice when she said, “What?”
“You heard me. This isn’t a game, right? Use some sense.”
“I’ll keep the coat buttoned, Burke. Okay?”
“Keep your lip buttoned too.”
In a sweet little-girl voice, Flood said, “Please don’t get mad, daddy,” and reached over to squeeze my hand. Then she moved over against the passenger door like some high-school girl rejecting a pass. By the time the Plymouth