Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [79]
“Nothing. Nothing. We don’t know a goddamned thing we didn’t know before—”
“Flood, shut up. We know all we need to know now.”
“You’re a fool, Burke. And I’m a bigger fool for listening to you. He told us nothing, don’t you understand?”
“We know the name of a group interested in Goldor, right? Maybe Goldor knows where to find our man.”
“And maybe he doesn’t. And maybe he won’t tell us. And what do you know about Puerto Rican terrorist groups anyway? It’s nothing.”
Flood looked like she couldn’t decide whether to cry or kill. For as long as I knew this woman I kept overestimating her or underestimating her—maybe I’d never know her long enough to get it right.
I took the piece of paper Toby had slipped me out of my coat pocket, smoothed it out carefully, and turned it around so it was facing her. It took a second for Flood’s eyes to focus on the black-and-white standard mug shot, one full-face view and one in profile. It showed a man just over six feet tall, with a face that was broad at the top and narrowed down to a pointed chin. He had dark hair, dark, bulging eyes, a narrow nose with a too-large tip. The head was slightly jug-eared, and there were old acne scars on both cheeks. His hair was on the long side, but cut close in front so his entire forehead was visible. On the back of the Xeroxed mug shot there was a typed notation: “4-inch scar outside left thigh. Tattoos: right bicep/ Death Before Dishonor with Eagle, left outside forearm/ initials A.B. in a blue circle—wears contact lenses.”
Flood stared at the mug shot like she was going to climb inside the paper. I broke her concentration when I turned the paper over. She read it slowly and carefully, moving her lips, memorizing.
“Him?”
“It’s him, Flood.”
And her face became a sunburst and her eyes sparkled and I’ll never see a more radiant smile—it turned the whole room warm. Flood held the mug shot and chuckled to herself, smiling that smile. She threw off the robe, turned around, and bent over, looking back over her shoulder at me.
“You want to try that trick of yours again?”
“Do I look stupid?”
“It won’t be the same. Promise.”
“How come?” I was suspicious.
“Ancient Japanese technique.”
So I gave her a half-hearted smack and she was right. It was like patting soft, bouncy female flesh—the best there is.
“See?”
“You know any other Japanese techniques?”
Flood looked back over her shoulder with that same wonderful smile and said, “Oh yes.” It turned out she was right.
29
WHEN I WOKE up it was early morning, still dark outside. I reached for Flood but she wasn’t next to me on the mat. Some things I guess you never learn. I got up and made enough noise moving around so I wouldn’t surprise her. Not a sound from Flood’s room.
I found her back in a corner sitting in the lotus position, staring at a tiny table completely covered with a white silk cloth that reached to the floor. On the tabletop was a small picture in a plain black frame of a young woman holding a little girl on her lap. The woman was smiling into the camera and the little girl looked very serious, like kids do sometimes. Next to the picture was the mug shot of Wilson. Flood had something propped up behind it, so the two pictures faced each other.
Hearing me behind her, Flood turned and said, “Soon, okay?” I went back to the mat. In a minute or two she came out and sat down next to me.
“It was wrong of me to go through the ceremony alone—I just didn’t want to wait any longer. You have the right to watch if you want.” She held out her hand and pulled me to my feet.
I followed her back inside to the corner where she’d set everything up. She motioned to me to sit down a few feet away from her and flowed into the lotus position again. Soon she began to say something in Japanese. It wasn’t repetitious and didn’t sound like a prayer, but when she finished she bowed to the tiny table. Then she got to her feet, took off the robe she’d been wearing,