Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [84]
“And you’re a tough guy, right? Don’t need ’em.”
“Right—that’s me.”
Flood stood up, took off the jacket she was wearing, and pulled the jersey top over her head. Her breasts looked like hard white marble in the dim light. She came back over to me, sat on the desk again.
“Does next door have a shower or a bath?”
“Why?”
“I want to make love to you, Burke. And if there’s no shower here, I’ll never get these damn pants on again afterward.”
“There’s a shower, but—”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to take them off.”
“More ancient Japanese techniques?”
“I don’t think so, but it’ll work just as well. Make you nice and sleepy, yes?”
“You sure?”
“Would you rather that way . . . or are you afraid I’ll hurt you if we . . . ?”
“Both,” I said.
“Sold,” said Flood, and reached for my belt.
31
WHEN I CAME to, I was still in the chair. Pansy was muttering at me. I told her to go on the roof—the door was already open. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I figured I couldn’t shave my face the way it was and I was glad of the excuse—I hate shaving. But Flood, who looked as fresh as new flowers, said she could shave me painlessly as long as I got my face warm and wet. It was awkward in the tiny bathroom, but Flood sat on the sink facing me and did a beautiful job. I never felt a thing. While she was shaving me I watched her breasts bounce ever so slightly in the morning light—she was biting her lip in concentration, and I thought how fine it would be to have her around all the time. I realized I’d been hit harder in the head than I’d thought.
At a little past seven in the morning I sat down at my desk again, checked the phones to make sure the hippies weren’t changing their ways, and dialed. It was picked up on the second ring. “Clinica de Obreros, buenos dias.”
“Doctor Cintrone, por favor.”
“El doctor esta con un paciente. Hay algun mensaje?”
“Por favor llamat al Señor White a las nueve esta mañana.”
“Esta bien.” And we both rang off.
Flood was staring at me. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
“I don’t. I just know a few phrases for certain situations.”
“You asked him to call you tomorrow?”
“Today, Flood. Mañana just means morning—like in German morgen means tomorrow, but if you say guten morgen it means good day.”
“Oh. So who’s this doctor?”
“Nobody. You didn’t hear that conversation. That knock on the head you gave me is making me stupid. I’ll do this, not you. Okay?”
Flood shrugged.
“I have to go out and see someone. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. You want to wait here, at your place, or what?”
“Would it be a problem to take me back to the studio? You could call me there.”
“No problem, I need the car anyway.”
I set out some food for Pansy, hung around a few moments until she snarfed it down, set up the office again, and we went downstairs to the garage. I moved quickly to get Flood home, and she seemed to understand that I was working on a schedule now. Jumping out of the Plymouth while it was still rolling to a stop, she threw me a quick wave over her shoulder and ran into her building. I had to be at the pay phone on Forty-second and Eighth at nine on the dot. That’s what the Mr. White message would mean to Dr. Pablo Cintrone, director and resident psychiatrist at the Hispanic Workers Clinic in East Harlem.
Pablo was a towering figure in the city, a graduate of Harvard Medical School who turned down a small fortune when he went back to where he came from. He’s a medium-sized, dark-skinned Puerto Rican with a moderate afro, a small beard, rimless glasses, and a smile that made you think of altar boys. He worked a twelve-hour day at the clinic, six days a week, and he still found time for his hobbies, like leading rent strikes and campaigning against the closing of local hospitals. The rumor that he went to medical school to learn how to perform abortions because the cost of the pregnancies he caused were going to break him was untrue. Other people thought he was dealing prescription drugs out of the clinic or that