Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [91]
The cab stopped at the corner and got moving again as I was swinging the rear door closed. I looked at the cab as it moved away—it sure looked like a gypsy cab, but someone must have stolen the rear license plate. I marched the half block until I spotted about a dozen kids—some sitting on the steps of the abandoned building, some standing. Only about half of them were looking in my direction.
The lobos came fully equipped—they all wore denim cut-offs with a winged and bloody-taloned bird of prey on the back—the birds had human skulls instead of heads. I spotted bicycle chains, car antennas, and baseball bats—one kid had a machete in a sheath. No firearms on display, but two of them were sitting next to a long flat cardboard box.
As I got closer I could see they weren’t kids at all—none of them looked under twenty years old. They wouldn’t fool a beat patrolman too easily either—no radios playing, no wisecracking among themselves, just quietly watching the street.
I glanced up and saw a gleam of metal at one of the windows—there wouldn’t be any winos sleeping in that building tonight. A car turned into the block from the other end and came toward me. The lobos moved off the steps and I stepped back in the shadows. The car was a year-old white Caddy—it never slowed down but I glimpsed three people in the front seat—two girls and a driver with a plantation hat. Some pimp was on his way to the Hunts Point Market, and suddenly I knew just about where I was in the South Bronx.
When I got within fifty feet of the building I saw hands go into pockets but I kept on coming. It wasn’t bravery—there was no place else to go. When the hands came out of the pockets with mirror-lensed sunglasses I figured I was going to be all right. Nobody needs a disguise to take your life.
I approached the gang. They looked briefly at me then past me to see if I had come alone. I kept walking up the broken steps, heard movements behind me, didn’t turn around. I went through the door into a black pit—and stopped. A voice said: “Burke. Don’t move, okay? Just stay where you are.”
I didn’t. I felt a hand on my arm. I didn’t jump—it was expected. The hand groped, found mine, and a heavily knotted rope was pushed into my palm. I grabbed one of the knots and felt a gentle tug. I got the message and followed along in the direction I was pulled. I couldn’t see a damned thing—the guy leading me must have been using sonar or something.
The same voice finally said, “In here,” and I stepped through a door covered with dark blankets. Now I could see a dim light ahead and I followed the back of the man leading me down a long flight of stairs until we came to another blanket-covered door at the bottom. My guide felt his way through the blankets until he found a bare spot, knocked three times, waited patiently, heard two raps from the other side, rapped once in response, waited, rapped one more time. He gently pushed against my chest to indicate that we should stand back, and then from the other side of the wall bolts sliding, metal scraping, something heavy being moved. I wanted a cigarette but I didn’t want to move my hands. After a couple of minutes the door slid open and a large man parted the blankets and stepped out. I couldn’t see him too well but there was enough light to catch the highlights bouncing off the Uzi submachine gun he held in one hand. He stood there covering us both for what seemed like a long minute, saying nothing.
Then I felt a breeze on the back of my neck and heard Pablo’s voice behind me saying, “This way, Burke,” and I turned and entered the door behind me, my back now to the man with the Uzi. By the time anyone broke down the blanketed door and confronted the guard, the people in the room I was stepping into would have been long gone.
The big room was as anonymous as a cell block—a round table in the center, several couches and old stuffed chairs scattered around, concrete floor, plasterboard walls. A light fixture dangled from someplace