Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [12]
It must have shown in my face. Mama's voice was soft. "No" is all she said.
I lit a cigarette, biting into the filter. The little bubbles in my chest popped—a tiny string of explosions, like baby firecrackers.
"Woman say old friend. Need to talk to you. Very important."
I looked at Mama. Her lips curled, short of a sneer. "Always important. Woman say to tell you Little Candy from Hudson Street. You know her?" Mama asked, handing me a slip of paper with a telephone number.
I nodded. It didn't matter.
19
MAX WENT everywhere I went. Behind me, not with me. Guarding my back. Protecting me from a ghost. His warrior s soul screaming for combat to make it right. Too late for the battle.
We were on a pier near the Yacht Basin, waiting for a buyer to show up. The buyer had advertised over an electronic bulletin board, using the modem on his personal computer. He wanted a little girl. No older than ten. White. Someone he could love. He'd have ten grand with him. To prove his love.
Max took a restaurant napkin out of his pocket, a felt–tip pen from mine. Drew a rising sun, touched his heart gently. Pointed at me, turned the finger around to include himself. We could go to Japan. Find Flood. Bring her home.
I shook my head. She was home. So was I.
The headlights of the buyer's car flashed. Once, twice. Max merged into the shadow next to my Plymouth. I walked over to the buyer's car, a beige Taurus station wagon. The driver's window whispered down, air–conditioned breeze on my face. It didn't make sense for that time of the year until I saw the fat man inside. Ice–cream suit, straw hat, sweating.
"Mr. Smith?" he asked in a pulpy voice.
"That's me," I assured him.
"She's with you?"
"In the car," I said, tilting my head to show him the direction.
I stepped aside to let him out. The light went on inside the station wagon when the door opened. Empty. He took a black attaché case off the seat next to him.
"She's still a little dopey," I said, walking beside him.
"No problem."
I lit a cigarette, the cheap lighter flaring a signal to Max.
"She's inside," I told the fat man, patting the Plymouth's trunk.
"Let's see."
"Let's see the money."
He popped open the briefcase on the trunk lid. Clean–looking bills, nicely banded. And a small plastic bottle with a spray top, some white handkerchiefs, plastic wristbands—the kind they give you in the hospital.
"Got everything you need, huh?"
"Hey, look, pal. This kid isn't for me, okay? I'm a businessman, just like you. In fact, you got any more where this kid came from, you just let me know. I got customers waiting."
His fat body slammed into the back of the Plymouth as Max took him from behind—a paralyzing shot just below the ribs, a lightning chop to the exposed neck as he went down. Vomit sprayed onto the Plymouth.
I ripped open his shirt. No wire. Pulled his wallet from an inside pocket, stripped off his watch, passed up the rings, snatched the brief–case. And left him where he was.
It didn't make the morning papers.
20
THE GILT LETTERS on the pebbled–glass door said "Simon J. Rosnak—Attorney at Law." Max and I stepped inside. The girl at the front desk was a cunty brunette with sparkle–dust for mascara and the kind of mouth that would make you throw out the postage meter so you could watch her lick the stamps.
"Can I help you?"
"I want to see Rosnak."
"You have an appointment?"
"No."
"Well, Mr. Rosnak isn't in yet. If you'll leave your name and number…"
"He's in. I don't have time." I glanced down at the console on her desk. None of the lights were lit.
"You can't…"
I walked past her. "Call a cop," I advised her, leaving Max behind to keep her company.
I found a carpeted hall, followed it to the end. Rosnak was sitting at an old wooden desk, reading some kind of ledger. He looked up when he saw me, a tired–looking man in his forties.
"What?"
"I need to talk some business with you."
"I don't know you. Speak to Mona. I'm busy."
I sat down across from him. Lit a smoke. There was no ashtray on his desk. "I need to speak