Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [17]
Three more bedrooms. A single working girl. A movie star. The last one had a black leather psychiatrist's couch in one corner. Rings bolted into the floor. The walls were lined in dark cork.
She took me back into the front room. My cigarette had burned itself out. I let go of her wrist—lit another one. She walked out of the room. I picked up the phone, hit the * button, watched the thin slash of liquid crystal fill up with the same number I had dialed before. The Prof answered. "Okay so far," I said. Hung up again.
She came back in again. "You think of a name for me yet?"
"There's lots of names for it."
"Money is the name for it. Nothing's changed."
"I haven't got any money."
"Yes you do, bounty hunter. I know what you do. But it's not your money I want. It's money I have for you—something I want you to do."
"There's nothing I want to do."
She took off her top. Her breasts stood out hard as white marble. "Silicone. The very best—envelopes, not injections." She licked her lips. "Collagen. Here too," she said, patting her seamless face. She stood, dropping the denim shorts to the floor in the same motion. "This is mine," patting her butt. "Hard work. Three times a week on the machines." She took a deep breath through her nose—her waist wasped. "I can do more crunches than a bodybuilder. Six days a week." The soft patch between her legs was dark, gleaming, heart–shaped. "Electrolysis. Once a month," she said, holding out her arms for me to see.
"You don't miss a trick."
"Don't be nasty, Burke. I'm proud of you—you got what you wanted. Can't I do it too?"
"What did I want?"
"You think I don't remember? A name. You got a name now. The whole street knows your name. After Mortay…"
She caught me looking at her, felt the chill. "I'm sorry. I know better. Don't say anything. I know the rules. There's something I need you to do—something you know how to do. And there's money. A lot of money. Just think about it, okay? And call me. You have the number. I'll come wherever you want…tell you what I need."
I stood up. "One more call," I told her. She shrugged, walked over to the window, naked in the light. The glass had a faint orange tint. One–way. I picked up the phone, dialed 958–2222. A recorded voice spat back a phone number. Ma Bell's black box telling the phone repairman that he was working on the right account. It wasn't the number I had called her on. I said "Okay" into the phone and hung up.
She came over to the door with me. "Whatever you want. And the money," she whispered. "Call me." Her lips flexed like she was going to kiss me. Saw me watching her face and pulled the punch. The door closed behind me. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, met Max on the stairwell. I pushed an imaginary button with my finger. We split up at the bottom of the stairs. When the doorman went to the back to answer the buzzer I walked out the front door.
30
I DROPPED the Prof off at the edge of the Village, turned the Plymouth toward Chinatown. Max spread his hands, asking me "What?" I shrugged. I pulled over to the curb when we got near the warehouse where Max had his temple. His face was a mask, staring out the windshield to some other place. His hand dropped on my forearm, a leather–colored bone sculpture, a ridge of horned callous raised along the chopping edge, the first two knuckles enlarged, a white slash across the back from an old razor scar. He wasn't going to move. I turned to see what he wanted.
The mute Mongolian took his hand from my forearm, tapped two fingers against my chest. Where my heart would be. He put his fingertips together, elbows extending in a straight line. Slowly opened his fingers, tilted his face up. Sunlight? I looked a question at him. He went through the whole thing again. He wasn't getting through. A thick finger drew a cross in the