Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [20]
"What do you see as the key to this match–up?" one of the announcers asked.
The guy he asked said something about dee–fense. Chumps. The key is the team doctor. The only war in pro football is chemical.
The barmaid leaned over to ask me if I wanted a refill, her breasts spilling out of the top of her blouse. I thought of Candy and her silicone envelopes. What's real?
Michelle tapped me on the shoulder. She'd changed to a red–and–black–striped skirt that pinched her knees close, the hem just peeking out under a black quilted jacket with wide sleeves. Her hair was piled on top of her head, most of the makeup gone. She looked fresh and sweet. I left a ten–dollar bill on the bar and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Nobody watched us leave—it was kickoff time.
36
I WAS GOING through the motions. Playing out the string. Not waiting for full bloom, like I had been all my life. Full bloom had come to me. Just for a visit.
Jacques called me at Mama's. He's a gun dealer, runs a sweet little operation out of a rib joint in Bed–Stuy. I found a pay phone, called him back.
"I have a client for some of my heating units, mahn"—his West Indian accent singing over the line.
"So why call me?"
"This client, he's one of those Haitians, mahn. Spooky, you know. All that zombie–talk…"
"Yeah." There's an army of Haitians between Brooklyn and Queens, waiting for the day when they take back their land from the Tonton Macoutes. They don't fear the living, but Papa Doc's spirit still frightens their children.
"I don't travel, mahn. You know this. And they don't come to my place. I need a traveling man."
"I'm not doing any deliveries."
"Of course not, mahn. You know how this works. You go there, they pay you. You call me. I tell them where to pick up the units."
"And I wait with them while they send someone to do the pickup?"
"Sure."
"How much you paying hostages these days?"
"Oh, mahn, do not speak like this. Nobody going to cause trouble. These are not drug dealers, you understand?"
"Sure."
"Let us do business, mahn. Good business for me, good business for you."
"How good?"
"Couple of hours of your time, say…five?"
"Okay."
"Yes?"
"I'll see you in a couple of days," I told him, hanging up.
I heard the surprise in Jacques's voice. A deal like this had to net him six figures, and I was going cheap. But I had a secret he didn't know about. I didn't give a fuck.
37
I LEFT THE Plymouth just off the West Side Highway near Forty–second and walked over to Eighth Avenue to catch the E train for South Jamaica. A young white dude was sprawled on a bench, chuckling over something he was reading in a magazine. I put one foot on the bench, lit a smoke, took a look over his shoulder. An article about how to make your car burglarproof.
I dropped underground, fishing a token from my pocket. A young black woman dressed like a nun was sitting just past the turnstiles, a flat basket full of coins in her hands. Her face was calm, eyes peaceful.
"Help the homeless?" she asked.
"Say something in Latin first."
"Fuck you," she said, her voice soft.
Everybody's got a pimp.
I caught my train. A huge black guy got on at Queens Plaza. Walked up and down the car announcing that this was his train. He was a combat–trained Vietnam vet and nobody was going to pull any stuff on his train—all the passengers could feel safe with him. Took off his cap and went up and down the row, collecting contributions for his program. Right across from me was a young Oriental, a folded copy of the Times in one hand, a small dictionary in the other. The black man collected some change from the lady a couple of seats down from me, checked my face, passed me by. The guy next to me looked like a lab rat. He threw some coins. When the collector strolled back up the other side, I watched the Oriental. The black guy shoved his cap right in the Oriental's lap. The Oriental was stone–faced. The black guy was covering his newspaper with the cap, not moving. The Oriental reached into the cap, took out a handful of change, jingled it in one fist, watching the black