Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [21]
The black guy moved on, into another subway car. Maybe he really was a Vietnam vet.
I rode the train nearly to the end of the line. Walked up Sutphin Boulevard, looking for the house Jacques had described to me.
Three young blacks were watching the traffic from a topless white Suzuki Samurai. The driver stared through the windshield, his passenger watched the street. Another draped a casual hand over the padded roll bar to watch me approach. The passenger got out to sit on the hood, cradling a cellular phone in a white leather shoulder bag. Ten pounds of gold around his neck, brand–new orange leather sneakers on his feet. Wearing a white leather jacket with layered lapels. I kept coming, hands out where they could see them. The driver reached under the dash. The largest one climbed out of the back. Three gold rings on his right hand, welded into a slab across the knuckles. He put his hand to his cheek. I read "Stone" in raised gold letters. The one with the cellular phone took off a pair of dark shades, raised his eyebrows, tapped his nose. I looked through him, went on past. Crack dealers, not hiding it. Nujacks, they called themselves. Flashing. The way a fuse does before it reaches the dynamite.
They were marking out territory in the wrong neighborhood. This turf belonged to a Rasta posse. The last crew from Brooklyn had ended up extremely dead. That's the only War on Drugs going down around here.
I found the house. Knocked four times on the side door. Stepped into a basement. Nobody said a word in English—a couple of the men muttered in something that sounded like French. They pointed to a suitcase. Opened it. I looked inside, counted. They pointed to a phone. I called Jacques.
"It's me. They got one twenty–five."
"New or used?"
"Used, not in sequence. But I got no blue light with me, pal."
"That's okay, mahn. Put them on."
The guy who pointed at the suitcase listened to Jacques, said something to the others. They went out through a different door than the one I'd used. I sat down to wait. I'd told Jacques that the cash looked good, but I wasn't vouching for it. If it was funny money, I was taking the same risk he was—my five grand would come out of the suitcase.
I sat down to wait. Put my hand in my pocket for a smoke. The guy waiting with me said, "Easy, easy." I took it out real slow. I had the match to my cigarette before I realized the guy wasn't talking to me.
It was less than two hours later when they came back.
I hit the street with the suitcase. Before I got to the corner, a dark sedan pulled over, flashing its high beams on and off. The window came down. An Island voice said, "Burke?"
I got in the back. It took off smooth and easy. At the next corner, an identical car pulled in front of us. There'd be another one behind. I didn't look. We stopped at a light on Queens Boulevard. A guy in the front got out of the car carrying the suitcase. He handed it over to the car in front, got back in as the lead car took off in a squeal of rubber.
They dropped me off in Times Square. Handed me an envelope. I walked to the Plymouth by myself.
38
I WALKED BY myself a lot then. The court case was pending, but not hanging over my head. Davidson was right—if I didn't do something stupid, I was okay.
I didn't feel okay.
After a few more dead days, I called Candy.
39
SHE OPENED the door, wearing an apricot sweatshirt that came down almost to her knees, face sweaty, no makeup. No contact lenses either, yellow cat's eyes patient.
The apartment looked the same. Fresh rosebuds in a steel vase on the coffee table. The air smelled sharp, ionized. Like after a hard rain.
I sat on the couch. She curled her legs under her, wrinkled her nose when I lit a cigarette. I waited.
"I have a daughter," she said.
I dragged on the cigarette, watching the glowing tip.
"You don't seem surprised."
"I don't know you."
"I know you. You're the same. So am I."
"Okay."
"She's almost sixteen years old. Always had the best. The very, very