Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [30]
They took the box inside to the priestess. A few minutes later, the dope dealer was thrown into the street, hands cuffed behind his back, duct tape sealing his mouth. He ran from the block.
They whispered about it. In the bodegas, in the after–hours joints, on the streets. They said the priestess found the hand of her executioner inside the box, the tattoo mocking her. Chango was angry. So she found a better sacrifice than a chicken.
The cops found the dealer a few blocks away, a tight group of four slugs in his chest, another neat hole in his forehead. Nobody heard shots.
55
MAX CAME Into the restaurant. Sat across from me. Made the same gesture of getting a chill through his back he'd made when I'd asked him about being followed. Now we knew. Gold tones shot through his bronze skin—the warrior's blood was up. He showed me a fist, stabbed his heart with his thumb. I wasn't dealing him out of this one. Max tapped my wristwatch. Shrugged. I knew what he meant: why wait? I shook my head, held an imaginary telephone receiver up to my ear. If Wesley wanted to come for me, he wouldn't play games. It had to be something else.
Max folded his arms across his chest. I wanted to wait, he was waiting with me.
I told Mama I'd be back before the call came through, catching Max's eyes. No games—I'd be there.
56
PANSY TORE into the gallon of meat and vegetables Mama had put together for her. No MSG. I closed my eyes and lay back on the couch. Watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling. Wondering how long it would be before the office got back to its usual filthy state. The way it had been for years until Belle hit it like dirt was her personal enemy.
Wesley. We'd once worshiped the same god. But only Wesley had been true.
It had been a long time.
57
I WAS BACK at the restaurant before ten. "Max still here," Mama told me. "In the basement."
There's a bank of three pay phones past the tables, just outside the kitchen area. One of them is mine. People call, Mama answers. Tells them I'm not in, takes a message. It's worked like that for years.
The phone rang at ten–thirty. I looked at my watch. It wasn't like Wesley to be cute. I grabbed the phone.
"Yeah?"
"You answer your own phone now?" Candy.
"What?"
"I have to see you."
"I'm busy."
"I know what you're busy with…it's about that. You want me to talk on the phone?"
"I'll call you when I can come."
"Call soon. You don't have a lot of time."
58
AT ELEVEN the phone rang again I picked it up, saying nothing.
"It's you?"
"It's me," I said to the voice.
"We need to talk."
"Talk."
"Face to face."
"You know where I am."
"Not there."
"Where, then?"
"Take the bridge to the nuthouse on the island. Pull over as soon as you get in sight of the guard booth. Midnight tomorrow. Okay?"
"Want me to wear a bull's–eye on my back?"
"I don't care what you wear, but leave the Chinaman at home."
"What's this about?"
"Business," Wesley said, breaking the connection.
59
I FELT LIKE calling a cop. It passed.
Max didn't like any of it. When he gets like that, he acts like he can't read my hand signals. Everything takes longer.
None of our crew ever messed in Wesley's business. We didn't work the same side of the street. Max knew the myth; I knew the man. They both played the same. Finally, I got through to Max: if Wesley wanted me, bringing him along would just add another target. I played my trump card. Religion. Our religion. Revenge. If Wesley hit me, Max would have to square it. He bowed in agreement. I could always talk him into anything.
And I wasn't going alone.
60
IT WAS ABOUT eleven when I pulled out of the garage the next night, heading for the East Side Drive. If the cops stopped me, they'd get license and registration from Juan Rodriguez. I had a Social Security card too. Juan