Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [34]
"You got it handled?" he asked.
I nodded, thinking about kids.
63
I DIDN'T EXPECT ANYTHING to happen soon. Wesley ran on jailhouse time.
Survive. That's what I do. The biggest piece of that is waiting. Knowing how to wait. Before Belle, I was the best at it. Drifting just outside the strong currents, keeping out of the pattern. Moving in on the breaks, never staying long. In and out.
But if you just stayed in your cell—that was a pattern too.
64
MAX WASN'T at the warehouse when I pulled in. Immaculata was upstairs, in the living quarters they fixed up above Max's temple. She had a stack of mail waiting for me. One of Mama's drivers handles the pickup from my P0 box in Jersey, drops it off every few weeks. Mac bounced her baby on her knee while I smoked and went through the pile.
Anything goes through the U.S. mail. It moves more cocaine than all the Miami Mules going through customs. That's why they invented the "American key." Key as in kilo. A true kilo, European–style, is 2.2 pounds. And the Federal Express cut–off is two pounds.
I work a different kind of dope. Some of the letters were from would–be mercenaries, sending their handwritten money orders to me for "pipeline" information. Child molesters sent cash, seeking the "introductions" I promised in my ads. Freaks ordered hard–core kiddie porn they'd never receive. Let them write the Better Business Bureau. Every so often, someone would answer one of my sting ads: "Vietnam vet, experienced in covert actions. One–man jobs only. U.S.A. only. Satisfaction guaranteed." You hire a hit man through the mails, you find out who first wrote that Silence Is Golden. Blackmailers.
The P0 box isn't just for suckers. Anyone out there who knows the game I play can use it for a mail drop. One of the envelopes contained only a single page ripped from a doctor's prescription pad. A blank page except for one word. Shela. She was a high–style scam artist who hated the freaks as much as I did. I never asked why. Whenever she ran across a rich one, she'd pass it along.
I left the money orders in a neat stack for Max to take to Mama's laundry, shrugged into my coat, bowed to Immaculata and the baby.
"Burke…"
"What?"
"Max can take care of this thing for you."
"What thing?"
"This man…the one you met…the one with the machine gun."
"Max told you about that?"
Her lovely dark eyes shone under lashes like butterfly wings. "Do you think that was wrong?"
"I'm glad he has someone to tell."
"You have someone too, Burke. You have us. You know that."
"There's nothing to tell. Wesley's not a problem."
"Not like before?"
"Let it go, Mac."
"That's what you must do," she said.
65
I'M A GOOD THIEF. Two words—two separate things. When I had that name, I was out of the loop. Safe. The old rules are the best rules—you dance with the one who brought you to the party.
I made some calls, put the team together.
66
"THIS'LL REALLY WORK?" I asked the Mole. He was bent over a lab table in his workroom, a pile of gold Krugerrands spread out before him.
He didn't answer. Terry was standing next to him, his little face vibrating with concentration, nose two inches from the Mole's hands.
Michelle was perched on a stool, her sleek nyloned legs crossed, smoking one of her long black cigarettes. Heart–shaped face peaceful. She could have been a suburban housewife watching her husband teach their son how to build a ham radio.
Outside, dogs prowled the night–blanketed minefield of junked cars. Ringed in razor–wire and dotted with pockets of explosives. The safest place I know.
Time went by. The Mole's stubby paws worked tiny probes under a huge magnifying glass he had suspended over the workbench. I heard the clink of coins, saw the red laser–beam shoot from a black box. I picked up one of the Krugerrands, turned it over in my hand. It looked like it was minted yesterday.
"I thought these things weren't allowed in the U.S. anymore. No more trading with South Africa, right?"
The Mole looked up. Hate–dots glinted behind the thick lenses. "No new Krugerrands.