Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [46]
Max and I walked back to the Plymouth. One of the young men in the pack caught my eye. I got the message. Don't. Come. Back.
I'd heard it before.
84
WE ROLLED back onto the BQE, heading toward Queens. Random loops, in case Julio was going to be stupid. Time to kill. Exited at La Guardia and looped around the airport, taking our time. Dark now, headlight patterns in the mirror. Max was watching, face turned to the rear. He made the "okay" sign as we pulled into the parking lot of one of the airport motels. We smoked a couple of cigarettes, watching the shadows dance. Men in shiny, pointy–toed boots with Cuban heels, light bouncing off thick shocks of heavily oiled hair. Bulletproof vests over tropical–colored silk shirts. Cocaine and money switched partners. They work outdoors now. The DEA has the rooms wired. A few years ago, some local Colombian paid a half million cash for the key to one of the lockers in the airport. He opened it up, the spring snapped, and the explosion took out nineteen people. That was back when the Italians still thought they could keep narcotics in the family. Wesley had the contract on the Colombian—the other eighteen bodies were on the house. The federales are still looking for the terrorist organization responsible.
Julio was playing it like Wesley was just a shooter, but he knew better. And he knew I knew.
I ran it down for Max. He already had most of it, from watching Julio. The Mongolian made the sign of a man aiming a rifle. Pulled his hand away from the trigger, knife–edged it, and chopped at his own neck. Pointed to my watch. Let's take him out tonight.
I shook my head no.
His hands asked why.
I shook my head again, pointed at my watch. Not now. Wait. I held my palm over my eyes like I was shielding them from the sun, turned my head from side to side. Something else around.
I couldn't say what.
85
WE CROSSED the Triboro from the Queens side. Worked our way to the junkyard. Hours yet until we had to meet Wesley—I wasn't going to wait in a bar.
I shoved a cassette into the tape player, jamming the bass as high as it would go for Max. He put his fingertips on the speaker on his side of the car.
Judy Henske. "High Flying Bird." And "God Bless the Child." I wondered if they let torch singers into heaven—I couldn't see Henske in a choir.
Sonny Boy Williamson. "T.B. Blues."
The sky looks different from the gutter.
Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. I'd forgotten he was on the tape. Just a bar singer's voice, but his dark–side poetry was diamonds shining through blood. The Texas Tower song—Kinky's ode to America's favorite sniper, Charles Whitman.
Maybe the Mole knew.
86
TERRY LET us in, leading us through the dog pack. Simba was sitting by himself a few feet from the Mole's bunker. His eyes ignored me, tracking Max. Calm, inside himself. Max stepped to the side, hands flowing to a clasp just below his waist. He bowed to the beast. Not in deference—a warrior on another's ground. Simba flashed a lupine grin and strolled off into the darkness.
We went down into the bunker. The Mole was in his chair, lap covered by an artist's pad. The page was covered with sketches of machinery, formulas and equations scrawled from corner to corner. He grunted a greeting, not looking up.
"Would you like some tea?" Terry asked me, making the sign of a cup to the lips for Max. The warrior nodded his head gravely. "You got any ginger ale?" I asked. The kid gave me a look like the Mole does sometimes. Michelle would be proud of him.
We sipped our drinks. The Mole ignored us. Finally, he dumped his calculations on the floor. Terry was waiting with a cup of tea. The Mole nodded his head absently.
"What're you working on?" I asked.
"A computer retrovirus."
"What?"
"Computer virus…you reach a certain point and it eats the data, yes?"
"Okay." I knew what he meant. Pedophiles are really into computers, meticulously recording each victim. They have crash–codes built in. The cops try to access