Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [5]
I used to dream about her coming back.
I don't have any more dreams.
He didn't ask me today. The waiter brought him a bowl of fried rice and a pitcher of ice water. I watched him eat, smoking another cigarette. I wasn't hungry.
The waiter took the rice bowl away. I got up to split. To go nowhere. Max pushed his hand toward the tabletop, like there was a delicate bubble of air he was holding to the surface. Stay for a minute.
I sat back in the booth. He pointed to the empty place next to me.
Floated his hands before me into a kung fu dragon–master opening. I nodded my head. Yeah, a karate–fighter. So?
He pointed a finger to himself—weaved his own hands in an answering gesture.
I nodded again. The man wanted Max. Wanted to challenge him to a duel.
He pointed at me again, made a gesture of dismissal. He flipped a chopstick between his fingers—snapped it like a dry twig. Right again. I'm no karateka—no match for a master.
Max took a sip of water, his eyes pinning me. He waved his hands again, another challenge. Shook his head no. Held up his hand like a traffic cop. Shrugged his shoulders. No big deal. Max the Silent didn't fight for fun. He'd just walk away. It wasn't an ego thing.
He spread his hands in the "why?" gesture again.
It didn't matter anymore.
I jerked a thumb to my right, indicating the challenger. I pointed at Max, put my hands on the table in front of him, two fingers down from each fist. Men walking. I had them approach each other. Stop. One finger pawing the air before the other. Turned one hand and had the fingers walk away. Felt his eyes on my hands. I pulled one hand off the table, flattened it into a wall, slammed it down in front of the two fingers walking away. No. You can't walk away. His eyes lifted to meet mine. I took the hand that had been a wall and brought it to my chest. Made the sign of rocking a baby. Pointed to him. Your baby. I lifted one hand gently to where the baby's head would have been, watching my brother's face. Held his eyes as I slashed a finger across the child's throat. The karateka's ante in the death–game. Somebody dies. "I can always make a man fight," the maniac told me.
Max locked my eyes, making it not true in his mind. But he knew. I heard a sharp crack. The water glass popped in his hand. Blood flowed across the knuckles.
My brother bowed slowly to me. And then he was gone.
I lit another cigarette. Mama came back to the booth. A waiter made the blood disappear.
"You tell him, yes?"
I didn't answer her. She left me alone.
8
WEEKS WENT by like that. Slow, gray time. Like being inside. I stayed where I was, not even waiting. McGowan's partner took his shot too. Morales, a thickset Puerto Rican. He got right to it, bracing me in the basement poolroom. I was pushing the balls around the green felt by myself when he walked in. Took a seat and watched me for a while, not saying anything. The stick artists ignored him—the salesmen moved away from our area. There's rooms upstairs you can rent by the hour.
He tilted his hat back, small dark eyes like bullet holes in his head. Watching.
I stroked the bright orange five ball into the corner pocket. The cue ball reversed itself on the short rail and slapped into a cluster of balls, scattering them.
"Nice shot," Morales said.
I chalked my cue. Nudged the four ball into the same pocket.
"You're a good shooter, I hear."
I tapped the thirteen, sliding it toward the opposite corner. Chalked my cue again.
"Funny game, pool," he said. "You shoot a ball, you do it right, and it just disappears right off the table."
I banked the ten ball into the side pocket.
He got up, poked through the racks of standing cues, found one that suited him.
"Let's you and me play a game," he said, sweeping the loose balls together into the triangular rack. Nine balls.
"Five