Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [53]
She pulled her head back. "I thought…"
I climbed out of the chair. "I'll call you," I said.
She struggled to her feet, following me down the hall, hands cuffed behind her, the leash dangling from the choke collar.
"Burke!"
I stopped in the living room, waiting. "Get me out of these handcuffs. Or leave me the key. I don't have another one. I can't stay tied up like this."
Lousy little liar. "Call a friend," I told her.
92
WESLEY would be holed up somewhere in the city. Someplace with no neighbors. He had no baggage, no friends, not even a dog. He could go on the move every night. Carry whatever he needed in a duffel bag. No pressure points on his body—he'd been ready for this all his life. Torenelli's boys didn't have a chance. Trying to catch mist in a butterfly net.
I thought about my office. Pansy. Mama in her restaurant. Michelle in her hotel. The junkyard would be safe, but I'd have to stay once I moved in. Compared with Wesley, I was a citizen.
I called Wesley from Mama's. Worked my way through some hot–and–sour soup waiting for the call–back. He must have been keeping a close watch—the phone rang in twenty minutes. I answered it myself, saving time.
"Yeah?"
"You called."
"I have to go back in. See the man you told me to stay away from. Wanted you to know in front."
"Why?"
I knew what he meant. "It's part of this whole thing—I don't know what yet."
"You're checking on that address for me?"
"Already started."
He hung up.
93
I WENT LOOKING for the Prof. Slipped a roll of quarters in my pocket. Tolls for the turnpike. I found him on Vanderbilt, just before it dead–ends on Forty–second Street. A big shoeshine box in front of him. No customers.
"Let's take a ride," I said.
"I wish I could, but I'm holding some goods."
I glanced at the shoeshine box. He nodded.
"How long?"
"Quarter to a half."
I propped a boot on the metal last, lit a cigarette while the Prof went to work. He knew how to do it. Taking his time, running a toothbrush around the welt, taking the polish directly on his fingertips, working it in, popping the rag. Misted the leather with a little spray can, flicked it off with a buffing cloth. He was finishing up the second boot when two heavyset black guys rolled up. They leaned against the building wall, watching. Chilly young men. Pups from the same litter.
The Prof finished up with a flourish. Tugged at my pants cuff to let me know.
"There's your shine, and it's damn fine."
"How much?"
"Put down a pound."
"Five bucks?"
"The ride is five. You want the honey, you come to the hive."
The two pups pushed themselves off the wall in case I was going to argue. I handed the Prof his cash, moved off. Didn't look back.
The Prof caught up to me around the corner. His hands were empty. He got into the Plymouth and we headed over to the West Side Highway. Pulled over at the Ninety–sixth Street exit, hooked the underpass, and found a parking spot on the river. I popped the hood, hauled a toolbox out of the trunk. We kept our heads under the hood, playing with the tools as we talked.
"I saw him again."
"Keep it up, you'll be draped in crepe."
"I'm in it. He did that job—the one on Sutton Place. Spit in Torenelli's face. Julio met with me too. They want Wesley. Alive."
"And the heat still wants you?"
"That was Julio. The fucking weasel dimed me to turn up the flame. So I got no room to move."
"When the man's got a gun, it's time to run."
"That's what I should've done. If I'd known Wesley was tracking Mortay…"
"You know tomorrow's number, we're all rich."
"I know. This is different. I'm in the middle."
"That ain't the place, ace."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"There's no time for that, brother. They're both on the set, so place your bet."
"Wesley."
The little man turned, leaned back against the Plymouth's grille, looking out at the Hudson River. Lit a smoke, taking his time. "It always was him, wasn't it?"
"What're you talking about?"
"In the joint. When you was just a young fool with gunfighter dreams. That's who you wanted