Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [68]
"I get it, you'll get it, okay? I may have something else for you too. Interested in a cult that traffics in babies?"
"Adoption ring?"
"No. A breeder farm. Using little girls just about old enough to bleed."
"You know I am."
"Want to help out?"
"How?" Suspicion all over his face.
"Switch cars with me."
"What would you want with this old wreck?" he asked, waving his hand at his city–beater.
I pointed at his license plates. NYP. New York Press. Everyone in this city has special plates: doctors, dentists, chiropractors. Everybody but lawyers—it wouldn't be safe for them. "Your plates go anywhere. And even the Italians won't dust a reporter."
"What's this got to do with the baby–seller?"
"Everything."
He reached in his pocket. Tossed me his keys. "Registration's in the glove compartment."
"Mine too."
Morehouse was born to be a reporter. He walked to the Buick, opened the door, one eye on Pansy. He pulled the papers out of the glove box. "Who's Juan Rodriguez?"
"Quién quiere saber?"
He laughed.
I snapped my fingers, opened the door to Morehouse's wreck. Pansy launched herself into the back seat. "I'll call you," I told him.
He stood close to me, voice low. "Burke, there's one thing they say about West Indians that is true. We do love children."
116
I PARKED Morehouse's car behind the restaurant, let myself in through the kitchen. Stashed Pansy in the basement. Grabbed the pay phone. Rang Wesley's number. Three times. Hung up.
I was on my second helping of soup when the phone rang. "What?"
"Time to meet."
"You got it?"
"Yeah."
"Tonight. Same deal."
"Right."
"Bring the Chinaman."
When Max came in, I was working on a plate of fried rice with Mongolian ginger–beef I told him we had a meeting that night. He had his own sign for Wesley: an X drawn in salt spilled on the table.
Mama gave me a gallon container of steaming meat and vegetables to take down to Pansy.
Max showed me a copy of the racing form. I shook my head. No. Not yet. But when he dug out a deck of cards, it was okay. We played gin until it got dark. Immaculata came in with Flower. Max took the child from her, parading into the kitchen to show the assorted criminals working back there his prize.
"Hi, Mac."
She leaned over. Kissed me. "Max is back, Burke. I don't know what you…"
I held up my hand. "It's not over yet."
"It doesn't matter. Whatever happens." She bowed. As if to fate.
I took Pansy back to the office. Showered. Changed my clothes. Lit a smoke and watched the darkness outside my window.
117
MAX RAPPED a knuckle against the windshield as I pulled off the road. I looked where he pointed—a tiny Day–Glo orange dot glowing to the side. It blinked off as I watched. I braked gently, waiting. The light glowed again. Okay. We left the Datsun by the side of the road, walked in the direction of the light, Max first.
Under the network of girders the wind made hunting sounds. The light didn't go on again, but Max walked like he was following a neon strip in the dark. He stopped when we came to a clearing in the jungle. Broken glass on the ground. Tire carcasses. Rotting pieces of car upholstery. Discarded furniture. Shipping crates. A bicycle without wheels. Max slapped his hand lightly against my chest. Stop. Here.
I lit a cigarette, tiny red light of my own. A siren screamed above us. An ambulance—racing the hospital against the morgue.
Wesley was in front of us, just a thin strip of his face showing.
"How's he do that?" he asked me.
"What?"
"He can't hear, right? But he don't make a sound when he moves."
"I don't know," I told him. Not blowing him off—it was the truth. "That's the real reason they call him Max the Silent."
"That isn't your car."
"Julio, he knows my car."
"Okay." Wesley sat down on one of the crates. I sat across from him. Max stayed where he was. Not watching Wesley, eyes sweeping the area.
"Tell him it's safe here," Wesley said. "I got trip wires strung all around except for the way you came in. And you're sitting on enough plastique