Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [7]
Michelle slipped her way through the crowd. Wearing a white beret, deep purple silk blouse, white pencil skirt, spike heels to match the blouse. An orchid in a sewer. She kissed me on the cheek, her big dark eyes wary.
"How you doing, honey?"
"The same."
The stud hustler I had bumped came over to our table, thumbs hooked in a bicycle chain he used for a belt. Pretty boy. Short spiky haircut. He leaned forward, eyes on me. His buddies behind him a few feet.
"You made me spill my beer."
His voice sounded tough. The way a worn–out car with a bad muffler sounds fast.
I threw a five–dollar bill on the table. "Buy another."
"How about an apology?"
I felt a tiny pulse in my temple. I crumpled the bill in my fist, tossed it onto the dirty floor.
Muscles flexed along the surface of his bare arms. "Get up!"
Michelle lit one of her long black cigarettes. Blew smoke at the ceiling. "Sweetie, go back to whatever you were doing, okay?"
He turned on her. "I don't need no fucking he–she telling me what to do."
Two dots of color on Michelle's cheeks.
The Prof turned his air conditioner on the heat. "There's no beef, Chief. Take the five and slide."
"You got nice friends," the hustler said. "A cross–dresser and a midget nigger."
The Prof smiled. "I'm a thief, boy. I may pull a little vic, but I don't suck dick."
The hustler's face went orange in the nightclub lights. "Let's go outside," he suggested to me, pounding a fist into an open palm.
"He don't have the time, sonny," the Prof answered for me.
"It won't take long."
One of his friends laughed.
The Prof wouldn't let it go. "Yeah it would. About ten to twenty years, punk. Even if they let it slide with manslaughter."
I pushed back my chair.
"Burke!" Michelle snapped.
The place went quiet.
"That's you?" the hustler asked. His voice was a strangulated hernia.
"You know the name, you know the game," the Prof answered for me.
"Hey, man… it was a joke. Okay?"
I sat there, waiting. He backed away. He didn't bump into his friends—they were gone.
It wasn't just the cops who knew I had a body. And whose body I had.
11
ON THE STREET outside the bar, Michelle grabbed my arm. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She wheeled on the Prof. "And what about you? You turning back the clock twenty years? This idiot's back to being a gunfighter and you're his manager, right?"
"My man's in pain, lady. Give us some play, back away."
Michelle's eyes glittered, hands on hips. I put my hand on her arm—she shrugged it off.
"This isn't like you, baby. You're making me nervous."
"It's okay," I said.
"It's not okay. You want to go back to prison? Over some stupid argument in a bar?"
"I'm not going back to prison. Just take it easy. We'll drive you home."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking hard on the concrete, not looking back.
12
THREE MORE dead days later, they took me down. Right off the street. The Prof spotted them first.
"Rollers on the right," the little man said under his breath.
"Probably behind us too. Call Davidson," I said. I tossed my cigarette into the gutter, slipped my right hand into my coat pocket to make them think I might not go along nicely, and slid away to draw them from the Prof. I quick–stepped it along Forty–fifth Street, heading west toward the river. Feeling the heat. Unmarked cop car running parallel to me in the street. Spotted a gay–porn movie house. Heard car doors slam as I slid my money through the slot for a ticket. They wouldn't want to follow me inside. Two slabs of beef shouldered in on each side, pinning my arms, pulling my hands behind me. Cuffs snapped home. They spun me around. A cop I hadn't seen before sang their song.
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in…"
They patted me down before they shoved me into the blue–and–white