Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [80]
"The Runaway Squad? Sure."
"You call them. You got a tip, right? The connect is to a man named Train. He's running the baby–breeding operation." I gave him the address.
"They'll need more than that for a search warrant."
"Save the bullshit for your column, pal. Let them get a warrant the way they always do. You know that Anonymous Informant? The one they use on every search warrant since the Supreme Court told them they needed one? Time for another guest appearance. Tell them to run it through Wolfe at City–Wide. She'll know what to do. Besides, the joint'll be full of victims, not perps."
"Right on, man. When do I know?"
"You got nothing else to do tonight, right? Maybe you're working on that movie script you're always bullshitting about writing someday. So you're monitoring the police band—I know you got a scanner. You get a call a few minutes after they get theirs."
"I'm off."
"Hold up. There's one more thing. A little girl inside the joint. Her name's Elvira. Or Juice—I don't know which name she'll use. Don't let SSC put her in a shelter or a foster home—she'll run. She knows how to do it. She needs a psychiatric hospital. And she's pregnant."
"Okay. Anything else I should know about her?"
"Yeah. She knows my name."
"Crazy people say all kinds of things. 'Specially on the psycho ward."
"Your car sucks," I told the West Indian, not saying the rest— that his word was good.
We shook hands.
142
IT DIDN'T hit me till later. Alone in my office. No lights. Pansy's dark shape on the couch. When Flood had killed the sadist Goldor in his fancy house…killed him to save me…she almost came unglued. Got off the track. Shaking so bad. Throwing away the clothes she'd worn like they were diseased. I'd held her to me. Rosie and the Originals on the cassette. Angel Baby. "Remember reform school?" I'd asked her, dancing so slow we weren't moving our feet. Until she came back to herself.
She couldn't come back to me that night.
Not Strega's fire, not Wesley's ice.
I found my way.
Survive.
143
I WOKE UP the next morning by myself. The way I always do. Belle was still gone. The pain in my chest was still there. But now I recognized it for what it was—a tourniquet around my heart, not a stranglehold.
The Plymouth found its way over to Mama's. Judy Henske on the cassette. Singing just to me. An old gut–bucket blues number came through next. I didn't remember the man's name but I know he died young. And hard.
Too sick to go to the doctor
Too tired to go to sleep
Too broke to borrow money
And too hungry to eat
And then a sweet girl singer, fronting off some doo–wop group that never had a hit record.
Your tears in my eyes
Your heart in my heart
Defeat and disguise
Can't keep us apart
The weight wasn't off, but I could carry what was left.
Mama had the Daily News. The story about the bombed–out car on Wards Island was buried on page six. The paper had it down to more mob homicides. Couldn't find a word about Julio. It would take a day or so for the Queens cops to run his prints. And they'd throw the body into the same garbage bag with the rest of the mess Wesley made. Morehouse's column would be out tomorrow.
Max came in. I showed him the story about the firebombed car. He drew his X on the table. Wesley's work. He made a questioning sign. I pulled an imaginary cord a couple of times, made the sign of something rushing past. Train. He bowed.
My brother was right. I'd pulled the switch, but it was Wesley's work. Mine was done.
Almost done.
144
MAX PULLED the racing form from his pocket. I kicked back to read. The horses' names all looked unfamiliar to me. Soon I was lost in a stakes race for three–year–old trotters. There was a shipper from Illinois. Gypsy Flame. An Arsenal filly out of a Noble Hustle mare. Good lines. Her trainer was bringing her along slowly, but she was tearing up the home tracks. A 2:01 at Sportsman's