Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [63]
I sat down in the recliner and lit a cigarette. My mouth burned with the first drag. I pulled the butt away—there was blood on the filter. I wiped my mouth on my handkerchief and sat there waiting. I heard the tap of her heels on the tile, turned my head without moving. I tasted the blood on my lip again. She was wearing a black silk camisole over a pair of matching tap pants. The whole outfit was held up with a pair of spaghetti–straps—they made a hard line against her slim shoulders. The redhead had a pair of black pumps on her feet—no stockings that I could see. She was all black and white, like the room.
"You want a drink?" she asked.
"No."
"Nothing? We have everything here."
"I don't drink," I told her.
"A joint? Some coke?" she asked me, an airline stewardess on a flight to hell.
"Nothing," I told her again.
She crossed in front of me, like a model on a runway for the first time, nervous but vain. She sat down on the couch, crossed her long legs, folded her hands over one knee. "We have a deal?" she asked.
"Where's the money?" I said in reply.
"Yeah," she said absently, almost to herself, "where's the money?"
She flowed off the couch and walked out of the room again, leaving me to my thoughts. I wondered where her kid was.
The redhead was back in a minute, a slim black attaché case in one hand. She looked like she was going to work. In a whorehouse. She dropped to her knees next to the recliner in a graceful move, crossing her ankles behind her on the floor, and put the attaché case on my lap. "Count it," she said.
It was all in fifties and hundreds—crisp bills but not new. The serial numbers weren't in sequence. The count was right on the nose. "Okay," I told her.
She got to her feet. "Wait here. I'll get you the pictures," she said, turning to go. "Play with your money.
As soon as she was out of the room I got up and took off my coat. I transferred the money from the attaché case to a few different pockets, closed the case, and tossed it on the couch. Lit another cigarette.
She was back quickly, her hands full of paper. She came over to the same place she'd been before, kneeled down again, and started putting the papers in my lap, one piece at a time, as if she was dealing cards.
"This is Scotty like he looks today. I took this last week. This is Scotty like he was a few months ago—when it happened. This is the drawing he did—see the swastika? This is me and Scotty together—so you can tell how big he is, okay?"
"Okay," I told her.
She handed me one more piece of paper, covered with typed numbers. "These are the phone numbers where you can reach meand when you can call. Just ask for me—you don't have to say anything else."
"Any of these answering machines?"
"No. They're all people, don't worry.
I took a last drag of my smoke, leaning past her to snub it out in the ashtray, ready to leave. The redhead put her face next to mine again, whispering in a babyish voice, more breath than tone, "You think I'm a tease, don't you?"
I didn't say anything, frozen there, my hand mechanically grinding the cigarette butt into tobacco flakes.
"You think I'm just teasing you, don't you?" she whispered again. "Dressing like this .
I pulled back to look at her but she hung on, coming with me. "You do what you want," I told her.
"I will if you close your eyes," she said in my ear. "Close your eyes!" she said, a baby demanding you play a game with her.
I was still so cold. Maybe it was the room. I closed my eyes, leaned back. Felt her stroke me, making a noise in her throat. "Sssh, ssh," she murmured. She was talking to herself. I felt her hands at my belt, heard the zipper move, felt myself strain against her hand. I opened my eyes a narrow slit; her red hair was in my lap. "You promised!" she said in the baby voice. I closed my eyes again. She tugged at the waistband on my shorts, but I didn't move—she was rough and clumsy pulling me through the fly, still making those baby noises in her throat. I felt her mouth