Blossom (23 page)

152

I
TOLD HIM about the Nature Center We went by to take a look. I showed him what I'd seen. He nodded.

"Wait here."

I saw him talking to a uniformed park ranger. He walked back slow.

"He says they drop the gate every night. Padlock it. Wood gate. Anyone could get through it. Nobody does. Says the kids never park here. They patrol about twice a night. If they'd see someone, they'd chase 'em off. Maybe bust 'em for trespassing, if they were smoking dope."

"He'll work with you?"

"On this? Sure. We shut down the parking spots, like I told you. This one won't get patrols."

"How about if a car was going to park in here. Every night. Would he look the other way? Stay down?"

His eyes were someplace else. "What d'you have in mind?"

"Drawing his fire."

He walked a few feet away, back to me. I let him have his silence, waiting.

Sherwood turned to face me. "You're crazy. Crazy as he is. If this boy's the one you want, he's certifiable. Got him a Get Out of Jail Free card behind his past record. Hell, he was on medication right up to the time he cut loose and disappeared."

"I'm not crazy. I'm waiting for a car. Special car. You'll see. It should be able to handle anything he can throw."

"And what's my piece?"

"You got to be in position before dark. Nice and early. I'll park right where the Lincoln is right now. You can work anywhere from the left."

He scanned the terrain. "I was in 'Nam," he said. Absently, under his breath. "Infantry. It looks like that. I could deploy a dozen men in there. Spotlights, the whole works."

I moved close to him, my voice pitched low. "It has to be a deal, Sherwood. A square deal, both sides. You work from the
left
, okay? Nothing to the right of that point…see, where the tracks make that kind of peak?"

"Who's gonna be on the right?"

"Someone for me. I'm not gonna testify in court, okay? This works, he throws down on me, opens up, I'm out of here. Turn the key and go. Just make sure you fire across, not down."

"What else?"

"Just your own people. You post this on the bulletin board, Officer Revis takes a look, I could have trouble. The way this is, you and your team, you're staking out the place. On a hunch. You be as surprised as anyone else, a car pulls in."

"You want me to risk my badge?"

"Up to you. All I want, you either stay out of here or come in the way I said. Either way."

"When you gonna start?"

"I'll let you know."

153

A
T VIRGIL'S HOUSE that night.

"What've you got that you're sure of?"

He brought down an old lever–action .30–30 carbine, the stock burnished with generations of hand–rubbed oil. "This Winchester was my daddy's. He taught me to use it. Before this all started, I was teaching Lloyd. We was going deer hunting, this winter, him and me."

"There's no paper on this?"

"No. I got me an old thirty–ought–six too. The one I was gonna have Lloyd use."

I lit a smoke.

"You started up again?"

I ignored him. "Lloyd, you sure you want to do this? This isn't some bar fight now."

"Yessir."

"'Cause of all the trouble this guy caused you?"

The boy's fists were clenched, voice vibrating, working for control. "Not him. The other one. The one who…"

"I know," I told him.

154

B
LOSSOM WAS IN the kitchen with Rebecca, Virginia monopolizing conversation, Junior sitting quiet.

I thought about all Virgil had. Watching him polish the cut–down barrels of a twelve–gauge with emery paper.

"You could walk away from this," I told him.

"Why didn't you?"

I didn't answer him.

Wesley knew.

"He knows I'm coming," I told my brother.

The mountain man jacked a shell into the chamber of his carbine. It made a sharp, clean sound in the living room. His face was set in lines of bone.

"The bear can't leave the woods just 'cause he knows it's hunting season."

155

L
ATE THAT NIGHT, in bed.

"Do you know why they do it?"

"They?"

"Perverts, freaks, degenerates…whatever you want to call them." Her face was soft, little–girl questions in her eyes. But I felt the long muscles tense in her thigh, testing. Pushing the buttons, watching the screen.

"What'd your mother call them?" Testing back.

"If they liked to play dress–up, harmless stuff like that…she called them customers. Clients. Somebody wanted to really whale on a woman, really hurt her, he'd know better than to come to my mother's house."

I lit a smoke, buying time. "One way you can tell a country's gone real evil…when the doctors are working the torture chambers. Telling the sadists how much a prisoner can take before he checks out completely. You know what a snuff film is?"

"I heard of them. Just rumors."

"They're no rumors. And they didn't start a couple of years ago. A guy I met in Aftrica told me the Shah of Iran had video cameras in his torture chambers. Idi Amin too. Why do you think Hitler's freaks kept the cameras rolling? There's always been people who get off on pain. Other people's pain. And people who like to watch."

"Everybody has that in them?"

"No. Hell, no. But some do. And we keep breeding them. Monsters."

"Not criminals?"

"Past criminals. I'm a criminal, Blossom. My buddy Pablo, he's a doctor too. A psychiatrist. I asked him once, what I was. He said I'm a
contrabandista
. An outlaw, you understand?"

She sat up, hands clasping her knees. "Not like them. And not like us either, huh?"

I thought of Virgil, his family. Who's "us" anymore?

"Right on the borderline," I told her.

156

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON, on my way to Virgil's, the car phone made its noise.

"What?"

"Place your bets, I'm on the set."

"Prof?"

"No, fool, it's Jesse Jackson."

"Is the thing ready?"

"Have no fear, your ride is here."

"Here?"

"Time to jump, chump. Boston Street, northbound from Thirty–ninth. Cruise it slow, lights down low. When the honeybees swarm, you found the farm. Ask for Cherry."

157

V
IRGIL SAT NEXT to me in the Lincoln, Lloyd in the back seat. "He's really here?"

"Must be. Said to take Boston Street, northbound from Thirty–ninth."

"Boston Street? There's no Boston Street anywhere around here."

"He said to see a hooker. Cherry."

"He's holed up in Cal City maybe?"

"On the stroll, Virgil. A street girl. Where'd they be, close by?"

"Off Broadway, I guess." He dragged on his cigarette, thinking. "Ah, he has to mean Massachusetts Street. Over in Glen Park. Make a left up there."

The sun didn't reach all the way to street level on Massachusetts. Three–story frame houses leaned against each other for comfort. A slow–moving line of cars worked its way up the block. I drifted over to the curb. A flock of girls descended: spandex pants, tube tops, high heels. Working.

I pushed the power window switch, letting them know I was the man to talk to. Ebony woman with long straight hair, lipstick slashed carelessly across her mouth, leaned into the car, unbound breasts slopping against the windowsill. Up close, the hair was a wig.

"I don't do triples, honey. Your friends want to wait their turn, or I can ask a couple of my girlfriends along? Whatever you say, anyway you want to do it."

"I'm looking for Cherry. Wasn't that her that just went by? Girl in a red leather coat?"

"Yeah, catch Cherry wearing somethin' that'd cover her ass. Fat chance, get it?" She blew smoke airily at the night ceiling. "Cherry? Cherry ain't nothin', man. Whatever you heard 'bout her, you can double up for me."

They all sing the same sad song.

"How much is the ride?" I asked her.

"How far you want to drive, honey? Around the world?" And they all use the same lyrics.

"Short time," I said, looking for the quickest way in.

"Twenty–five."

"Bring Cherry to the car, I'll give you twenty."

"I don't see no cash."

"I don't see no Cherry."

They came back together. Cherry was shorter, stockier. Her wig was blonde.

"Hi, honey! You lookin' for me?"

"If you're Cherry."

"That's me, baby. You heard about me, huh?"

"I'm looking for a friend. Your friend. He'd of told you I was coming."

"Oh yeah. He's right…"

"Tell me his name."

"You mean the Prophet, don't ya?
Yeah!
An ugly white man would come to set me free…Wow! Just like he said."

I handed the other girl a pair of tens. She moved into the line of whores working the other cars. Cherry got into the back seat. Virgil took one whiff, pushed his own window down. Lloyd sat across from her, watching like he'd seen E.T. up close.

Cherry told me where to drive. One block up, a right turn into an alley. ROOMS, the wooden sign said, hanging lopsided over a door to a house that looked older than greed. I followed her inside, Lloyd behind me, Virgil last. Up a flight of stairs. We were the only whites in the joint. We watched their hands, looking for the truth.

Voices from an open door at the end of the hall. A pimp's sandpaper voice on top.

"I don't give a fuck who you say you is or what you say you want, you midget motherfucker. You don't come in here and work no girls. This is my place. Now you get your black ass outta here or I cut a piece of it off!"

We stepped inside. Burly thug with a shaved head, dressed all in white leather right down to his cowboy boots. Holding a straight razor in his hand.

The Prof was seated in a ragged armchair, wrapped in a khaki raincoat tenting around his tiny body. As calm as a man watching a movie—one he'd seen before. The pimp stepped aside as we entered, dropping into a slight crouch.

"Hey, schoolboy," the Prof greeted me. "You got a pistol with you?"

"Sure," I told him, taking it out.

"Good. Now will you
please
shoot this stupid farmer before he cuts someone?"

"Okay," I replied, cocking the piece.

"Hey, man…"

Virgil moved his coat. The sawed–off shotgun eyed the pimp.

"Oh, man. You remembered!" the Prof said. Like it was his brand of beer. He turned to the pimp. "You see how it is, fool. A knife don't make it right, but a gun can make it fun."

The pimp pocketed his razor, slid toward the door, his eyes filled with wonder. He'd seen guns before…but a tiny black man with a preacher's voice who used hillbillies for enforcers was science fiction. The legend of the Prophet was due for another installment.

We didn't block his path, letting him go. I tracked his face, making sure he knew I'd remember him.

Nobody had to tell him. Don't come back.

158

I
N THE LINCOLN, the Prof barked directions like he'd lived in that maze all his life. We parked in a row of garages. Cherry jumped out, opened a padlock. A shocking–purple car with a long, low hood and a black vinyl top stood inside. The Prof handed me a set of keys. We all climbed out.

"This is it?" I asked him.

"You can take that tank to the bank, bro'. It'll stop what he's got. Papers in the glove box."

"I'll meet you back at the house," I told Virgil. "Give me the scattergun, case you get stopped."

He handed it over.

Cherry turned to the Prof. "You not comin'?"

"You go back to the room, beautiful. Wait for me. Stay off the streets tonight." To me: "Give her a yard, pard."

I handed her two fifties. She took it, a reluctant look on her face. "You really comin' back?"

"Woman, have I said one word to you that has not been the truth?" the Prof snapped out at her, switching to his preacher's voice. "Do not confuse me with panderers and pimps, child. What I say shall come to pass, for it is written that children of the night shall forever find each other in the dark."

She turned, started down the alley to a grime–colored building. The Prof watched her walk, shifted back to his cornerboy's voice. "Ain't no fake in that shake, brothers."

She looked back once over her shoulder, waved once, and she was gone.

159

I
UNLOCKED the purple car. The inside of the door was covered with a thick slab of clear plastic right up to the windowsill. I dropped into the thinly padded bucket seat, turned the key. The engine crackled into life. I moved the pistol–grip shift lever into Drive and the beast lurched, straining against the brake.

The Lincoln pulled away. I followed.

The car was an old Plymouth Barracuda, a 1970s pony car. The hood went on forever, the trunk was tiny, the back seat just a padded shelf. The roof was lined with the same clear plastic, held up with cotter pins. I nursed the gas gingerly, getting the feel. The windshield was streaky, hard to see through.

At a light on Broadway, a maroon Mustang with a ground–scraper nose sloping down from gigantic rear tires pulled alongside. Revved its engine in the universal challenge. I ignored him. His passenger shouted across: "Is that a real one, man?"

A real
what
? The light flashed green and the Mustang peeled out. I stomped the gas experimentally and the 'Cuda catapulted forward with a roar, closing the distance in a heartbeat. I backed off quickly, hearing the exhausts pop and bubble. Quickly turned into a side street.

160

I
NSIDE VIRGIL'S garage, overhead lights on. I walked around the 'Cuda. Saw what had brought out the challenge from the Mustang. On the car's rear deck lid, chrome letters: Hemi.

"Why'd the Mole send me such a rocket ship?" I asked the Prof. "Man said you packing mucho weight, you got to haul the freight." He took me through the car, showing me how it worked. "See how this stuff is hinged against the hood? You just pull the pins and the panels slide right down."

"What is this stuff? Lexan?"

"The Mole said it was like that, only better. Only thing, you can't roll down the windows, they're too thick. Windshield's same stuff. So's the back window."

"It's beautiful, Prof. You know what I need it for?"

"The Mole said it was a shark cage. It ain't what you know, it's what you show."

"I never expected to see you out here."

"What was I gonna do with the ride, Clyde? Ship it UPS? The Mole paid the toll."

"I was going to fly back, bring it over myself."

"No beef, chief. It was a nice day, I felt like a drive."

"Thanks, Prof."

"Way I figure it, schoolboy, you and this hillbilly here, you ain't got a clue between you. What's the plan, man?"