Blossom (3 page)

8

T
HERE'S ALL KINDS of registries for missing kids, from federal to local. None of them would tell me what I needed to know to put this together. I called the cops.

The postcards show the Brooklyn Bridge from the top. From the bottom, it wouldn't attract any tourists. There's an opening at ground level along Frankfort Street just past Archway Seven. Big enough for a football game. A long time ago, they rented out the space. You can still see what's left of the faded signs: Leather Hides, Newsprint, Packing and Crating. One Police Plaza to the north, high–rise co–ops to the south.

Four in the afternoon, the moist heat working overtime. The streets would overflow with yuppie traffic in a short while, heading for South Street Seaport bistros to unwind, cool down after a hard day worshiping the greed–god. When it got dark, the urban–punk killing machines would become sociopathic clots in the city's bloodstream, preparing themselves to defend their graffiti–marked territory. Merciless and coarse, their only contribution to society would be as organ–donors.

In this city, race–hatred so thick you could cut it with a knife. Some tried.

I waited on the abandoned loading dock, playing the tapes again in my head. There's supposed to be a kid inside every adult. When women talk about men being little boys inside, they say it with a loving, indulgent chuckle. Or they sneer. I knew the little boy I'd been—I didn't ever want to see him again.

The car was the color of city dust. It bumped its way onto the concrete apron. The front doors opened and the cops rolled out. McGowan and Morales. NYPD Runaway Squad. They strolled over to where I was waiting, McGowan tall and thick, hat pushed back on his head, cigar in one hand, Irish smile on his mobile face. Morales was a flat–faced thuggish pit bull—more testosterone than brains. If he was a shark, he'd be a hammerhead.

I dropped to the ground, leaned against the loading dock as they approached.

"You okay?" McGowan asked in that honey–laced voice that had charmed little street girls and terrorized pimps for twenty years.

I nodded, watching Morales. We'd gone a few rounds a while back, then touched gloves when it was over. He wouldn't turn on me for no reason, but he'd never need a very good one.

"Is it for real?" I asked.

McGowan puffed on his cigar. "Jeremiah Brownwell was reported missing almost five years ago. He was seven then. With his mother at a shopping mall in Westchester. Just vanished. No ransom demand. Not a trace."

"So it was in the papers?"

"Yeah." Reading my thoughts. "Anyone could've picked it up."

"Was there ever a reward posted?"

"Not that I know of. It was before all this missing children stuff in the media. The kid's parents hired a PI and he put the word around. That's all. The kid's picture was in the paper."

"He won't look like that now. If it's him."

"No."

Morales leaned forward, chest out, forehead thrusting. Like he was getting ready to butt the bridge of my nose into my skull. "What's the deal? What's the motherfucker want?"

"Cash."

"Where d'you come in?"

"He wants me to see if the kid's parents will put up the money. Make a switch."

"What's ours?"

I ignored him. "You speak to the kid's folks?"

McGowan took over. "Yeah. They'd pay. Something. What they have. It's not all that much."

"If it's him…he's not going to be the same kid."

McGowan's face was grim. "I know."

"They
still
want him?"

"They want what they lost, Burke."

"Nobody ever gets that back."

McGowan didn't say anything after that. Morales' ball–bearing eyes shifted in their fleshy sockets. "The fuck that called you. It's extortion, right?"

"I'm not a lawyer."

"A lawyer's not what that guy needs."

McGowan shot his partner a chill–out look. Like asking a fire hydrant to run the hundred–yard dash.

"They got any sure way to identify the kid?" I asked.

"Pictures, stuff like that. Things only the kid would know. Name of his dog, his first–grade teacher…you know."

"Yeah. The freak…the one who called me…he says he wants ten large."

"They can do that."

"No questions asked?"

"No."

"Win or lose?"

"Yes."

"Let's take a shot."

"That's one thing we can't do," McGowan said, a restraining hand on his partner's forearm. Morales had flunked Probable Cause at the Police Academy—his idea of civil rights was a warning shot.

"I'll give you a call," I said.

9

T
HE FREAK kept dancing. It took another few days to calm him down. I let him pick the place. A gay bar off Christopher Street. He told me what he'd be wearing, what he looked like. When he'd be there. "Bring the cash," he said. Hard guy.

Vincent's apartment was on West Street. The outside looked like a set from
Miami
Vice.
Glass brick, blue–enameled steel tubing wrapped around each little terrace. I stood so the video monitor would pick up my face, pressed the buzzer.

Inside it was turn–of–the–century England. Vincent's twin pug dogs yapped at my heels until I sat down on the dark paisley couch. He's a big man, maybe six and a half feet, close to three hundred pounds. Long thick sandy hair combed straight back from a broad face.

"You know nothing about this person?"

"Just what I told you on the phone," I said.

"He thinks he's safe in a gay bar," Vincent said, two fingers pressed against a cheekbone. "Like he's one of us."

"That's the way I figure it."

"What can I do?"

"I need to talk to him. Not in the bar, okay?"

"You want to take him out of there?"

"Yeah."

"He won't want to go?"

I shrugged.

Vincent rubbed his cheekbone again, thinking. "You did me a favor once. I consider you a friend, you know that. But I can't be part of…uh…your reputation is…I'm not saying I personally believe every silly rumor that jumps off the street, but…"

"All I want to do is take him out of there. Without anybody noticing."

"Burke…"

"A little boy disappears. Five years later, a young guy calls me, says he knows where he is. Wants to trade him for cash. Scan it for yourself. What's it say to you?"

He wouldn't play. "It's not important. Those…creatures…they have sex with children and they say such sweet things about it. Fucking a little boy isn't homosexual."

"I know."

"I know you know. Are you saying I owe you? From that business in the Ramble?"

The Ramble is part of Central Park. An outdoor gay bar. One of Vincent's friends got caught there one night by a wolf pack. They left him needing a steel plate in his head. Good citizens, Vincent and his friends went to the cops. The badge–boys found the gang easily enough. Fag–bashers: pitiful freaks, trying to smash what they see in their own mirrors. One got the joint, the rest got probation. Then Vincent came to me. Max went strolling through the Ramble one night. The punks who'd walked out of the courthouse ended up in the same hospital as Vincent's friend. When the cops interviewed them, all they remembered was the pain.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I have to make some phone calls," he said.

10

T
HE MEET WAS for ten o'clock. The pay phone in the parking lot off the West Side Highway rang at 9:50. Vincent's voice. "He just went in. Alone."

A smog–colored Mercedes sedan pulled up. Vincent's life–partner was in the front seat. "Please don't smoke in the car," he said. Didn't say another word to me, looking straight through the windshield. Dropped me off in front of the bar.

The freak was in a back booth. Short curly brown hair dropped into ringlets over his forehead. Dressed preppie, older than he was. I pegged him for maybe nineteen. Greenish drink in a slim glass in front of him.

"I'm Burke," I said, sliding into the booth across from him.

"You have the money?"

"Sure."

He dry–washed his hands. Noticed what he was doing. Fired a cigarette with a lighter that looked like a silver pencil. "How can we do this?"

"You give me the kid, I give you the money."

"How do I know…?"

"You called
me
, pal."

"If I tell you where he is…how do I know I'll get the money?"

I shrugged. "You want to come along when I pick him up?"

"I
can't.
That's not the deal."

"Is there a pay phone in this joint?"

"I guess so…I'm not sure." He waved his hand. Heavy gold chain on his wrist. Slave bracelet. A waiter came over. Didn't look at me.

"What will you have?"

"A ginger ale. Lots of ice, okay?"

"And for you?" he asked the freak.

"I'm okay. Do you have a pay phone here?"

"In the back. Just past the rest rooms."

"Thanks."

I lit a smoke, waiting. The waiter came back with my drink. A black cherry floated in the ice. All clear. I leaned forward. "We'll go to the pay phone. I'll call a friend of mine. He takes a look. While we wait, okay? He tells me he's spotted the kid…where you say he is, I give you the cash."

"Right here?"

"Right here."

"You've got it with you?"

"Sure."

"Show me."

"Not here. Out back. Okay?"

He got up. I followed him. The corridor was shadowy with indirect lighting. Past the rest rooms. No sounds seeped from under the doors—it wasn't that kind of gay bar. The pay phone stood against the wall. I reached in my inside pocket. Took out an envelope. "Count it," I told him. He took it in his hands, opened the flap. He was halfway through the bills before he noticed the pistol in my hand. Blood blanketed his face. Vanished, leaving it chalk–white.

"What is this?"

"Just relax. All I want is…"

Max loomed behind him, one seamed–leather hand locked on the back of the freak's neck. Pain took over his eyes, his mouth shot open in a thin squeak. I holstered the pistol, took the envelope from his limp hand. Max pushed the freak ahead of him. I slipped out the back door first, checked the alley where my Plymouth was parked. Empty.

We stepped outside. I heard bolts being slammed home behind us. I popped the trunk on the Plymouth. Wrapped the duct tape around the freak's mouth a few times, lifting the hair off the back of his head so it wouldn't catch. Max slapped the heel of his hand lightly into the freak's stomach. The freak doubled over. I put my lips right against his ear. "We're going for a ride. Nothing's going to happen to you. We wanted you dead, we'd leave you right in this alley. You're riding in the trunk. You make any noise, kick around back there, anything at all, we stop the car and we hurt you. Real, real bad. Now nod your head, tell me you understand."

The freak's head bobbed up and down. The trunk was lined with army blankets next to the fuel cell. Plenty of room. He climbed in without a word. Max and I got into the front seat and took off.

11

I
USED THE Exact Change lane on the Triboro, grabbed the first exit, and ran parallel to Bruckner Boulevard through the South Bronx to Hunts Point. Turned off at Tiffany, motored past the mini–Attica they call a juvenile detention facility at the corner of Spofford, and turned left, heading for the network of juke joints, topless bars, and salvage yards that make up half the economy of the neighborhood. The other half was transacted in abandoned buildings. They stared with windowless eyes above crack houses doing a booming business on the ground floors.

We drove deeper, past even the bombed–out ruins. Past the meat market that supplies all the city's butcher shops and restaurants, past the battered hulks of railway cars rotting on rusty tracks that run to nowhere. Tawny flashes in the night. Wild dogs, hunting.

Finally we came to the deadfall. A narrow slip of land jutting into the East River, bracketed by mounds of gritty sand from the concrete yards and the entrance road to the garbage facility. I wheeled the Plymouth so it was parallel to the river. Max and I climbed out. Rikers Island was just across the filthy water, but you couldn't see it from where we stood. We opened the trunk. Hauled the freak out, ripping the duct tape from his mouth. He was shaking so hard he had to lean against the car.

"Take a look around," I told him.

A giant German shepherd lay on her side a few feet from us. Dead. Her massive snout buried in a large paper McDonald's bag. Her underbelly was a double row of enlarged, blunted nipples. She'd sent many litters to the wild dog packs before her number came up. A seagull the size of an albatross flapped its wings as it cruised to a gentle stop near the dog. Its razor beak ripped at her flesh, tiny eyes glaring us to keep our distance. Some kind of animal screamed. Sounds like a string of tiny firecrackers closer still.

The freak's chest heaved. He snorted a deep breath through his nose. It told him the truth his eyes wanted to deny.

"This is a graveyard," I said, my voice calm and quiet. "They'd never hear the shots. Never find the body. Got it?"

He nodded.

"You bring something with you? Something to prove you know where the kid is?"

He nodded again.

Max reached inside the freak's jacket. A wallet. Inside, a Polaroid snapshot of a kid. Long straight hair fell down either side of a narrow face. The kid in the picture was wearing blue bathing trunks, standing on a dock, smiling at the camera.

"Tell me something…something so I know it's the right kid."

The freak dry–washed his hands. "Monroe found him. A few years ago. In Westchester. He ran away from home."

"I won't ask you again."

"Lucas…that's what we call him…he told us everything. Just ask me…anything…I can…"

"Tell me what his room looked like—his room at home."

"He had bunk beds. His parents always thought they'd have another kid. Lucas, he said that bed was for his brother, when he came. And he had a whole G.I. Joe collection. All the dolls. And the Transformers. He loved the Transformers."

"He have a TV set in his room?"

"No. He was only allowed to watch television on the weekends. In the morning."

"He have a dog, this kid?"

"Rusty. That was the name of his dog. He cried all the time about Rusty until Monroe got him a dog."

Yes.

I lit a cigarette, feeling Max close, waiting. I handed the freak back the money envelope, feeling every muscle in his body soften as he took it.

"Tell me something," I asked him. "How old were you when Monroe found you?"

He didn't waste time playing. "How did you know?"

"How old?"

"Ten."

"And now you re…"

"Seventeen."

"So when you got too old, the only way to stay with Monroe was to bring him someone new, yes?"

His face broke, trembled for control, lost it. I listened to him cry.

"Lucas, he's old enough now, isn't he? And you're out."

He slumped down on the filthy ground near the car, head in his hands. "I could've helped him…find someone else."

"Yeah. But Monroe, he's gonna let Lucas do that. And you, you wanted the money for a new start?"

"He never loved me at all!" the freak sobbed.

I squatted down next to him. "Where is he?"

"I'll tell you everything." He started talking, his voice a hiss that he couldn't stop, spewing pus. When he got to the home address, I left Max standing next to him. Pulled the mobile cellular phone from the front seat. A gift from a nujack whose nine–millimeter automatic wasn't as fast as Max's hands. Punched in the number, hit the Send button. McGowan was right there. I gave him the address. "The kid's not going to want to go," I told him.

He sighed into the phone. I cut the connection to McGowan.

I walked back over to the freak. Looked down and let him hear the truth. "You're square now. Somebody did something to you, you did something to somebody else. It's over, okay? You're gonna need a lot of help now, understand? You got some real decisions to make. You'll find some phone numbers in your pocket later. Those people, they can help you, if you want the help. You don't want the help, that's up to you. There's another number. Wolfe, over at City–Wide. You want to testify against Monroe, she'll handle it. Set you up with anything you need. But this other stuff, it's over. You go back to your old ways, you re coming back here. Understand?"

He nodded, watching me from under long eyelashes, trembling slightly.

"You come back here, you're coming back to stay."

I nodded at Max. He did something to the kid's neck. We put him back into the trunk. He'd wake up later with a bad headache and five hundred bucks in his pocket.