Hard Candy (21 page)

135

I
CHECKED my list. I had to spook him, not tip him off. Called one of the six numbers on the printout. Not the dead line. Asked for Train. He came, quickly.

"It's me," I said.

"How did you come by this number?"

"From the man we discussed."

"A shot was fired through my upper window last night. Nobody heard it. There was a little round hole in the glass. A big chunk of plaster torn off the wall."

"I'll have him tomorrow. If I thought you knew what he looked like, I'd prove it to you."

"I know what he looks like."

It would have chilled me, but I knew how he knew.

"If I can pull it off, I'll call tomorrow night. Take you to him."

"You mean…?"

"Yeah. COD."

136

C
ALLED MOREHOUSE. Got him live, no machine.

"Stay by your phone tomorrow night. Keep the line clear. All night."

"Sure."

137

C
ALLED CANDY.

"Hello, baby," she said into the phone. Breathy. Knowing how old she was supposed to be.

"I want to do it again," I told her.

"Anytime, honey. Just tell me."

"There's something I have to do first. Something real important."

"I know you'll be okay."

"Yeah. I'm just a little nervous."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, I'm covered. He doesn't know…oh, never mind. It's too complicated. But when it's done, I'll bring Elvira back."

"Are you going to have to…?"

"No. I'm going to do something for him. Something he really wants. He'll
give
me the kid. No problem."

"Oh, I
knew
you could do it. Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah. I'll call you soon."

"I love you," she said. Like she had before.

138

"I
'M ON MY WAY," I told Train over the phone.

"I'll be here."

They let me in downstairs. Two of them went with me, close enough to touch. The two Elvira said had made the crazy girl disappear.

He was standing this time. By the window. The one with the little round hole in it. The monster's word was always good. I stepped close to him, keeping my voice down.

"He's dead."

"You're sure? Who is he?"

"Wesley. I'll take you to him—you said you'd know his face."

"How can I be sure?"

"You'll see for yourself."

"Sure of
you
."

"Ask Reba."

His blue eyes blinked rapidly.

"I don't know how you'll know him," I said, my voice soft, slightly awed, "but I know you will. You can go in my car. Take a couple of your men with you. Hold a gun to the back of my neck all the while, if you want. This is the truth—Wesley is a dead man."

"Where?"

"I left him on Wards Island. I'll show you. I've got a flashlight in the car."

He gestured to the two men. Left me alone in the room. Reba came through the door. I stayed against the window, tapping the ashes from my cigarette onto the sill. She walked against me, wrapping her arms around me, grinding her hips. I slid my hands inside the robe, cupping her buttocks. The globes seemed to swell in my hands.

"Can you work your trick standing up?" I asked her.

"The man is dead?"

"The man is dead."

She pressed against me, a fleshy heat–exchanger. "Will you come back? After you show him?"

"What for?"

"For me. I'll tell
you
the truth."

"Then I'll come."

"Yes," she said, promising.

Train came back in with the same two men who'd taken me upstairs. "I'll go with you. We all will. When we come back, you'll have your money."

I nodded.

"And whatever else you want here."

"Let's go," I said.

139

T
HE FORD was half a block away. I unlocked it. The overhead light went on. The front seat sagged badly on the passenger side, upholstery ripped, a sharp spring showing through.

"It doesn't look like much," I apologized. "Where we're going, a nice car would stand out."

I climbed in behind the wheel. The damaged front seat hadn't been necessary—the bodyguards played it the right way—their bodies pressed against the one they had to keep safe. One of them got into the back. Train next. Then the last man.

I buckled my seat belt. Pulled away from the curb. Drove past the House of Detention. Took the Brooklyn Bridge to the FDR, heading north.

I glanced at the rearview mirror. Train was sitting quietly in the middle, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead at nothing. The two guys on either side of him were in their early twenties. Looked enough alike to be brothers. Close–cropped hair, flat faces, hooded eyes. The first generation of the breeding program? As I hooked onto Wards Island, I heard the sound of a round being chambered. Felt the pistol nestle into the back of my neck.

"You know what that is, Mr. Burke?"

"Yes."

"No matter what happens, Tommy can do his job. The pistol has a hair trigger."

"Tell him to be calm. We're almost there."

I lit a cigarette, leaning back, pressing my head into the gun. Amateurs.

I pulled over under the girders. "Okay," I said, turning sideways to speak to Train, voice low and conversational. "We'll have to walk from here. I'm rolling down my window. Why don't you have Tommy get out and hold the gun while…" I pushed the switch in the middle of the last word, ducking my head. The train hit the wall.

The gun never went off. My breath was gone. The windshield was splattered with flesh and fluid. I let air seep in through my nose until my lungs started to work. I didn't look in the back seat.

Unbuckled my seat belt. Stepped outside. My legs wouldn't work. I sat down outside the Ford, waiting. It would come back.

In a few minutes I started walking. By myself. Fingering the little transmitter in my pocket.

The Plymouth growled alongside me, running without lights. The passenger door opened. I climbed inside. Hit the switch. The window went down. Max drove slowly. The Ford was in sight. I held the transmitter out the window, as high as I could. The Mole said it had a quarter–mile range. We were much closer than that. I pushed the button. The Ford exploded. Flames filled the rearview mirror as Max hit the gas.

He dropped me off where I'd left Morehouse's car.

140

I
CALLED MOREHOUSE from a phone on the West Side. "You know the Yacht Basin?"

"Sure, man. Where you think I keep
my
yacht?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"I'm rolling."

141

H
E PULLED IN. Seemed relieved to see his car still in one piece.

"What's on?"

I handed him his keys. "There's gonna be an explosion tonight. Somewhere on Wards Island. Off the approach road to Kirby. The cops'll find bodies inside. They won't make a connect. You know McGowan and Morales?"

"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

I
T 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

M
AX 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 Park in Chicago in the cold weather—that was flying. I went over her last eight races. She always ran off the pace, charged hard going home. She'd be at a disadvantage at Yonkers with the tight turns and the short stretch, but she always ran clean. No breaks on her record. Morning Line had her at 8—1. Yes.

I looked over at Max, to tell him what our selection would be. His seat was empty. I glanced at my watch. Damn. I'd been lost for almost two hours.

Mama was up front, by the cash register. I went back to the pay phones. Dialed my broker. Maurice snatched it on the first ring.

"What?"

"This is Burke. Give me the four horse in the second race at Yonkers. Two to win."

"Horse number four, race number two. Yonkers. A deuce on the nose. That right?"

"Right. You miss me?"

He hung up.

145

T
HE PHONE RANG before I could go back to my table. I picked it up myself.

"Yeah?"

"Friday, be sure you're watching TV. It don't matter which channel long as it's a network. Try NBC. They got the fastest crew. 'Live at Five.' That's the best show. Don't wait for the late news—watch it go down."

"All right."

"That car. Last night. In my spot?"

"Yeah, the papers made it sound like a train wreck."

"I'm gonna take a trip. Out to the Island. Pick up my money. Then Friday. Watch TV. I'll wave goodbye to you."

"I…"

"Don't say my name. I'm leaving you something in my will. Remember what I said. About kids. Don't let the hunters see the soft spot."

"I won't."

"Goodbye…"

The machine sputtered—I couldn't make out the last word as the phone went dead.

146

"T
HIS IS real nice, Burke. Just like the joint, except for the food," the Prof said, sneering.

We were in Mama's basement. At a long table we made out of an old door. I was playing gin with Max, the scorepad to his left. He owed me almost twenty grand. A nineteen–inch color TV stood on top of a couple of barrels we had piled up. Max brought it with him that day, carrying it in one hand like an attaché case.

Max reached for a card. "Nix on the six, chump," the Prof barked, slapping the Mongol on the arm. Max ignored him. I grabbed it. Turned my hand over. Gin.

"Why you waste time playing cards with this fool, Burke? Just take out a gun, tell him to empty his pockets."

"He wins sometimes."

"Yeah. Whenever a cop gives mouth–to–mouth to a guy who faints in a gay bar."

I lit a smoke, sipped at the cup of clear soup standing next to me. Pansy snarled in the corner—she wasn't used to color TV. And she wanted pro wrestling, not soap operas. She's only a dog—she thinks she can tell the difference.

Max took out a racing form, still pumped up with our last success. Gypsy Flame had destroyed the field, powering overland on the back stretch, clearing the others by the paddock turn, driving home with room to spare—$17.20 to win, more than seventeen hundred bucks to the good on our first bet in months. I waved it away—I couldn't concentrate. Max had picked up the cash from Maurice. Like old times. Moving money, not bodies.

"When's this gonna go down?" the Prof asked.

"I don't know, brother. I told you a dozen times. He called, said to watch the tube. So I'm doing it. You don't have to stay."

"He wasn't my friend, but I'll see the end."

"Okay, then. You want to sit in for Max?"

"No way. Fucking Wesley. You always could pick 'em, Burke."

He acted it out for Max—some of the characters I'd hooked up with in the joint. The Prof had a gift for it—he used to be a preacher.

Time passed. Like it does inside the walls. Except it was safe where I was. Working on my alibi. Mac was upstairs. Lily was going to drop over later. Hell, I was hoping the cops rolled by too. Whatever Wesley was up to, I wanted to be on another planet.