Blossom (4 page)

12

I
MET MCGOWAN and Morales early the next morning. At the diner where they hang out. They hadn't been to sleep yet.

"You found him?" I asked.

"Yeah." McGowan's voice was dead.

"Get him home?"

"He said he
was
home. His name is Lucas. A special boy, he told us he was. A special boy. He's a poet. You wanna see his poetry?" He slid a slick magazine across to me.
Boys Who Love
it said on the cover. Picture of a kid sitting astride a BMX dirt bike, sun shining behind him.

"Page twenty–nine," McGowan said.

The poem was entitled "Unicorn." All about little buds needing the pure sunlight of love to bring them to full flower.

"You lock the freak up?" I asked.

"Yeah. He's got his story ready, this Monroe. He found the kid wandering around a shopping center. The kid told him he was being sexually abused at home. This Monroe, he saved the boy. Raised him like his own kid. Spent a fortune on him. Private tutors, the whole works."

"And the kid won't testify, right?"

"Right. We took him home. Saw his mother and father. Looked right through them."

"What's next?"

"Lily talked with him. She says he's 'bonded' to that devil. Harder than deprogramming a kid caught up in one of those cults. Gonna take a long time. We ran it by Wolfe at City–Wide. She says she's got enough to indict Monroe even without the kid.

"And Lucas said there was another kid. Older than him. Layne. Wolfe wanted to know, maybe this Layne, he'd testify against Monroe…"

His voice trailed off, making it a question. I shrugged.

"I fucking
told
you," Morales said.

"And the ten grand's gone too?"

"Yeah."

"Wolfe's the best. She was standing by. Got a telephonic search warrant. There was enough stuff in the house…pictures and all…Monroe goes down for a long time even without the kid's testimony. Wolfe says they can use that DNA fingerprinting, prove this kid is who the parents say he is. She asked if you were in this."

"And you told her…"

"No."

It wouldn't fool Wolfe. She wasn't asking McGowan for information, she was sending me a message. The beautiful prosecutor played the game right to the edge of the line, played it too hard for the degenerates to win.

But they kept coming. Tidal waves from a swamp the EPA could never clean up.

Morales ground out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Hard, the way he did everything. "Whatever he gets, it's not enough. Next to him, a rapist's a class act." His eyes held mine, waiting.

"What're you saying?"

"He's not saying nothing," McGowan snapped. "Just frustrated, that's all."

"You think the
federales
will play Let's Make a Deal with this freak?"

"They could. He knows a lot. Networked all over the place. He even had one of those computer programs where you send images over the wire to a laser printer."

"Good." You do enough bragging about where the bodies are buried, you could join the crowd.

Morales weighed in. "Yeah. Fucking great. He drops a pocketful of dimes on his brother freaks, does a few soft years in a federal rest camp, sees one of those whore–psychiatrists, comes out and gets a job in a day–care center or something. Maybe writes a book."

I shrugged.

Morales took it as a challenge. "You think those fucking therapists can fix a freak like him?"

"No. They know what to call it, that's all. Pedophilia. Like it's a disease. They had a disease named after hijackers, maybe I would of gotten past the Parole Board the first time."

Morales wouldn't let it go. "A few years ago, they'd have to lock slime like that away from the regular cons. Not no more. Baby–raping motherfuckers like him need to resist arrest more often."

McGowan shook his head sadly. He got up to leave, Morales trailing in his wake. The cops tossed bills on the table for their breakfast and split. I watched the smoke collect near the ceiling of the diner. Thinking of something Wesley once told me.

Something he once called me.

13

I
WAS AS CLOSE to square as I was going to get. I could go on vacation, not worry about the mail piling up on the doorstep.

But a responsible businessman doesn't take a vacation unless his desk is clean. After a half hour of dodging potholes deep enough to have punji sticks at the bottom, the Plymouth poked its anonymous nose off the BQE at Flushing Avenue. Heading through Bedford–Stuyvesant. Some people call it "do or die Bed–Stuy." Those people are called something else. Escapees.

On to Bushwick. A bad piece of pavement even by city standards: if you went down on these streets from less than three gunshot wounds, the hospital would write "natural causes" on the death certificate. Just before the intersection at Marcy Avenue, a three–story shell of a wooden building, blackened timbers forming X–braces, decaying from the ground up. Next to it, an abandoned Chinese take–out joint. Hand–painted sign: Houes of Wong. Parked in front, a car full of black teenagers, baseball caps turned on their heads so the bills pointed backwards. Waiting for night.

The going rate for three rocks of instant–access cocaine is five bucks. The dealers won't take singles, makes too much bulk in their pockets. The bodegas operate as war–zone currency exchanges: a five–dollar bill costs you six singles.

I crossed Broadway, past a pet store that advertised rabbits. For food. A rooster crowed from somewhere inside one of the blunt–faced buildings.

A Puerto Rican woman strolled by on the sidewalk, wearing a bright orange quasi–silk blouse knotted just below her midriff, neon–yellow spandex bicycle pants with thick black stripes down the sides stretching almost to her knees. Backless white spike heels, no stockings. She was fifteen pounds over the limit for a yuppie aerobics class, but on this street, she was prime cut. She acknowledged the men calling out to her with her lips and her hips, but she never turned her head.

Another couple of blocks. The projects. An olive–skinned little boy was playing with a broken truck in a puddle near a fire hydrant, making it amphibious.

Most of the businesses were war casualties, liquor stores and video rental joints the only survivors.

And the crack houses. Fronted by groups of mini–thugs hoping to grow up to be triggerboys. Watching the escape vehicles slide by, Mercedeses and BMWs, seeing themselves behind the wheel. Ghetto colors slashing the grime, not telling the truth.

Gut–grinding poverty. Sandpaper for the soul.

Pigeons overhead, circling in flocks. Hawks on the ground.

Make enough wrong turns and you're on a no–way street.

A no–brand–name gas station on the corner. It pumped more kilos than gallons. A big dirt–colored junkyard dog was entertaining himself, dropping a blackened tennis ball from his mouth down a paved slope, chasing it once it got rolling. A trio of puppies watched in fascination.

The sign outside said Custom Ironwork. A sample covered the front door. I rang the bell. Door opened. Guy about five feet tall answered. Red Ban–Lon shirt, short sleeves threatened by biceps the size of grapefruits. He either had a pin head or a twenty–inch neck. One dark slash was his full supply of eyebrows. His hands gripped the bars like he could bend them without a welding torch.

"What?"

"Mr. Morton."

"Who wants him?"

"Burke. I got an appointment."

He must have been told in front. In one–syllable words. I stepped back as he shoved the iron gate open, stepped past him as he stood aside.

"Upstairs."

I heard him behind me on the steel steps, breathing hard by the second flight. Bodybuilder.

"In here."

Bars on the windows, gray steel office desk, stacks of army–green file cabinets against the wall. The man behind the desk was younger than I expected. Deep tan, expensive haircut, heavy on the gel. Diamond on one finger, wafer–faced watch on his wrist. Manicure, clear nail polish. White silk shirt, tie pulled down. Suit jacket on a hanger, dangling from a hook on the wall.

"Mr. Morton?"

"Yeah."

"My name is Burke. We have an appointment."

"You got what you're supposed to have?"

"Yes."

He looked sideways at the bodybuilder. "You pat him down?"

"No, boss. I thought you…"

Morton glanced across at me, tapping his fingers. "Never mind," he told the bodybuilder in a disgusted voice. To me: "Put it on the table." Hard edge in his voice, looking me right in the eyes. Tough guy, projecting his image.

I had his image: lunch meat, on white bread. I reached in my pocket, laid the thick envelope on the desk.

"You got this straight from him? You look inside?"

"Yeah."

"How come? You don't trust the
senator
?"

"I didn't want to come up short. It wouldn't be respectful."

He nodded. "You know how much this costs?"

"I know what he told me. Twenty–five K."

"That's what's in there?" Gesturing at the envelope.

"In hundreds. Used, no consecutives."

"Okay." He took a nine–by–twelve manila envelope from the desk drawer. "You want to look?"

"No."

His head tilted up. "No?"

"I agreed to bring you an envelope, bring him an envelope."

"What if this one's empty?"

"It wouldn't be."

"Or else what?"

"You have to ask the man. It's not my business."

He lit a cigarette. "I know you. I know your name. I wouldn't want you to come back if the man was unhappy."

"Sure."

"What's that mean?"

"It means, you know my name, you know I'm not a chump. Like the senator, right? Don't jerk my chain. The pictures are in there. And the negatives. Not because you're worried about me coming back."

"Then why?"

"Only a fucking sucker buys pictures. We both know that. You got more. Or copies of the negatives. Maybe you'll never do anything with them, maybe you will. But it won't be soon."

"That sounds like a threat."

I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth–breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef—couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight–by–tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine–grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf–length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side–shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light–colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"

White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.

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

I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty–five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"

His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.

"Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room—maybe he wasn't so stupid.

The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"

"Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty–two, twenty–three by now. She came to you, right?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty–five, that's good–faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up–front payment, he sends you the rest."

He nodded again.

"I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"

"Half."

"How'd she do it? You first?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"

"Sure."

"She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."

"She didn't threaten you?"

"No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."

This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not going to be stupid."

"No. Not twice."

"I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"

"You won't tell him?"

"Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."

An oil–slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.

I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.

"Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"

"This is the toll," I said.

14

S
OME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.

I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags—the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.

The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out of a bottle of Night Train.

I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty–five grand under the front seat.

Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.

A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot–high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten–dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.

"Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.

We always know each other, those of us missing some parts.

I got out at Seventy–seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co–op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.

"We're alone," he said. Like I cared.

His study was just what you'd expect if you read a lot of magazines that never leave the coffee table.

He gestured to a leather chair, took one himself. I lit a smoke. He frowned. "My wife doesn't like smoking…I'm afraid there's no ashtrays anywhere in the house."

I took out a metal Sucrets box, popped it open, tapped my cigarette into it. Handed him the envelope.

"Did you look inside?"

"No."

He was a tall, thick–bodied man, graying hair carefully coiffed to hide a receding hairline. Light brown eyes held mine. His famous "anti–corruption stare" the TV cameras liked so much. On me, it was as useful as an appendix. He dropped his eyes, opened the envelope, held the pictures so I couldn't see them. Leafed through them, one by one. I watched his face. Melissa's rightful prey: he'd never want a woman grown enough to judge him.

He put the pictures away. Five to one he wouldn't burn them. "You do good work, Mr. Burke."

"That's what I'm paid for," I reminded him.

"Oh. Yes." He handed me a #10 business envelope. Heavy, cream–colored stock. "You want to count it?"

"I trust you, Senator," I assured him.

He stroked his chin in a gesture so practiced it had become habit. "I never did anything like this before." Meaning deal with thugs like me, not fuck underage girls. "It seems to have worked out well. Perhaps I'll have something for you to do in the future."

"Anytime."

"You came highly recommended. I didn't want to deal with…you know…"

I knew.

"I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…" Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.

I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.