Hard Candy (7 page)

38

I
WALKED BY myself a lot then. The court case was pending, but not hanging over my head. Davidson was right—if I didn't do something stupid, I was okay.

I didn't feel okay.

After a few more dead days, I called Candy.

39

S
HE OPENED the door, wearing an apricot sweatshirt that came down almost to her knees, face sweaty, no makeup. No contact lenses either, yellow cat's eyes patient.

The apartment looked the same. Fresh rosebuds in a steel vase on the coffee table. The air smelled sharp, ionized. Like after a hard rain.

I sat on the couch. She curled her legs under her, wrinkled her nose when I lit a cigarette. I waited.

"I have a daughter," she said.

I dragged on the cigarette, watching the glowing tip.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I don't know you."

"I know you. You're the same. So am I."

"Okay."

"She's almost sixteen years old. Always had the best. The very, very best. Designer clothes, dance lessons, private schools. The last school she went to, they even had a rule about boys in the rooms. You had to have one foot on the floor at all times."

Candy's mouth curled—her laugh didn't come from her belly.

"Imagine that, huh? I was older than her before I knew people fucked lying down. Remember?"

I remembered. The dark stairwell at the back of the building where she lived with her mother in a railroad flat on the top floor. Candy standing one step higher than me, her back to me, her skirt bunched around her waist. I remembered taking down a drunk in an alley just past a waterfront bar with two other guys from the gang. Thinking my share of the loot would buy her a sweater she wanted. And me another few minutes on those stairs.

"Her name is Elvira. Pretty name, isn't it? I wanted her to have everything I didn't." She waved her hand, taking in the sterile waiting room to her office. "That's what I started all this for."

I watched her lying eyes, waiting.

"A few months ago, she ran away from school. She's staying with this cult. Over in Brooklyn. I don't know much about it…even what it's called. The man who runs it, he's called Train. I don't know how he got to her. I went there once. They wouldn't let me speak to her. I told them she was underage, but they must know something about me. Maybe she told them. Call a cop, they said."

I lit another smoke.

"I want her back. She's mine, not theirs. She's too young for this. She needs help. Maybe even a hospital. She…"

I cut her off. "What do you want from me?"

She tilted her chin to look up at me. "Get her out of there. Get her back."

"I don't do that stuff."

"Yes you do. You do it all the time. It's
what
you do. What you used to do before…"

I looked a question at her.

She pointed a finger at me, crooked her thumb. "Bang bang," she said softly.

I shook my head.

"All you have to do is
ask
, okay? Just go there. See the man.
Ask
him to let Elvira go with you."

"And if he says no?"

"Then I'll do something else."

"Do something else first."

"No! I want to keep my life. Just the way it is, okay? Just ask him."

"Why should he go along?"

"It doesn't matter. He will. I know he will."

I got off the couch, walked over to the window. It was dark outside, lights spotting the building across the street. Nothing was right about her.

"Say the whole thing," I told her.

"You go there. You ask him for Elvira. He gives her up. You bring her to me."

"He says no?"

"You walk away."

"No more?"

"No more."

"What kind of cult is this? They have the girls hooking, begging, selling flowers, what?"

"I don't know."

"How do you spell this guy's name? Train."

"Like a subway train.

I lit another smoke. "You said you'd pay me."

"I said I'd give you whatever you want."

"Money's what I want."

"Tell me the price. I'll have it here for you when you get back."

I smiled.

She didn't. "Half now, half when you come back."

"Five now."

She padded out of the room on her bare feet. I punched the redial number on the white phone, memorized the number that came up on the screen, hung it up gently before it could ring at the other end.

Candy came back in, handed me a thick wad of bills wrapped in a rubber band. I put it in my coat pocket.

"Here's all I know about him," she started, curling up on the couch again.

40

I
DID IT RIGHT. Habits die hard. Like the woman I loved. The building was an old meat–packing plant in the shadow of the triangle formed by Atlantic and Flatbush, on the edge of the gentrification blot spreading east from Boerum Hill. A nonprofit corporation owned it. Four stories. The ground floor was a loading bay for trucks. The front–facing windows were new, vinyl–trimmed. The sides were flat–faced brick. The back windows were covered with iron bars. Front door was steel, set a few inches into the frame. The City Planning Office had the records. The place had been gut–renovated four years ago. The top floor had a domed skylight.

Traffic was light in and out. Most of the visitors were young. White. Empty–handed.

I went to see a guy I know. An ex–cop who doesn't pretend he's honest. For three hundred bucks, he told me the place had six separate phone numbers and two pay phones.

"You want the numbers, the toll calls?"

"How much?"

"A grand gets you the numbers, and one month's bill for each number."

"I'll let you know."

Four cars registered to the corporation. Two vans, a station wagon, and a Mercedes sedan.

Five hundred bought me an IRS scan. The corporation called itself Mission 999. It declared almost three hundred grand last year in contributions, none larger than a couple of thousand. The guy I paid told me that it had never been audited.

I had a picture of Elvira. Pretty little brunette in a school uniform. Looked about thirteen. Smiling a school–picture smile.

It made me think of something. Something that wouldn't come to the surface.

41

I
TOLD MAX about the deal. Sitting in my booth in the back of Mama's restaurant, I drew a picture of the house. Max kept tapping the paper, not satisfied until I drew in every detail I could remember. He curled his fingers into a tube, held it to one eye, flicked a finger across the opening at the end. I shook my head—I didn't need photographs of the place. When I was finished, I handed the drawing to Max. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, let the smoke bubble slowly out his nose as he concentrated.

He ground out his cigarette. Reached down, gestured like he was pulling a plant out by the roots. I shook my head again. We weren't going to snatch the kid. I took him through the whole bit again. And again. Finally he nodded.

42

T
HE NEXT morning we parked a couple of blocks from the building. Walked the rest of the way. Calm and quiet. I knocked on the steel door. Waited. Max stood next to me, just off my shoulder, centered inside himself, ready.

A young guy just past his teens opened the door. Wearing a blinding white karate gi, black belt loosely tied at his waist, black headband.

"Can I help you?"

"I want to talk to Train.

"Your name?"

"Burke."

"Wait here, please." He closed the door gently. No sound reached us from inside.

It wasn't a long wait. "Please come with me," he said.

The door opened into a long, narrow room. Kitchen sounds to one side. Young people moving around, serene looks, quiet smiles. "This way," he said, turning toward a staircase.

We followed him to the second floor. Sounds of a postage meter, telephones chiming. More people moving around. Nobody gave us a glance.

Another flight. Quiet. All the doors closed. The guy in the karate outfit never looked back.

He opened a door at the top of the last flight. Stood aside, sweeping a hand to show us in. A room the size of a basketball court. Wide–board pine floor, scrubbed so hard it was almost white. The walls were eggshell, the single row of windows blocked by thin aluminum blinds, slanted to make horizontal bars across the floor. The skylight threw an oblong slash of bright light into the center. A teardrop–shaped blob of concrete was placed at the center of the light. The guide led us to it. The center was hollowed out, red and white pillows arranged in the core to form a chair.

"Please wait," he said. He walked across the room, tapped on a door at the far end, came back, and stood next to us. A rainbow formed an arc over the concrete chair. I flicked my eyes to the skylight, catching a glimpse of a long arc–shaped prism suspended by a thread from the ceiling.

The far door opened. A man came through at the head of a wedge, three men on each side of him. Medium height, dark hair. Barefoot, loose faded cotton pants. He was bare–chested under a flowing white silk robe.

"I am Train," he said to me, ignoring Max.

"Burke."

"Get chairs for our guests," he said to nobody in particular. He sat down, one man on each side of his chair. The other four came back carrying one of the concrete blobs between them. I saw where hand–holds had been cut into the sides. They put the chair down. Went back and returned with another. Nobody spoke. The four men came back, each carrying two black pillows. They arranged the pillows in the hollow of the chairs. I took the chair closest to the windows. Max swept the room with his eyes, sat down next to me. One of the men put a metal bowl between our chairs. The four chair–carriers walked out. Train spoke to me from between his two remaining guards—their eyes tracked me. Nothing serene in them.

"You wanted to speak with me?" His voice was mellow–calm, almost polite.

I reached into my coat, watching his eyes. They stayed calm. I took out a smoke, fired it up, dropped the match into the metal bowl.

"You have a girl here. Elvira. Her mother wants her back."

"Is that your message?"

"Half of it. I'm here to take her."

"Just like that?"

I shrugged.

"Do you want to know
why
she's here?"

"No."

"Or how she got to us?"

"No."

He closed his eyes. Held his hands to his temples like he was waiting for a message.

"Are you a private detective?"

"No."

"What if she wants to stay?"

"She's underage. It's not her choice."

"Everyone makes choices."

"Everyone tries."

He put his fingers to his temples again. "Can we discuss this?"

"What's to discuss?"

"I'm interested in people. Why they do things. It helps me do my work."

I dragged on my cigarette.

"Are you interested in a proposition?"

"Enough to listen to it."

He leaned slightly forward. "I'm interested in you. Why you would do something like this. An hour or so of conversation. Just you and I. We'll talk. You'll answer my questions. And I'll answer yours, if you want. A dialogue. I will have to prepare the girl. You'll come back tomorrow. She'll leave with you. Fair enough?"

My face stayed flat. "Even if you don't like the answers I give you?"

"Yes."

I made a sign to Max. He flowed to his feet, approached the man sitting across from us. Train didn't move. The guards stepped in front of him. Max kept coming. I couldn't hear what Train said, but the guards parted when Max closed in. He took one of Train's hands in his, turned it over, examining it. Stepped back, nodded to me.

Train's eyes flickered in the artificial rainbow. "What was that about?"

"My brother is leaving now. I'll talk to you. Like you said. I'll come back tomorrow. For the girl. Like you said."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Yeah it does. You keep your word, there's no problem. You don't, my brother comes back to see you. He'll know you when he does."

Train shrugged. Max stepped away from him. Stood behind his own chair. Thrust his fingers into the handholds and lifted the concrete blob off the ground. The only sound in the room was the whistle of air through the Mongol warrior's flat nose.

That wasn't like Max. Muscle–flexing. Maybe none of us would be ourselves again.

He gently lowered the chair to the floor. Bowed to Train. Walked to the door we used to enter the room. The guy in the white karate outfit stepped in his way, looking to Train for a sign. By the time Train shook his head, the guy was on the floor, face a black shade of red, holding his ribs gently so they wouldn't cut into his lungs. And Max was on the other side of the door.

I lit another cigarette. "Let's have that dialogue," I said to Train.

43

T
HE TWO guards helped the guy in the white outfit to his feet. Went out the same door, leaving us alone. Train put his hands to his temples again.

Silence.

"What do you call yourself?" he finally asked.

"Burke."

"Not who, what. You say you're not a private investigator…you're not a lawyer, not a doctor…all of us are something. You're…"

"Waiting."

His eyes stayed calm. "A dialogue. As we agreed."

I nodded my head forward, acknowledging. "I'm just a man. I guess you could call me a contractor."

"Could you explain?"

"I make contracts with people. I promise to do something for them, they promise to do something for me."

"Pay you money?"

"Sometimes."

"And other times?"

"It depends. I need certain things. Just like you or anybody else. I do my work to get those things. It's not always money."

"Are you for hire, then?"

"Only by people who know me. Or know my people."

"This girl you want…her mother hired you?"

"Yes."

"And you know her?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever work as a bodyguard?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not what I do. A bodyguard does his job by getting hurt. Or dead."

His lower lip flickered. "And you're afraid of getting hurt?"

"Or dead."

The concrete chair was comfortable. I lit another cigarette. Train shifted his weight, leaning forward, elbows on knees. "Do you feel safe? Here, with me?"

"No."

"Why is that? Your…
brother
, you called him…seems very powerful. Is that why you brought him?"

"He's gone," I pointed out.

"That confused me. It seems that you told him to go as a gesture of faith. As I told my men to leave. We are the only ones here. Are you afraid of me?"

"Not especially."

"Then…?"

"I'm sitting in this chair. Your chair. It could be stuffed full of low–yield explosive. Wired for electricity. Sitting under a sniper's rifle…like that."

"But you don't think so."

"No. I don't think so."

"Would you feel more comfortable if we switched chairs?"

"No. It doesn't matter."

"Are you armed? You have a weapon with you?"

"No."

He leaned back in his chair. "Have you ever been arrested?"

"Yes."

"In prison?"

"Yes."

"Were you innocent?"

"Which time?"

A smile came and went so quickly I couldn't be sure I'd seen it.

"Do you mind if one of my people joins us for a minute?" he asked.

"Why?"

"She has a special skill. Something that would help our dialogue."

I shrugged.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"We have a contract."

"Ah…yes." He snapped his fingers, a brittle crack in the empty room. The door behind him opened and a woman stepped through. Long, thick dark hair gathered into a heavy braid hanging down the front of a pale violet robe. She stood next to Train, her eyes on me. Big eyes, tropic skin, a slash for a mouth. Dark polish on her nails. "This is Reba," he said.

I lit another smoke. Train rested the fingertips of one hand on the back of the woman's wrist. She was a statue.

"Have you ever taken a lie detector test?"

"Sure."

"Did you pass?"

I felt the ghost of a smile, thinking about it. "The cops never tell you."

"I will."

I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

"Reba has the gift. You know how a polygraph works, yes? Galvanic skin response, heartbeat, pulse rate?"

"Sure."

"Reba does that. With your permission…?"

"Okay."

The woman walked toward me, stepping out of the robe without moving her arms. She was naked, barefoot. I kept my eyes on Train as she crossed the room, the violet puddle of silk at his feet. She came to the right side of my chair, dropped to her knees, her breasts spilling against my forearm, pinning it to the chair. Her right hand slipped inside my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, hovered over my heart, gently came to rest. I felt two fingers of her left hand against the back of my neck. My eyes flicked to the right. The dark hair disappeared over her shoulder, smooth line of her back down to the swell of her butt, the soles of her feet were calloused, deeply arched.

"You know how it works," he said. "Just answer yes or no."

I dragged on my cigarette, flicking the ashes with my left hand.

"Have you ever been in prison?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever killed anybody?"

I just looked at him, no expression on my face. He went on as if I'd answered.

"Have you ever broken the law?"

"Yes."

"Are you a professional assassin?"

"No."

"Do you pay taxes?"

"Yes."

"Did Elvira's mother hire you?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever hear my name before you spoke to her?"

"No."

"Do you mean me any harm?"

"No."

"Have you ever met Elvira?"

"No."

"Are you working for anyone now besides the woman who says she is Elvira's mother?"

"No."

I tossed my cigarette into the metal bowl. I let my eyes follow the arc of the smoke, swept them back across Train's face, let the sweep carry me to the right. A clear droplet of sweat ran down Reba's spine. Her head came up, lips against my ear. "You told the truth," she whispered. Her hand came away from my heart, brushed smoothly across my crotch as she rose to her feet. She walked over to Train, her back gleaming with sweat. His eyes shifted up to her face as she passed. She went through the door without picking up her robe.

Train's hand went back to his temples. "What do you think of my security here?"

"What security?"

"I don't understand."

"Security against break–ins? Telephone taps? Firebombing? What?"

"Oh, I see. I mean my personal security…say, if somebody wanted to injure me."

"Seems easy enough to me."

"How so?"

"I walked in here with my brother. We wanted to do it, you were a dead man once you came in the room."

He dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. "Forget that. What if you wanted to kill me without getting into the house."

"You ever
leave
the house?"

"Sometimes."

"That'd be the time."

"How?"

"There's too many ways to even talk about. Shooting, stomping, stabbing…"

"What if I had bodyguards.
True
bodyguards."

"Bullet–catchers?"

"If you like."

"So somebody pops you from a rooftop. Or blows up a car with everybody in it."

"If I stayed in this house?"

"Set fire to it, you'd come out quick enough."

Train rotated his head on the column of his neck, working out the kinks from sitting so stiffly. A glaze over his eyes. Maybe it was the rainbow. Finally, he nodded. "Do you know what we do here?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you care?"

"No."

"When we were talking before…about assassinations? You seem to be saying that if someone wants to kill you, there's nothing you can do about it…no way you can protect yourself. Is that right?"

"No."

"What
can
you do, then?"

"Hit them first."

He bowed his head over clasped hands. Like he was praying.

Looked up. "You are a man of your word. I will honor our contract. Come back tomorrow. Anytime after seven o clock in the evening. The girl you call Elvira will be ready to leave with you then."

He snapped his fingers again. The door behind him opened. One of the guards came out. I got to my feet. Bowed to Train and walked to the door I'd come in, the guard at my heels.

The street was dark as I stepped outside. I didn't look back.

I found the Plymouth, started the engine, waited.

The door opened. Max slipped inside. Shook his head. I hadn't been followed.