Authors: Andrew Vachss
"Fucking fag," one of the watching spectators mumbled.
Buddha nudged the spectator with his shoulder. "Say what?"
"What's it to you?" the spectator challenged.
"That's my brother," Buddha said, an ugly grin on his pudgy
face.
"Fags can't fight," the spectator snarled, holding his ground.
"Never stopped me," Rhino squeaked, shoving his massive bulk against the spectator from the other side.
The spectator looked up at Rhino, then rapidly decided he had better things to do.
The bell rang. McNamara glided forward into a cat–stance, one leg pawing the air a foot or so off the ground. Princess stepped to him, firing a jet–stream left hook at the smaller man's midsection. McNamara spun inside the hook so his back was against Princess's chest, whipping an elbow at the bodybuilder's face. Princess locked McNamara's arm, holding him close. He leaned down, whispered urgently into the cop's ear, "Cross says he needs your RI. Tonight, at ten."
McNamara broke the hold, spun away gracefully. They sparred three full rounds, Princess never seeming to fully connect with any of his punches…McNamara landing blow after blow without apparent effect.
Cross wrapped a robe around his tired fighter as McNamara bowed to close the match.
M
cNamara was at his desk at ten when the call came in on his private line.
"Detective Bureau, McNamara."
"You know who this is," a muffled voice said. "Listen good–I'm not gonna say this again, okay?"
"Go," McNamara said, flicking on a cheap tape recorder he had connected to the phone.
"There's a guy who's gonna do a snatch. He's been stalking, waiting. This ain't no job for you, McNamara, I give you the dope, you better call the
federales,
okay? Now listen up…"
The voice went on for a couple of minutes, uninterrupted. Then the line went dead.
McNamara sat for a few minutes, staring at the cigarette–discolored acoustic tile ceiling of his cubicle. Then he stepped away from his desk and shouted down the hall. "Hey, Trikowski, you still got the number of the Secret Service?"
T
he next morning, McNamara was in the chambers of Judge Byron Blake, arguing his own case.
"Your Honor, I know this is an extraordinary application, but…"
Judge Blake was a large black man with an even larger head of graying curls. His intelligent eyes were a deep, rich chocolate, unwavering. "I know, I know….You have this Reliable Informant, right?"
"He's never been wrong before, Your Honor. And this gentleman–"
"Agent Cooper, Your Honor," the slim man with the blond crewcut introduced himself. "United States Secret Service. We realize this is a federal matter, and we're prepared to execute the warrant ourselves. But we asked Detective McNamara to make the application personally rather than rely on pieces of paper…as a matter of respect."
"I'll bet," the judge sighed. "Well, on the facts you've
sworn
to in this affidavit, detective, I don't see where I have much choice," he said, signing the papers on his desk with a flourish.
W
ieskoft stepped out the door of his building, video camera in one hand. He walked past a brightly colored florist's van when he heard a voice yell "Hey you!" He turned to see what was going on and walked smack into a homeless man stumbling along, half drunk. He raised one hand to protect his camera when he felt a circle of steel close around the back of his neck. Wieskoft cried out in pain as the bum pushed the button on an aerosol can, discharging a mini–cloud of greenish gas into the dangling man's face.
Wieskoft woke up in the back of the van, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Terror drove him back into unconsciousness.
I
They carried the terror–stiffened man inside. When the blindfold came off, he saw two things: three men, each wearing a red ski mask with a white pentagram symbol on the forehead, gloves on their hands…and that he was inside his remote rural cabin.
One of them pulled off the gag, a piece of duct tape. Wieskoft shrieked in pain. He knew nobody would hear–that had been part of his own plan.
"Your Lincoln is outside," one of the men told him. "Keys in the ignition. When we're done, you just drive yourself back home."
"Why did you–?"
"Shut up, weasel," another of the men said. "We're just soldiers, doing a job. What we promised, see, is that you wouldn't bother that girl anymore."
"What…girl?"
"You know what girl. Angel. Now there's two ways to do this, okay' One is we kill you and leave you here. That ain't no big thing…probably nobody'd even find the body for months. The other thing is, you disappear. Got it? Get in the wind. Get yourself
gone.
That way, we still get paid. What do you say?"
"I'll go! I'll go tonight!"
"Yeah, we kind of figured that. But, see, we got this problem. You know what our problem is, buddy? Our problem is…what's in it for us? See, we got paid, and we always keep our word. That's our stock–in–trade. Now we didn't promise to snuff you, but it
is
easier…you understand?"
"I have money!"
"Do you now? Okay, two questions. How much' And where is it?"
"It's mostly in mutual funds. I could–"
"There's the phone," the man told him. "And here's your list," another man said, handing Wieskoft a computer printout of all his financial holdings.
I
t was late afternoon by the time Wieskoft's Lincoln steamed up to the curb in front of his building. He slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car and charged for the stairs. "Maybe there's still time…stop payment on the currency transfer orders, pack some bags, take Angel, get out of…"
"Freeze!" several voices yelled simultaneously. Wieskoft looked around, seeing only a river of handguns pointing at various parts of his body.
L
et me get this straight," McNamara was saying. "We find a stalker's journal in your apartment, okay? Detailed plans for kidnapping and torturing a little girl. All kinds of equipment to do the job. Piles and piles of newspaper clippings about the President's daughter. Magazine articles, photographs…even her school records, the name of her cat…everything. We know you own this cabin out in the sticks. Nice of you to set the trip odometer before you made the last run…the round–trip mileage is just perfect. And pasted over every picture of this little girl, you got the word 'Angel' too. I'll bet when we search the cabin, we find her name all over that place too.
"And your story is you were kidnapped by a gang of devil–worshipers who made you clean out your bank accounts, is that it?"
"I…"
"You're a sick bastard, aren't you? Well, you're going down for this one. Down deep. Maybe if you get lucky, you'll end up playing cards with John Hinckley."
"You don't…understand," Wieskoft muttered. "I don't even
know
that girl. I never…"
"So who's this 'Angel,' then?" McNamara asked.
"I…I…"
"He's all yours," McNamara told the waiting feds.
"I
can't believe it," Reba told Cross, sitting at her kitchen table." All this time, he was after the President's daughter…God!"
"His lawyer is pleading him NGI?"
"NGI?"
"Not Guilty by reason of Insanity. He's going with a public defender…looks like he's broke, too."
"Will he go to prison?"
"A mental hospital, most likely. But, those places, the thing is, they don't let you go until you admit what you did…so they can 'cure' you, right? This Wieskoft character, he keeps telling this crazy story…they're
never
gonna buy that one."
"I can't buy it myself."
"That's not what you bought," Cross said, holding out his hand.
I
waited for him in the warehouse, standing back in the shadows.
The midnight–blue Mercedes sedan purred through the open door. He climbed out, adjusted his shirt cuffs so they showed just past the sleeves of his suit coat, patted his hair. Tapped his fingers on the sleek fender.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"I see you're on time."
"Like I said."
"I don't have much time for this. I have a lot to do."
I didn't say anything. The phone in his car chirped. He nodded in its direction, making no move to answer.
"They think I'm already on my way to the Bahamas."
I watched his hands. Waiting.
"I have the money. Right here," tapping his breast pocket. "All in fifties, no sequential serial numbers."
I watched his eyes.
"I know the way you guys work. We have a deal. I'm paying good money for this. It's still a lot cheaper than a divorce, but I still expect value received."
I nodded.
"It has to happen before midnight tonight."
"It will."
"Make it happen slow, okay? I want that fucking little cunt
to hurt first."
"I don't do that."
"I'm paying you…"
"You're paying me for a body. You'll get a body. On time."
His face played with a sneer. "You're supposed to be the best. Like my car. Like my clothes. I pay for the best."
I watched him.
"You're a machine, right? A death machine. And you work for whoever pays you."
"Whoever pays me first."
T
he woman was so impossibly beautiful it hurt to look at her. The old man did it anyway–it was his job.
"Nobody named Cross here, lady," he said, glancing up from behind the counter at the entrance to the basement poolroom.
"Is that right?" the woman challenged. "Then maybe I'll just play some pool."
"There's no tables available," the old man said.
The woman shot a glorious hip, her orange silk sheath rippling in appreciation. She swiveled on spike heels, taking in the scene behind her. Most of the room was in shadow, broken up by low–hanging shaded bulbs over the tables. Only a few of the bulbs were lit, and even those were shrouded in a thick haze of yellowing smoke.
"I see plenty of empties," she said, her voice fiat.
"Those ones are broken, lady."
"I guess I'll just wait, then," she said, walking away from the counter to an old–fashioned red–and–white Coke machine. She perched on a nearby stool, crossed her marriage–wrecker legs, and took out a cigarette.
A wooden match flared just past her cheek. She leaned forward, caught the light. She leaned back, took a deep drag, her breasts threatening the silk. She looked up at the man holding the match, veiling her eyes under butterfly lashes. His head was shaved, sitting on a thick, corded neck. The earring in his right ear was a long chain attached to a ball, like a convict's shackles. His upper body was grotesque: so outrageously ripped and heavily veined it looked artificial. The flesh sculpture was barely covered with a pale purple tank top.
"Thank you," the woman whispered, photographing his face with her turquoise eyes, recording the mascara and eyeliner, the thin coating of lip gloss.
"Can I help you with something?" the massive creature asked her.
'You're not femme," the woman said. It wasn't a question. "Why all the makeup?"
"It helps get me into fights," the man said.
The woman nodded like she'd just heard common sense. "I want to see Cross."
"Not here," the bodybuilder said, leaning forward as his voice dropped. The woman cocked her head, listening. Finally, she nodded.
The ivory balls seemed to click along with the rhythm of her hips as she walked out.
T
he woman on the street corner was all in black, a deeper, darker shade than the surrounding night. A big sedan slid to a stop–it was gunmetal gray with darkened windows, generic and anonymous. The front door opened and the bodybuilder stepped out, nodded to her, opened the back door like an usher. She climbed inside. The door closed behind her. Another door slammed, and the car was in motion.
"You wanted to talk to me?" A voice from the far recesses of the back seat.
"What I want to do is hire you," the woman said, aiming her voice at a pool of blackness.
"Tell me," the voice said, as the car turned a corner.
T
he top floor of the luxury apartment building looked more greenhouse than penthouse–the exterior walls were all glass. Past the glass, a railed balcony ran the length of the apartment, wide enough to accommodate a substantial outdoor garden. Three men sat in the living room, widely separated, on different points of a white horseshoe–shaped sofa. Another occupied a black leather lounger. The fifth man was standing, talking. A computer sat in one corner, its double–width screen a mass of paper–white emptiness. Against the windows, a matched pair of high–power telescopes on tripods, one fitted with a 35mm camera instead of a conventional eyepiece.
In the alley behind the building, a man carefully shaped a claylike substance around the edges of a door marked SERVICE ENTRANCE. When he was done, a string dangled from the lower edge of the substance.
Around the front of the building, a razor–thin black man walked soundlessly across the carpet runner toward the security guard on duty behind a marble–topped desk. The black man was wearing a Zorro hat and a calf–length black leather coat, black gloves on his pianist's hands. The security guard, a burly black man with a round, friendly face, looked up from the bank of video monitors behind him.