Blossom
Table of Contents
FOR
ANDREW MITCHELL
born: October 19, 1985
unearthed: September 6, 1989
you never had a good day on this earth
sleep now, child
BLOSSOM
1
T
HE SUN dropped on the far side of the Hudson River like it knew what was coming.
I turned off the West Side Highway at Thirtieth Street, cruising east toward Tenth Avenue. Glanced at the photograph taped to my dashboard. Marilyn, her name was. Fourteen years old, her father said. Chubby, round–faced little girl, smiling at the camera, standing next to a Bon Jovi poster in her pink ruffled bedroom.
Marilyn ran away from home. Ran herself straight to Hell. I didn't know what she was before she caught the bus that dropped her into Port Authority, but I knew what she was now.
Raw meat on the streets. A pimp's prey as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk.
She'd be out here somewhere, chasing money.
Me too.
Marilyn wouldn't be working the commuters heading home through the Lincoln Tunnel. The hard–core tunnel bunnies would take her the way a Cuisinart took vegetables. A girl that young should be working indoors, but she hadn't turned up. Only one place left.
I fluttered my hand in a "get down" gesture but Max the Silent was way ahead of me, puddling himself into a pool of shadow in the back seat.
You can't make more than a couple of passes at any one block. The working girls know all about comparison shoppers. I stopped for a light on Twelfth. The Prof was at his post, his tiny body in a wheelchair, a Styrofoam begging cup jingling coins in his hand. He caught my eye. Nodded his head. Pointed up the block with a finger held at his waist.
You couldn't miss her. Babyfat spilling out all around the borders of the red hot pants, nervously plucking at her white halter top. Face unreadable behind the thick makeup. Hair piled on top of her head to make her look taller. Wobbling on spike heels in the heat waves the retreating sun left behind on the pavement. She was leaning against a long low building with some other girls. Cattle waiting for the prod.
My eyes flicked to the I–beam girder on the corner. Something moving in the shadows. Her pimp? No, one of the triple–threat street skells: clean your windshield, sell you a vial of crack, or slash at your face while another snatched at your wallet. Whatever pays.
I slowed the Plymouth to a crawl. Empty parking lot to my right. A black girl detached herself from the lineup, cut diagonally across the block toward me, streetlights glinting off her high cheekbones, crack–lust in her dead eyes.
"Want to give me a ride, honey? Change your luck?"
"Not tonight," I said, my eyes over her shoulder.
"She underage, man. Jailbait, big time."
I lit a cigarette. Shook my head. The black girl stepped aside. Walked away, switching her hips out of habit. Her other habit. AIDS and crack—racing to see which would take her down first.
Marilyn came over. Tentative. "You want to party?" Watching my face. Wanting me to say no. Not wanting me to. Lost.
"How much?" I asked, so she wouldn't spook.
"Fifty for me, ten for the room."
"What do I get for the fifty?"
Her eyes were somewhere else. "You get me. For a half hour. Okay?"
"Okay."
She walked around the front of the car, her head down. Resigned.
She got in the car knees first, the way a young girl does. Closed the door. "Take a left at the corner," she said, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. I knew where she wanted me to go—one of the shadowy deserted parking lots on West Twenty–fifth. In case I wanted to save the ten bucks for the room. She looked up as I drove through the green light, heading for Ninth. "Hey…I said…"
"Forget it, Marilyn." Using her name so she wouldn't think I had violence on my mind. Her pimp would have warned her about men who wanted to hurt her for fun. He'd tell her this was all about business. Beat it into her if she didn't understand. Beat her again to make sure.
"Who're you?" Everything in her voice running together in a sad–scared baby–blend.
"It's not important. Your father said you ran away, so…"
"You're taking me back there."
"Yeah."
She snatched at the door handle. Jiggled it. Hard. No go. Looked at my face. She knew. Started to cry.
She didn't look up until I pulled in behind Lily's joint. Max flowed out of the back seat. I lit a smoke, waiting.
"This isn't my home."
I didn't answer her.
Lily came back with Max, her long black hair bouncing in the night breeze. She opened the passenger door, said, "Hi, Marilyn," and held out her hand. The kid took it. They always do. Lily would keep her for a while, talk to her, see what happened, and why. Then, if it was okay, the little girl would make a call and her father would come in and get her. If it wasn't okay, Lily knew what to do.
I've been doing this for a long time. Cruising the cesspool flowing around Times Square, trolling for runaways. Sometimes the pimp is around when I work—that's why Max was along.
I used to bring them straight back where they came from. Now I know better.
It's a new game, but the same old rules—her father had paid me up front.
2
I
LEFT MAX at Lily's. His woman, Immaculata, worked there too. They'd go home together. The Prof's home was in the streets. I went home alone.
Pansy's huge head loomed out of the darkness as I entered my office. Her ice–water eyes were glad to see me—disappointed that I was alone. A Neapolitan mastiff, she runs about 140 pounds. In the office shadows she looked like a muscular oil slick. I took out two hot dogs I had wrapped in napkins from my coat pocket. The beast curled into a sitting position, slobber erupting out both sides of her jaws, waiting. I gave it a few seconds. Finally said, "Speak!" and tossed the whole mess at her. It disappeared. She gave me her usual "Where's the rest of it?" look and finally ambled over to her favorite corner where she's worn the Astroturf carpet down to the original cement.
"You want to go out?" I asked. She was indifferent, but walked over to the back door out of habit. I watched her clamber up the fire escape to the roof. Her yard was all concrete.
Like mine was once.
3
I
N THE STREET the next morning, I dialed the pay phone in the back of Mama Wong's restaurant. My number—the only one anyone has for me. Mama answered the way she always does.
"Gardens."
"It's me."
"You come in, okay?"
"Now."
"Yes. Front door, okay?"
I hung up. Pulled off the highway, heading east for Chinatown. Past the tiny triangular park at the back of Federal Plaza Watched an ancient Chinese lead two middle–aged women through an elaborate Tai Chi, oblivious to the bench–covering winos.
The white dragon tapestry stood alone in the front window of Mama's joint. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't the law and it wasn't trouble.
I parked the Plymouth in the back, right under the Chinese characters neatly printed on the alley wall. I didn't bother to lock the car—I couldn't read Chinese but I knew what the sign meant. Max the Silent marking his territory.
The blank–faced steel door at the back of Mama's opened just a crack. I couldn't see inside. They could see me. The door closed. I walked through the alley to the street, turned the corner. Bells tinkled as I opened the front door. A red light would flash in the kitchen at the same time.
Mama was at her altar. The cash register. She bowed her head slightly, motioned me to her as I returned her greeting. I glanced toward the back. A woman was in my booth, facing away from me. Dark chestnut hair spilled over the back of the blue vinyl cushions.
"For me?" I asked Mama.
"Woman come in yesterday. Just ask for Burke. Say her name Rebecca."
I shrugged. It didn't ring any bells. Even alarm bells.
"Woman say she wait for you. I tell her, maybe you not come in long time. She say she come back. I tell her to wait, okay?"
"She's been here ever since?"
"In basement."
"She carrying anything?"
"Just message."
"That's it?"
Mama bowed. "You talk to her?"
"Yeah."
I walked over to the back. Sat down across from the stranger.
A slim woman, small face framed by the thick chestnut hair, dominated by big dark eyes, hard straight–cut cheekbones. No makeup. Her lips were thin, dry. Polish half flaked off her nails, roughened hands. Hands that had been in dirt, dishwater, diapers. One of Mama's waiters leaned over, put a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the table. Replaced the overflowing ashtray. Caught my eye. I shook my head slightly. I still didn't know her.
"You want to talk to me?" I asked the woman.
"I want to talk to Burke."
"That's me."
"How would I know?"
"Why would I care if you know?"
"I'm Virgil's wife," she said, watching my face.
"Who's Virgil?"
"If you're Burke, you know."
"You having a good time, lady? You got nothing better to do?"
Her voice was hard coal, from a deep vein. "I got to know. I'm on my own here. My man's in trouble. He said to find his brother. Told me where to go. I couldn't call on the phone. He said it would be hard. Said you'd be hard. Ask me what you want first…get it over with."
"Who's Virgil?"
"If you're Burke, he's your old cellmate."
"What's his trouble?"
"Prove it to me first," she said, watching.
"Virgil went down for a homicide. Manslaughter. He stabbed…"
"I know about Virgil. I want to talk to Burke."
"You want the secret code?"
"Don't mock me. I have to be sure. These Chinese people, they kept me here. Searched my pocketbook. I don't care. If you're not him, tell me what I have to do to meet him. Whatever it takes."
"I'm Burke. Didn't Virgil describe me?"
Her smile didn't show her teeth. "Lots of men ain't so good–looking. That don't narrow it down much."
"Virgil's no Cary Grant himself."
"My husband is a handsome man," she said. Like she was telling a moron what day it was.
"Virgil I knew, he was a quiet man. Hillbilly. Didn't do much talking. He came to Chicago when the work ran out back where he came from. His woman followed him. A freak from her hometown followed her. Freak got himself diced and sliced. I spent a long time getting him ready for the Parole Board, then the fool blew it when they asked him why he stabbed the man. Virgil told them the guy just needed killing. You remember that?"
"I remember that. I had to wait another six months for him."
"He had a long, straight scar on the inside of his right forearm. Chainsaw kicked back on him when he was a kid. Wrote a letter to his woman every damn day. He could play the piano like his hands were magic."
"Still can."
"You believe I know him?"
"Yes. But I don't know you. Virgil said you'd tell me a name. He said to ask you…the most dangerous man alive…he said there'd only be one answer. And Burke would know it."
I lit a smoke. Watched her face through the flame from the wooden match. "Wesley," I said. Whispering his name. Feeling the chill from the grave.
She nodded. Let out a long breath. "It's you. Burke." She fumbled in her purse, found a cigarette. I lit it for her. "Virgil's your brother…" making it a question.
"Yes," I said, making it clear. She was asking about commitment, not genetics.
She dragged on her cigarette, shoulders slumping against the back of the booth. "Thank the Lord."