Blossom (5 page)

15

T
HE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush–faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper–scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind–the–back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.

Another leaflet–dealer at the next corner. Look down or look hard. I grabbed his eyes as I closed in, my hands clenched into fists. "Don't look so angry, chief. I saved one for you," he sang out. Fuck it, I took one. Jews for Jesus.

A derelict combed his hair, holding a rearview mirror from a car in one hand, adjusting his look. Fancy running shoes on his feet—you can always pick up a pair in the homeless shelters. The yuppies donate their old models every time a new style comes out. Tax–deductible relevance.

A blissed–out dude with long hair and
Star Trek
eyes sat on a blanket, jet–lagged from time travel. A hand–lettered sign propped up next to him: Wind Chimes. Empty pint bottles of wine all around him. A woman stopped in front of him. Asked, "Where are the wind chimes?" He held up one of the bottles, admiring the play of sunlight on the glass. Tapped it gently with a tiny hammer. The bottle cracked, tinkled as the glass fell onto the blanket. His smile was pharmacological.

Something white under my windshield wiper. As I came closer, I saw it was a business card. A tiny black&white photo of a woman in bra and garter belt, red lipsticked imprint. Dial 555–PAIN slashed across the top. I read the small print. Press (I) Submissive Sarah; (2) Two beautiful bisexual girls; (3) Adventures of Lady Whiplust. Smaller print: $1.50 first minute, $0.50 for each additional minute.

16

N
OTHING ON the all–news station. Pushed the buttons. Found some sports–talk program. So sad to listen to callers desperate to stay on the line, prolong the contact. Mike, I've got a couple of quick questions, and then a comment, okay?" Not all Dumpster–divers are homeless—the city's a giant cellblock, stuffed with humans who never see each other. As lonely as masturbation.

You make your bed, you have to sleep in it. Some people smoke in theirs.

I opened the newspaper. In the Personals: hand–drawn picture of a little girl, pretty bow in her hair, licking a lollypop. A child's rounded scrawl: "Call me, please." It was signed Bridgette. The phone number said: $3.50 a call, max. Adults Only.

Virgil had called at the right time. New York was always hard, but now it was ugly.

Full of checks that bounced and women who didn't.

A good time to go.

17

B
UT FIRST, I had to see my lawyer. Davidson was in the conference room, surrounded by a mountain of books, arguing with two other guys. One was about my age, the other a rookie.

"But the law clearly says…" the young guy was saying.

"Says to who?" Davidson challenged him. "You think the jury's going to be a bunch of smartass law students?"

"But your defense…it admits guilt."

The older guy smiled. "He
is
guilty, Denny. But the State has the burden of proof. The cases all hold…"

Davidson cut him off. "This isn't a bar exam, kid. Vega shot Suarez. Four fucking times, okay?"

"But if you put him on the stand…"

"Yeah, yeah. The DA will bring out that this isn't the first time Vega used a gun on somebody. But my man gets to tell his story."

"Some story."

"Hey! The dead guy, Suarez, he gets into an argument with our guy Vega in the club. Vega slaps him. Suarez walks out. He tells every hombre in the place that he's going home, get his shit, and make a comeback. All right? Couple of hours later, the door opens. Suarez rolls in, puts his hand in his pocket. Our guy shoots first. Self–fucking–defense."

"Suarez didn't have a gun. All he had in his pocket was a knife."

Davidson shrugged. "You threaten a man in a South Bronx social club, you come back inside and reach for your pocket, you're
supposed
to get shot.
That's
the law, kid."

I shook hands with Davidson. Lit a cigarette. It didn't make a dent in the fumes from Davidson's bratwurst–sized cigar. He introduced me around. As Mitchell Sloane, a lawyer he was working with on a Jersey case With Davidson, confidentiality goes a long way.

He didn't ask the other two guys to leave. Even though his partner knew the score, we talked obliquely. Habit. I asked him if he ever got paid on the last matter we covered and he nodded. Meaning: my credit was good if I got popped again.

The kid stepped out. Came back with another guy. I knew him from the courts. Drug lawyer. Good–looking boy, nice rap. Took his cash in paper bags, put some of it back into his wardrobe. Ruby ring, diamonds around the bezel of his watch. Very stylish.

The new guy ignored me. "You going to handle the Simpson trial?" he asked Davidson in a flea–market voice.

"Yep."

"I got a piece coming."

"How so?"

"Goldstein referred it to you, right?"

Davidson shrugged.

"Simpson came to me too. Same day as Goldstein. I guess he didn't like the fee—so he went shopping."

Davidson raised his eyebrows.

"I quoted him seventy–five. Too rich for his blood—he went for the lower–priced spread—that's how Goldstein got called."

"So you figure…he doesn't go to Goldstein, I don't get the case?"

"That's about it." The guy smiled, looking over at me, including me in his slice–of–the–pie bullshit. One lawyer to another.

"How much you figure it's worth?" Davidson asked him.

"Well, Goldstein gloms a third, right? I figure I should…How much is he paying you anyway?"

Davidson puffed on his cigar. "A buck and a quarter."

The guy's face went white. "A hundred and twenty–five fucking thousand dollars?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"That's what I charged him."

The guy sat down, wondering what went wrong with the world. His ruby ring dimmed.

Davidson ignored him, turned to me. We have something to discuss? Some new matter?"

"No rush," I told him. "I got plenty of time."

We smoked in silence for a minute.

The other guy made a face. "You ought to start working out," he said to Davidson. "Give up those weeds."

"I can kick your ass on the basketball court," Davidson sneered at him.

"Please! You got to be fifty pounds overweight."

"A little bulk's good for you." Davidson truly believes that. His son is two years old—kid looks like a sumo wrestler.

The drug lawyer shot his cuffs, looked at his watch. Total self–absorption was the one commitment he never failed to keep. "I was thinking…maybe being married isn't such a bad thing. Ever since I got divorced…this AIDS thing…really puts a damper on your social life. You ever read the Personal ads…like in the
Voice?"

"No," Davidson said.

"I read them all the time," I told him.

"Yeah? You think it's a good idea?"

"What?"

"Putting an ad in…maybe meet something really good?"

I shrugged.

"You ever met anybody you wanted to meet that way?"

"Sure," I said.

Davidson smiled. He knows what I do.

The guy rubbed his chin. "The wording…that's tricky. I mean, you don't want to say too much, but…"

"I got the ad for you," I told him.

He looked up, waiting.

"Got a pencil?"

He whipped out a fat Montblanc pen, like doctors use to write prescriptions.

"Take this down: Woman wanted. Disease–free. Self–lubricating. Short attention span."

His face went blotchy–red. Davidson raised his hand above his head. His silent partner looked up from a law book, slapped him a high–five. The drug lawyer gave me what he thought was a hard look and walked out.

I ground out my smoke. Handed Davidson a business card. Mitchell Sloane. Private Investments. Address, phone number, fax number too. Clean engraved printing, very classy. The address and the numbers were Davidson's.

"I need a corporation formed," I told him. "Just like it says on the card."

"How long is this corporation going to be in business?"

"A month, maybe two. No more."

"You need a sign on the door?"

"I thought, maybe a nice brass plaque."

"Un–huh. And the phones?"

"The number on the card, I can bounce it to anywhere I want. Say to one of your dead–end lines?"

"I'll have Glenda pick it up during business hours. You want a tape on the machine for evenings and weekends?"

"Yeah."

He spread his palm out before me. Five. I counted out the cash.

"It's done," he said. "Glenda will sweep the tapes every morning when she comes in, okay?"

"Okay. You licensed to practice in Indiana?"

"I'll get a local guy to do the paperwork," he said. Davidson took cases all over the country.

We shook hands. He was dictating the incorporation memo as I walked out the door.

18

B
ACK AT THE office, I tried to hustle Pansy into a vacation at the Mole's junkyard. She acted like she didn't know what I was talking about, so I let her out to her roof while I fixed her a snack. A half gallon of honey vanilla ice cream with a couple of handfuls of graham crackers mixed in. It was waiting for her when she ambled downstairs. Lasted about as long as a politician's promise. It would end up being worth the same too. The beast prowled a step behind me as I went through the place throwing everything I'd need into an airline–size bag.

It's easy enough to beat the scanners they use in the security corridors at the airport, but I was traveling clean.

A handful of loose change spilled on the floor. Pansy snarfed at it experimentally. I let her play with the coins. I wouldn't even tell a dog to drop a dime.

19

T
ERRY OPENED the gate for me at the junkyard. It seemed like he was bigger every time I saw him. He wouldn't have a kid's body much longer. His eyes hadn't been a child's even when I found him. When he was for rent on the streets.

The dog pack swirled around Terry, growling and snapping, eyes down. Waiting. Simba bounced into the circle, his ears up, tail rigid as a flagpole behind him. "Simba–witz!" I greeted the beast. He ignored me, eyes pinning Pansy. The Neapolitan watched him from her higher perch, calm as stone if you didn't know her. But I saw the hair on the back of her neck bristle and felt her tail swish rhythmically against my leg. Terry jumped on the hood of the Plymouth and I pressed the gas. Some of the pack yapped after us, but Simba stood rooted, confident that he had faced down the new arrival without bloodshed.

I followed the path Terry pointed out, planted the Plymouth in a spot between two gutted yellow cabs. I gave Pansy the signal and she didn't protest when Terry came close. We walked the rest of the way to the Mole's bunker.

"I'll get him," the kid said, disappearing down the tunnel, leaving me outside with my dog.

"You'll be okay for a couple weeks, girl," I told her. "You've been here before, remember?" She growled an acknowledgment, not bitching about it.

The Mole shambled up to us, seating himself on the cut–down oil drum he uses for a deck chair. Greeted me the same way he answers his phone…by waiting for someone to speak.

"Mole, I got to go away for a while. An old buddy of mine got himself in a jackpot in Indiana. You can keep Pansy for me…let me leave the Plymouth here too?"

"Okay."

"The Prof will be calling you. Once a day, all right? I need to get a message to him, I'll leave it with you."

"Okay."

"You working on anything?" I asked. Just to give him room—I couldn't understand the stuff he does if I had another life sentence to study it.

"The Mole's teaching me about heavy water," the kid piped up.

"I'm sure your mother will be pleased," I said to the kid, giving the Mole an opening.

"Michelle called you?" he asked.

"Mole, you know the deal. She said she was going to Denmark. That's a name, a name for what she wants done. Not a place. She could be in Europe, could be down to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. She'll call when she's coming home. You know that."

"I get letters," the kid said. Proudly.

Michelle, the beautiful transsexual hooker. The slickest hustler I ever knew. The woman who made Terry her son. The strange, lovely woman who danced for years with the Mole. Never touching. But she'd never change partners. When I was coming up, I always wanted a big sister. Big sisters, they taught you to dance, told you how to act around girls, stepped into the street for you when it came to that. Showed up on visiting days when you were locked down. Sold whatever they had to pay for lawyers. Little sisters, they were nothing but grief. You had to jump in anyone's face who messed with them. And their girlfriends, by the time they were old enough for you to play with, your little sister didn't bring them home after school. They'd get married, get beat up by their husbands. More work to do. I told Michelle once she was like a big sister to me, trying to tell her I loved her the only way I could. All she heard was "big." Like she was older than me. She told me I was a pig and a guttersnipe, ground her spike heel into the toe of my shoe and stalked out of Mama's restaurant. Didn't speak to me for weeks. Until I got in trouble and she came running.

She'd been threatening to have the operation for years. "I'm going to lose these spare parts one day, baby. Stop being trapped. Be myself." We never took it seriously until she left. I missed her. Terry was patient. The Mole was breaking up inside. "My biological family" was the only reference Michelle made to her parents. She was the one who told me what "family of choice" meant. The Prof knew. "She don't just know how to say it, bro', she knows how to play it."

A transsexual who could never have a child. And a solitary genius who never would. Terry was their child. Snatched from the night. Blooming in a junkyard.

The Mole drove me over to a gypsy cab joint where I could catch a ride to the airport. He didn't wave goodbye. If it wasn't Nazi–hunting, it wasn't on his list.