Blossom (7 page)

26

H
E LOOKED about the same. Thick black hair, combed back along the sides '50s style, hazel eyes, a long face, pointed jaw, dominated by a falcon's beak for a nose. Indians had visited his grandfather's turf and they hadn't all got themselves shot.

Taller than me, a mountain man's build, the power in the bone, not the muscles. Big hands, thick wrists. The whole package built to survive the mountains and the mines.

Or prison.

He extended his hand, gave mine a brief squeeze, dropped it, and turned to stand next to me. Letting me see it for myself. My eyes adjusted, working in figure–eight loops from the pool of light. Small refrigerator against one wall, two–burner hot plate, canned goods stacked almost to the ceiling. Virgil handed me a flash. I swept the rest of the basement. It was as neat and clean as a lifer's cell. Three army cots, big portable radio with speakers on each side and a carrying handle, a pair of sawhorses with a rough plank across them for a table.

Virgil took the flash from me, pointed it and followed the beam, me right behind. I left my bag on the floor, keeping both hands free. The basement had more than one room. We turned the corner, stepped into a small bathroom. Just a toilet and a drain in the floor for the shower someone had put together out of a length of hose draped over a hook. We walked through to the furnace area. An ancient oil burner squatted, dying of metal fatigue, its plug pulled years ago.

Virgil spoke. "Come on out of there, boy. It's okay."

The door to the oil burner opened from the inside. A kid stepped out, blinking his eyes at the light. A slightly built boy with close–cropped light hair, trembling.

"Uncle Virgil…"

Virgil ignored him. "This here's Lloyd," he said to me. "My wife's kin."

The kid watched me like a bird watching a cat. A bird who couldn't fly.

"Get on inside," Virgil said to him, stepping aside so the kid could walk in front of us.

Back in the big room, Virgil nodded toward the left–hand corner. A triangle of packing crates, hubcap on the floor between them. I took a seat. Virgil settled in. "You too," he told the kid.

He nodded his head at the corners of the basement. "This here's the living room. Over there's the kitchen, far side's the bedroom. You already seen the bathroom. Man who owns this house, he's kin of Rebecca's." He said her name the way they do in Appalachia, twanging hard on the first "e," dragging it out.

"Ain't nobody gonna come around. We got electricity for at least another month, until they turn it off. Garbage goes in the plastic bags. We stack 'em back behind the furnace. Got enough food here for a long time. Anybody comes, it's me they find. Lloyd hides himself in the furnace. Reba'll come back for him, it comes to that."

"You going to go quietly?" I asked him.

He saw where I was looking. At the pair of long guns resting against the wall just behind him.

He shrugged. "They don't want me for much of nothing. Helping a bail jumper, that's no kind of time. It just didn't seem natural to hole up without some firepower."

"This an ashtray?" I asked, pointing at the hubcap on the floor.

"Yeah. The basement windows are all boarded up but there's plenty of cracks in them. It clears out pretty good."

I lit a smoke, sneaking a glance at the kid in the flare of the wooden match. He was sitting soft, waiting. Like Terry, when I first rented him from a kiddie pimp. Not exactly like Terry: this boy didn't know why I came. And he did care.

I looked across at Virgil. We'd done time together and he'd passed the test. More than once. The test of time, the test of crime. In my world, no difference. "What's my end?" I asked him.

"I need to know some truth. Reba, she'd'a told you what happened over here, right?"

I nodded.

"First the cops thought it was Lloyd. Then they didn't. Now they back to where they was. It's Lloyd. In their minds. Me, I don't know about this stuff. Freak stuff. But you know them…"

Them. Humans who kill for love. Torture for fun. They set fires to watch the flames. Black–glove rapists. Snuff–film directors. Trophy–takers. Baby–fuckers. Pain turns on the switch. Blood lubricates the machinery. Then the power–rush comes. And they do too.

It's not sex. Castrate the freaks and they use broomsticks or Coke bottles.

I've been studying them all my life. Since I was a tiny little kid. They taught me. Nightmare walkers.

Virgil was right. Whoever ventilated those kids in lovers' lane…

"I know them," I said in the quiet darkness. The kid couldn't meet my eyes. Or wouldn't.

"You're here to talk to Lloyd. When you're done, you tell me the truth. You'll know. Nobody's better at it than you. I know you did it before. For that lawyer. I remember you telling me about it. Never forget it. That's what I need now."

I dragged deep on my smoke. "I'm in."

Virgil nodded. Turned to the kid. "Lloyd, this man's my brother. You heard what he said. He's gonna talk to you. You're gonna talk to him. When it's done, I'm gonna know the truth. You got it?"

"Uncle Virgil…"

"What?"

"I didn't do it."

"You didn't do it, my brother will know. Then I'll get something together for you. Whatever it takes. You a member of the family. My wife's cousin. Blood kin. You didn't do it, we're behind you. I risked my house for you. My home. Where my children live. And it looks like I may be going back to jail for a little bit too. That's okay. A man's got no more than his family."

"Will I have to go to jail?"

"Jail? Boy, you better
pray
you going to jail. Only way you're going inside is you
didn't
do what they say you did."

"Uncle Virgil," the kid's voice was a ribbon of broken glass, drooling out of his slack mouth. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Virgil lit a cigarette of his own. I knew what he was doing. Getting his thoughts together, making sure it came out right. "Lloyd, you didn't do this…my brother tells me you didn't do this…then we come up with a plan. Some plans don't work out. And then people go to jail. You have to go to jail, you'll go like a man, you understand? That ain't no big thing. And you'll always have your people. Inside and out. Something waiting for you. Like I had."

He took another hit on his cigarette, hazel eyes anchored on Lloyd. "But if you did it…if that was you sneaking around killing those kids…then I won't shame my wife by letting her know. I won't have kin of mine doing evil like that."

"I…"

"Lloyd, it turns out you did it, you gonna be what they call a fugitive. Only they never gonna catch you, understand?"

"You mean…I'm going to run away?"

"No. You did this thing, you not running any farther than this basement."

27

T
HE BOY slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. Shoulder blades bowed like broken bird's wings, dry–crying, chest in spasm. But he didn't say a word.

I watched him for a minute. Virgil was granite. I knew he'd kill if he had to—that's how he came to prison. And I knew his word was good.

I looked up. Caught his eye. "Virgil, I'm beat. Just got in from the Coast. This interrogation, it's going to take a long time. How about if I catch some sleep, talk to Lloyd when I get up?"

He got it. "Whatever you say, brother. I could use some sleep myself. We got all the time in the world. Take the first bunk, the one over on the left."

I got up, walked over to the cot. Folded my jacket into a pillow, lay back, closed my eyes.

Virgil smoked another cigarette. "Lloyd," he said, "I need to take a shower before I sack out. I'll talk to you later."

I heard the rush of the shower. Heard the kid get up, light himself a smoke. Heard the hubcap rattle on the cement floor as he ground it out. I rasped a breath through my nose. As many times as the nose had been broken, it was perfect for faking a snore. Virgil took his time, giving the boy every chance to bolt. He didn't go for it. By the time Virgil came back inside, I'd heard the kid's cot creak.

Dead quiet. You could hear crickets chirp, a car pass on the highway. The summer heat didn't penetrate the basement. Faint whiff of diesel fuel on the air.

It was worth the shot. If the kid tried to get out while we were asleep, we'd know.

But if he didn't run, we'd know nothing. Sniper–blasting unsuspecting kids in a parked car wasn't the same as trying to get past Virgil in the dark.

28

I
LET THE past play on the blank screen of my mind, regulating my breathing, focusing. Getting to the center. Virgil had called the right number—I knew how to do it.

A long time ago, I had this fool dream of being a private eye, working off the books. This young lawyer reached out for me through Davidson. I met them both in the parking lot near the Brooklyn Criminal Court. Davidson made the introductions. Vouched for me. He let the young lawyer speak for himself.

"I represent Roger B. Haynes." Like I should have heard of the guy.

"Eighteen–B," Davidson interrupted. Telling me the young lawyer was assigned to the case, not privately retained. Any money for me was coming out of his pocket.

"He was arrested for the rape of a little girl. The rape took place right near the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. In broad daylight. The girl ID'd him in a lineup. There's plenty of medicals to prove she'd been raped, but nothing to connect Haynes to it."

"SODDI?" I asked him. Some Other Dude Did it.

"That's what he says," Davidson growled.

"It's true," the kid said. "Haynes was in New Hampshire when it happened. At a flea market. He was buying stock for his store. A dozen people saw him. There's no way he could have driven back in time to commit the rape."

"So what d'you need me for?"

The young lawyer tilted his head at Davidson. "He says you know these people…child molesters and all. I thought…maybe you could ask around…maybe there's one of them working that area."

I shrugged.

"He's got priors," Davidson said.

"For what?" I asked the young lawyer.

"The same thing. But that was
years
ago. He did his time. He's even off parole. And he's been discharged from therapy."

"Cured, huh?"

"Yeah, cured. You think it's impossible? Would
you
want to be arrested every time the cops had a hijacking case open?"

Davidson chuckled. "He's got you, Burke."

"He's got a baby–raper."

"You mean you won't help?"

"What do I give a flying fuck if some skinner falls for something he didn't do? Probably didn't pull enough time on his first bit anyway."

Davidson lit his cigar. "It wouldn't shake me up if he went down either. But if he didn't do this one, it means the guy who did, he's got a free pass."

I thought it through. "You got any money?" I asked the young lawyer.

"I could go five hundred."

"For that, I'll talk to your guy. You walk me in there, tell them I'm your assistant or something. I'll talk to him. He's telling the truth, I'll look around for you."

"How will you know?"

"I'll know," I assured him.

He looked at Davidson. The husky man nodded.

"Okay," the kid said. "When can you go?"

"When can you pay?"

"I'll write you a check right now."

Davidson thought that was almost as funny as I did.

29

I
LOOKED MORE like a lawyer than the kid did when I met him the next morning on the steps of the Brooklyn House of Detention. The guards let us pass without a question. Getting into jail is always easy.

They brought him down to the Attorneys' Conference Room. He was medium height, nice–looking in an undistinctive way. Powerfully built, well–defined upper body in a white T–shirt. Shook hands firmly, looked me deep in the eye, moving his lips to make sure he got my name right.

"Rodriguez, huh?" He smiled. "You don't look Puerto Rican."

"You don't look like a baby–raper," I said, lighting a cigarette, flicking a glance at his face over my hands cupped around the wooden match.

His expression didn't change, no color flashed on his cheeks. Calm inside himself. He was used to this—a therapy veteran.

The young lawyer pulled his chair away from the table, sat back in a corner, his yellow legal pad open on his lap. My play.

I worked the perimeter, tapping softly at the corners. The way you crack a pane of glass during a burglary—the quieter you go in, the easier you go out.

"You were up in New Hampshire when it happened?"

"Yes. Buying stock for my store at the flea markets."

"What kind of store do you have?"

"I call it Inexplik. Not really antiques, anything people collect. Glass bottles, baseball cards, first editions, dolls, knives, Hummel figurines, commemorative plates, proof sets…like that."

"You have anything special in mind you were looking for when you were up there?"

"Well, there's
always
things you look for. I mean, I know what my regular customers want and all. Like Barbie dolls…you can always sell them. But you have to keep your eyes open, spot hot items before people know what they're worth. Like those plastic compacts women used to carry around in the '50s. The kind with mirrors on the inside? They come in all shapes and colors. Right now, you can get them for a song, but they're going to be very, very collectible soon."

He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. The nails were bitten to the quick, ragged skin around the sides. He saw where I was looking, folded his hands across his chest.

"Can you still buy handguns up there?" I asked.

"I guess so. I mean, they have them right on the tables. But they're against the law in New York. I wouldn't mess with them. Besides, gun collectors are just a different
breed
from the people I deal with."

He was emphasizing the wrong words, arching an eyebrow when he did—a squid throwing out ink.

"You're not gay." My voice was flat—it wasn't a question.

His mouth smiled like it was a separate part of his face. Not answering like that was the answer.

"Homosexuals don't rape little girls," I said, my voice flat.

"No, they don't," he agreed.

"They don't rape little boys either."

"Huh?"

"Didn't they tell you what
you
were when you had all that therapy?"

His right hand squeezed his left wrist, hard. Muscles twitched along his forearm. "What I
was
."

"Say it."

His eyes were a soft, brooding brown, muddy around the rim where they bled into the white, hard in the tiny circles around the pupils. "A pedophile, that's what they said."

"But you're all better now?"

"I still have feelings…but I have something else now. Control. Feelings don't hurt anyone."

"No. They don't, Roger. When you got busted for this, the cops search your house?"

"Yes! They tore the place
apart
."

"Come up empty?"

"Yes, they did. I don't even know what they were looking for."

I lit another smoke, patient. When you work freaks, you don't feel yourself getting warm. The closer you get to the center, the more you feel the chill. "They search your store too?"

"Yes."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"How about if I take a look myself?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "What for?"

"Oh, I think I could find something. Maybe something that would crack this case."

"Like what?"

"You deal with collectors, right?"

He nodded, watching.

"And you got a computer somewhere around…keep track of the merchandise?"

"Yes."

"Got it crash–coded?"

"How come you…?"

"I got a friend. Real genius with those things. She knows how to get inside, past the crash–codes…"

"No!"

"Sure, Roger. You're not making any money selling that flea–market crap, are you? Not
real
money. Like you said, you have to know what your customers want."

He turned to the young lawyer. "Can he
do
this?"

The young lawyer shrugged. "We're just trying to help."

"This is all privileged, right?"

"All privileged," the kid assured him.

"If I did…uh,
share
with other collectors, that wouldn't prove anything."

"Nothing at all," I told him. "In fact, it would explain a lot of things. Like how you really make a living. And how come you can make it through the night. We both know you guys never stop. Like you said, feelings don't hurt. Looking at pictures, that don't hurt either."

"That's right. The pictures, they're an…
outlet,
you understand? A release valve. Those therapists, they don't understand the need. The drive. I'm my own therapist now. I can look at the pictures, fantasize in my mind." Watching my face. "And get off when I have to, when the drive pressures me. In the institution, they tried to take that away from us. Control our thoughts. Fascists. We had to look at the pictures and then they'd
shock
us. Blast us with electricity. It
hurt.
After a while, I couldn't even get a hard–on when I saw beautiful little pictures."

He was crying, face in his hands. They taught him how to do that inside the walls too. I waited for it to stop.

"It doesn't matter, Roger," I told him, voice low, soft–cored. "The rape went down at four forty–five in the afternoon. You were spotted just before two at the flea market. It's almost two hundred and fifty miles from there to Brooklyn. No way it could have been you."

He looked up, tears streaking his face. I went on like I'd never stopped. "There's a two–twenty flight out of Keene, New Hampshire. Air New England. Flies to the Marine Air Terminal just past La Guardia. Five minutes from the BQE. Maybe another twenty, thirty minutes to Brooklyn."

He went quiet. I felt the young lawyer stiffen behind me.

"I drove my car up there," he said.

"But you didn't drive it back, did you? One of your freak friends, another
collector,
he did that, right? Then maybe he flew to Boston, where he had another car waiting of his own. You guys trade these little favors, don't you? Like you trade the pictures?"

"You're crazy! You think I raped some little girl in the back of a taxicab?"

"I think you have two cars, Roger. There's the van you use for your business. The one you drove up to New Hampshire. And one you keep for prowling. You drive the car to the Marine Air Terminal, park it in the lot there, take a cab home. Then you drive the van to the flea market. Get yourself seen. Take the plane back here, hop in your car, and go to work."

I lit another smoke. "The cops'll find the other car, Roger. They'll check the passenger manifest list for the airline. And they'll find your friend too. It won't be hard."

"You can't tell them any of this. Attorney–client privilege. You said so."

"There's something special about kids, isn't there, Roger? That soft, smooth skin. How they got no hair anywhere on their little bodies."

"Shut up!"

"They'll find that car, Roger. And they'll find the kid's blood in the back seat. You're going inside. Again. For a long fucking time."

"I'm sick…you can't…"

"You're a maggot. A maggot down for Rape One. Of a child. With force and violence. And you're a two–time loser. So it's the Bitch for you. Habitual Offender. That's a life top in this state. But look at the good side: they don't do therapy on lifers. You'll be all alone in your cell, and you can paint your freak pictures in your mind all you want. You're done."

"You can't tell! I know all about it. You can't tell—you'll lose your license."

"Hey, Roger.
I'll
never tell. But if some smart cop decides to look for that other car of yours, that's just the breaks, huh?"

He came across the table then, reaching for my throat. I jammed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his diaphragm, shifted my hands to the back of his neck as the breath shot out his mouth, snapped his face hard into the top of the table. By the time I felt the young lawyer's hands reaching around my chest to pull me off I was done.

I was faster then. Smarter now.