Flood (13 page)

20

AS WE WALKED up Forty-second Street I kept my hands in my pockets. Flood rested her left hand on my forearm, keeping the other one free and loose. There’s something about that street that makes you think a freak is going to jump out of every alley, even when you’re way over on the East Side. Now that we had some of the ground rules straight, Flood decided to ask some questions. “What are we going to do at the News Building?”

“We’re
not going to do anything. I’m going inside to see someone—you’re going shopping.”

“Look, Burke—”

“Flood,” I said wearily, “I’m not leaving you out of anything. There’s no reason for this guy I have to meet with to see your face, right? And besides, you really do need some kind of disguise if you’re going to go around with me. We don’t know what’s going to come down when you meet up with this Cobra freak. There’s no need for people to see you.”

“We
are
going to find him, Burke?”

“We are going to find him, yes. For damn sure if he’s still in the city. And eventually even if he’s not. Okay? But you’ve got to loosen up. Let me do what I can do—then you’ll get your shot at him.”

Flood smiled. A genuine, happy smile. “Okay!”

“All right, listen. You have to buy some clothes and some other stuff. You got money?”

“Yes, I have some.”

“Here’s what you need. A good black wig, about medium length, some instant-tanning lotion, any kind you want, some gold eyeliner and eye shadow, some dark lipstick, the darkest you can find. Then either a low-cut blouse or a V-neck sweater, some spike heels with dark stockings or pantyhose, and the tightest pair of bright-colored pants you can squeeze yourself into. Oh yeah, and a wide belt with a buckle in front. Get a cap that’ll help you hold the wig on, some color that matches the rest of the outfit.”

“Forget it.”

“Flood, there’s no
forget it
going down here. I thought you said we’d work together on this.”

“Where do I get to work, some massage parlor?”

“Hookers in massage parlors don’t wear junk like that, Flood—they wear cheesy nightgowns and body powder.”

“I’m sure you’re a real expert on the subject.”

I slowed down to light another cigarette. Opened my mouth to explain the reasons to Flood, who said, “You smoke too much,” and slapped the butt out of my mouth. She turned away so I couldn’t see her face. We both stopped in the middle of the block. She said nothing, just kept looking away from me. I was about ready to give up. “You’re a goddamned baby.”

She whirled around to look at me. Her eyes were almost bright enough to have tears in them. “I’m not a baby. But I’m not going to just
do
things. You have to explain them to me.”

“Flood, there’s a good reason for every single damn thing I told you to get. But we don’t have to fight about it out here in the street, okay? I’ve got to see this guy to get things ready. You can do one of three things: go and buy the stuff and meet me at the car; go and wait for me in the car so I can fucking
convince
you to buy the stuff; or go back to the Land of the Rising Sun.”

“I could find him myself.”

“You couldn’t find this freak if he was listed in the Yellow Pages.”

Flood faced me, held out her hand, palm up. I gave her the spare key to the door (it won’t work the ignition), told her how to work the lock, and she about-faced and marched off. I went up the block to the News Building and dialed the guy I wanted from the pay phone on the corner. He was in. I told him what I wanted on the phone—there’s no way I’m walking into a newsroom with all those nosy clowns around. Most of the younger reporters do all their investigating over the phone, but there’re a few veterans around who’d make my face and have it filed away forever. I told the guy I’d meet him in his favorite Irish bar in an hour and hung up.

I called Mama and told her to tell Mr. James that I’d be calling him that evening at the number he’d left, unless he wanted the number changed. Then I sat down with the racing form again for a half hour before calling Maurice with twenty across the board on a trotting mare I fancied, just to let him know I hadn’t left town. When I strolled into the Irish bar I found the reporter in a booth with a folder full of newsclips. I like this kid. He graduated from Harvard, has
two
master’s degrees, makes fifty grand a year, and talks like a mildly retarded working-class dropout with a philosophical bent. Maybe it works on women.

“Burke, here’s the dope you wanted. What’ve you got for me?”

“Got nothing now, kid” (he hates to be called kid) “but I’m working on a real scandal over at the courthouse.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I gave you that habeus canine piece, right?”

“Big fucking deal.”

“What do you mean, big fucking deal? I bet you copped a raise for such a sensitive piece of investigative reporting.”

“Look, Burke, don’t jerk my chain. You wanted the clips, I got you the clips. I know there’s a story in this someplace, so all I’m asking is that I get in first.”

“Kid, you know I don’t talk to reporters, right?”

The kid nodded—he thinks I’m in organized crime, one of the few Irishmen to break through the Italian barriers. The closest I ever got to a mob was at a wrestling match—some lunatic paid me good money to learn the true identity of the Masked Marvel for him.

I looked through the newsclips the kid got me from the morgue. My man was there, all right, just like I thought—Martin H. Wilson, arrested on charges of rape and sodomy of three Puerto Rican kids. No more on that story. Then Martin Wilson arrested on rape, sodomy, and murder charges of Sadie’s kid, D.A. asks $100,000 bail at arraignment. Then later on, court orders competency hearing after Wilson’s defense attorney says he’s a victim of Agent Orange poisoning in Vietnam. Then the other clips—I had a hunch about why Wilson wasn’t in the can waiting on a trial. Yeah, there it was: Elijah Slocum, major kiddie-porn dealer, arrested at his mansion in Riverdale by detectives from the Bronx D.A.’s office following a six-month investigation by undercover operatives. Slocum posts $250,000 bail, claims he was set up by his “enemies.” Slocum moves to reduce bail; several prominent citizens testify as character witnesses; case still pending.

Good enough. There was no picture of Wilson but I didn’t expect one. A
Daily News
photo would never be good enough anyway. All I really wanted were the dates. I put them in my memory, shook my head sadly, and handed the clips back to the kid. “Well, it was a long shot anyway.”

“This stuff is no good?”

“You got me what I asked for—I just came up empty, that’s all. Listen, I still figure I owe you one, okay?”

The kid nodded glumly, swallowed his beer in a single throw and signaled to the barmaid for another as I was getting up to leave. I said I’d give him a call. He mumbled “God bless” and started on another brew. I walked four blocks west, caught a cab, told the driver I wanted the U.N. Building, and got off near Forty-ninth Street and First Avenue. Then I walked down to the river and south to the car where Flood was sitting in front seat reading a newspaper.

I let myself in, noticing the packages piled on the back seat. So far, so good. Flood looked at me expectantly. “I’ll explain when we get to the office,” I said, eased the Plymouth into gear, and set off for downtown.

21

HALFWAY DOWN THE FDR I realized that I wasn’t acting like I’d been trained to—I couldn’t really bring Flood back to the office without showing her too much. And I wasn’t ready to do that. “Flood, is anyone using your studio this time of day?”

“Why?” She was obviously going to stay hostile until I came up with some answers for her.

“Well, I can’t bring you back to the office without deactivating the dog, and that could take a couple of hours. Besides, I don’t want to do any business with clients until we’ve wrapped this thing up. I just want to concentrate on this.”

“There’s nobody there. They only have classes two nights and one day every week. But why can’t we go to your place?”

“I live in a hotel and there’s no way to get past the front desk without a lot of people noticing. I don’t want anyone to notice you until you’ve gotten into the disguise.”

“It must cramp your style, not being able to get by the front desk.”

“It cramps everyone’s style. That’s why I live there.”

Flood didn’t seem surprised that I knew the way to her place. I told her to go on upstairs and that I’d call her in a few minutes to see if anyone had been around asking questions. She made no move to take the packages out of the back seat when she got out.

I gave her ten minutes and called. A frigid voice just barely identifiable as Flood’s informed me that everything was as it had been and that I could come up when and if I decided to.

I carried the packages in, rang for the freight elevator, and waited until I heard it start to groan its way downstairs. Then I stepped back outside. When it came down empty. I pressed the switch to send it two floors above Flood’s place, and took the stairs—quietly. There were no sounds except the elevator. Waiting in the corridor on Flood’s floor, I heard the elevator creak to a stop somewhere above me and stepped into the studio. It was empty, the same as when I was there last. I walked back to Flood’s private place where she was sitting on the floor in that lotus position waiting for me. And my story.

I tore open the packages—tanning lotion, eyeshadow and eyeliner, a lustrous-looking black wig, a pair of pink toreador pants, a black jersey V-neck pullover, a black patent-leather belt, some black mesh pantyhose, and a pair of four-inch spikes in black pseudo-leather. Cheap junk, except for the wig. Flood said nothing, watching me.

“Okay, here’s the story. You can’t change your face, not really. But you’re going to have to be seen by some people—you dress like this and people will notice everything but your face. All they’ll remember is some pink pants and maybe black hair. Besides, you have to look kind of sexy and incompetent at the same time, because you have to ask some people for help. They won’t remember what they don’t see.”

“Burke, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Flood, for chrissakes, what’s wrong with you? You weren’t raised in a convent. The average man takes one look at you shaking it down the street in these pants and that’s all he’ll remember. What’s so goddamned hard to understand?”

“I don’t care if people know who I am or what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, that’s right, you don’t. Either you’re going back to Japan or you’ve got some
kamikaze
plan—you’ll do your job and then you just don’t give a damn what happens after that. That’s not me. I
do
care—I don’t want people looking for me. If they have to look for you, for Flood, and they connect us up, they’ll look for me too. Get it? You just look too strange the way you’re dressed now—the way you look.”

Flood held up the pink pants. “These
don’t
look strange?”

I tried again. “Flood, this isn’t a question of good taste, okay? People are going to notice you no matter what, see? But there’s no way a man’s going to look at your breasts bouncing around in that sweater and at your face at the same time.”

“My breasts don’t bounce when I walk.”

“Flood, I don’t care if you’re the world’s greatest martial arts expert—I don’t care if you’re fucking Wonder Woman. You wear that sweater and no bra and your goddamned breasts will bounce.”

“Burke, you’re a lunatic. No bra with that outfit? I’d look like some moron’s version of a whore.”

“Now you got it.”

“I won’t do it.”

“The fuck you won’t. I made some major sacrifices to do this job—you can too.”

“What sacrifices did you make?”

“I had plastic surgery.”

“You had
what?”

“Plastic surgery. I’m telling you the truth.”

“For this job.”

“Goddamned right. Before I took this job I used to be a male model.”

Flood tried like hell not to giggle, gave it up, tried to get a straight face again. Gave that up and started laughing. It was a great laugh—peeking between her fingers at my former-model’s face, she just plain cracked up. Finally, she came over to sit down next to me and picked up the pink pants. “Burke, I’ll look like the fat lady in the circus if I wear these.”

“You’ll look beautiful.”

“Burke, I’m serious. Some women can wear these things, but I’m not built that way. It took me about fifteen minutes to get them on in the store.”

“Oh, you already tried them on.” Flood looked down, said nothing. “Flood, you vain bitch. All this crap about clothes and it’s only because you think you don’t look good in them.”

“It’s not just that.”

“So what else is it?”

“I can’t move in them.”

“Put them on and let me see, okay?”

Flood jumped to her feet, flung off her jacket, untied the sash at her waist, and stepped aside as her slacks fell to the floor. She popped open the snaps in the crotch of her bodysuit, ripped it over her head, and grabbed the pink pants out of my hand in one vicious motion. That took about three seconds. Then she grunted and strained for about five minutes, trying to get the pants over her hips, muttering curses at me all the while, but she finally got them closed over her waist. It looked like bright new pink skin. With her hands on her hips, she glared at me, “See what I mean?”

“Can you bend over?”

“Bend over? I can’t even
walk.”

“Just try, okay?”

She turned and walked away from me. It was the finest combination of sex and comedy I’d ever seen. From the ankles to the upper thighs, she was sheathed in pink metal, and from there on up it looked like pink Jello bitterly resisting confinement. Flood spun around, “Burke, if I even see so much as a smile on your ugly face I’m going to put you in the hospital.”

My face was as flat as a pane of glass. Unfortunately it was equally transparent and Flood charged with both fists clenched. Thank God by the time she made it over to where I was sitting, she was laughing herself. She laughed even harder when I tried to help her get the pants off. She struggled to her feet, and swished her way over to the bathroom with the rest of the outfit. When she came out she was perched on the spike heels, wearing the wig and the jersey top. Even
trying
to watch her face with all that flesh bouncing around was impossible, and I could tell she knew it too. With her face made up, we’d be home free. She pranced around in the middle of the room, making a few experimental passes with her feet, twirling them in small circles a few inches off the ground.

“I can kick in these things, but no high kicks, no roundhouses.”

“Forget about that. It isn’t a fighting outfit, Flood, it’s a damn disguise, right?”

“What if I have to kick someone?”

“Take the pants off first.”

Flood gave me a look, and started to roll the pants down over her hips. By the time they got halfway down, I knew she wasn’t going to kick me.