Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

Book 12 in the Burke series, 2000

Lieutenant Paul Nolin Berthelotte, USN

Professor James Colbert, UNM, USMC (1970-1971)

Sergeant Mike McNamara, Licensed for Life

You know what it takes to sit across the table from a man, listen to him talk, look into his eyes and then blow his brains all over the wallpaper?

Nothing.

And the more of that you have, the easier it is.

You pick a spot yet? The voice on the cell phone was trying to come across as bored with the whole thing, but I could pick up little worms crawling around its edges. Impatience? Nervousness? No way to know for sure.

No, I told him. And if I cant find one in a few minutes, well have to do it next time.

Hey, pal, fuck you, all right? There dont have to be a next time.

Up to you.

Hard guy, huh? I guess thats right-its not your kid.

Not yours, either, I said, my voice level and unthreatening, sending my calmness out to him. Were both professionals-how about we just keep it like that? This is a trade. You know how trades work. Soon as I find a safe spot, Ill pull in, just like we agreed, okay? Well hook up, do our business, and everybody gets paid.

You dont find a spot soon, nobody gets paid.

Ill get back to you, I said, and killed the connection.

It had taken weeks to get this close. A missing kid. Too young to be a runaway, but thered been no ransom note. Just a vanishing. That was almost ten years ago. It wasnt a media story anymore. The cops told the parents they were still looking. Maybe they were.

The parents were the kind of people the cops would put out for, that was for sure. She was a gynecologist; he did something in biochemistry. But they were also first-generation Americans; Russians. So, when they got a call from a man who spoke their language, a man who said he ran a recovery service on commission, they took their hopes and their fears to Odessa Beach. Not the one on the Black Sea, the one in Brooklyn.

In the Russian mob, even the grunts have a hierarchy. You can read their rank right on their bodies-the specialists mark themselves with prison tattoos. The symbols tell you whos the thief, whos the assassin, who uses fire, who does bodywork. But they didnt have anyone who does what I do. So Dmitri, the boss, reached out across the border. To a Chinatown restaurant run by a Mandarin matriarch who trafficked in anything except dope and flesh. She didnt sell food, either.

Half a million dollars? I asked her, seated in my booth in the back, the third bowl-of a mandatory three-of hot-and-sour soup in front of me.

They say, Mama answered. Meaning: she wasnt endorsing it herself; she wouldnt vouch for anyone involved at the other end.

And a hundred for me?

For whole trade, she said, reminding me that I hadnt found this job on my own-theyd called her. The whisper-stream knows a phone number for me. After it bounces around the circuits, it eventually rings at one of the pay phones in the back of Mamas restaurant.

Six hundred, I added it up. And Dmitri, hes going to taste, too, right?

He say, same country, he help for nothing.

And you say?

Mama just shrugged. Wed never meet the parents. What they wanted was a middleman. The hundred large was all there was as far as we were concerned, no matter who else was getting what.

Why come to me, then?

Cossacks know I find you. Say you know these people.

You mean they think-?

Not same people. Those people.

Ah. Sure. Who knew the freaks better? They raised me. Recaptured me every time I ran, aided and abetted by the only parent I ever had: the State. I learned from the freaks, did time with them. And, when I got the chance, I hurt some of them.

Never enough of them, though. Those scales would never balance.

Mama was silent, letting me decide. Work was money. This deal wasnt a retirement-size score, but it was strong cash.

Any other circumstances, she would have been all over me to take it. Instead, she looked a question at me.

I knew what she needed to hear. I can do it, I told her. Meaning: I could trade cash for a stolen kid and just walk away. Keep it professional.

Mama gave me a sharp look, then nodded slowly.

Whoever they were, they knew their business. I was waiting at the corner theyd had the Russians send me to, standing next to a pay phone. It rang. I picked it up.

Youre going to hear me say a 917 number. Im only going to say it once. You walk away from that pay phone. Far away. When you get far enough away, you call the 917 number. Dont bother writing it down-its going to disappear after this one call. Thats the way were going to work this, until we get it all sketched out. A new number each time, understand?

Yes, I said, keeping it short. If he thought I was trying to prolong the conversation, hed smell cop. And that would end it.

You ready for the number?

Yes.

He gave it to me. I shook my head No! at the men from Dmitris crew whod been standing next to me and walked over to where my Plymouth was parked, keyed the ignition, and took off.

I drove all the way out of Brighton Beach, one hand on the cell phone the Mole had built from spare parts around a cloned chip. As soon as I got clear, I punched in the number hed given me.

Go ahead, is all I said.

Were not going to play around, he told me. The Russians, theyre already satisfied, understand? So dont be asking any questions about the merchandise. All you and me have to do is figure out how to make the exchange.

Safest place is right out in public.

Safest for who, friend? I dont think so.

Just tell me how you want to do it.

Thats the problem-I cant think of a way to do it and still be safe. And I have to be safe. Otherwise, Im just going to keep the merchandise. I was told youd know a way.

Who told him? The Russians? Someone else? Or was this just his way of saying he was putting all the weight on me? I spun it through my mind quickly, but nothing came up on my screen.

You know East New York? The flatlands south of Atlantic? I asked him.

Sure. Not a chance.

Maspeth, then? By where the water tanks used to be?

Nope. Im not going anywhere near tunnels, chief.

Hunts Point? I offered, letting just a trace of annoyance show through.

Where in Hunts Point?

You know what Im driving? I asked him, ignoring his question, trying to feel my way through to him. He talked like a pro, flat-voiced, detached. But what pro snatches a kid, keeps him ten years, and then turns him loose? The cash wouldnt be worth the risk. He kept saying I, as if it were just him, as if I were dealing with the kidnapper himself. But that didnt ring true. He had to be a middleman, same as me.

No, he answered.

Listen close: 1970 Plymouth, four-door sedan. Painted a dull-gray primer with a bunch of rust blotches on the sides. Outside mirrors held on with duct tape.