Flood

until he was just beyond her reach. He crouched in front of her, like he was negotiating with a stubborn child, then gestured that he would set her free, pointing to something out of the camera’s view. The camera followed his hand to a leather-covered sawhorse, like carpenters use. He came over to the woman, unsnapped the bindings, and set her free. Again the sweeping gesture with his hand toward the sawhorse, like a headwaiter showing you to your table. The woman started in that direction, shaking her head to clear it-then suddenly the camera blurred as she tried to run. The man grabbed her by the hair and slammed her to the ground, driving a knee into her back-he punched her repeatedly with one black-gloved fist while holding her down with the other.

He stood up-legs spread, standing over her. His stomach moved in and out rapidly like he was breathing hard through the mask. He half-lugged, half-carried the woman back to the chair, positioned her in it like she was before and refastened the bindings. He stepped out of the picture, the camera zoomed in to the woman’s face. There was blood in the corner of her mouth, her eyes were scars. The man came back into the picture, again holding the dog collar and the whip. This time the woman didn’t move as he approached. He put the collar around her neck, and she sat there, slumped forward. Broken.

He said something to her and the whip flashed down again. The woman reached her hands up to her neck and buckled the collar, the masked man stepped forward and attached a bright metal chain to the collar. He stepped back, hands on hips. Taking the chain in one hand, he jerked the woman’s head, first in one direction, then another. He was showing the camera he could move her head with just a flick of his wrist.

Again he approached and knelt to unfasten the bindings again, all the time talking to the woman. But then he appeared to change his mind and got to his feet. He stepped out of camera range, and the camera came in to a close-up on her face again. Her eyes were dull.

When he stepped back into the camera’s view, he was naked from the waist down, standing out erect. His legs were muscular and altogether hairless. His feet were bare.

The camera went from the woman’s mouth to the man’s groin several times, panning slowly so the viewer couldn’t possibly miss the point. The man held the dog leash in one hand and the whip in the other as he walked closer to the woman. He jerked the leash so her head was yanked toward him, holding the whip ready in the other hand-she was being given a choice. She made her decision-her mouth opened and her nails flashed out and the camera blurred again.

The next shot showed the woman with her fingers still extended, breasts heaving. The screen also showed the man holding his testicles with both hands, bent at the waist. Then it went dark.

I reached my hand toward my cigarettes and was trying to get my breathing straight when the screen flickered into life again and the man approached, this time with only the whip in his hands. It came down, again and again, right through the woman’s upraised hands. Then the man threw down the whip and walked slowly out of the room, leaving her body running with blood.

The masked man returned, erect again. Two minutes later? A half hour? No way to know. But this time he was holding a black Luger in one gloved hand. Again he approached. Cautiously. Slowly.

The gun was leveled at the woman’s face. He must have said something because she appeared to reply. The camera moved in close so all we could see was the woman’s face with the shadow of the pistol across one cheek. The gun pulled back and the camera pulled back with it, and then we just saw the woman tied to the chair, looking straight ahead, her lips pressed tight together. There was a bruise showing in one corner of her mouth. Suddenly she was slammed back against the chair, bounced forward, and lay still. Her head dropped against her chest. Her body jerked spastically, once, twice.

The man in the executioner’s mask entered the picture again-he walked over to the woman’s side and jerked the leash, pulling her head back so it was facing the camera again. Her mouth was open, so were her eyes-there was a starburst hole in her forehead. The screen filled with her face so the viewers would know they had paid for the real thing. And then it went black.

I reached for a cigarette as they pushed the videotape monitor back into the shadows, but my hands wouldn’t work. Pablo came back to the table, looked across at me.

“Lucecita?” I asked.

“Si, hermano. Comprende?”

“He sells this?”

“He sells this, and more like it. We are told he has some in color and some even with sound.”

“How does he get people to film this? It’s a cold-blooded homicide, not some sex rap.”

“He does it himself, compadre-that was Goldor in the mask,”

“Then he’s bought himself a life sentence.”

“How? We cannot prove a thing. We can prove that it was our Lucecita who died, but how to prove that it was Goldor himself? Besides, a life sentence is insufficient.”

“So is a death sentence.”

“I agree, we all agree. We have discussed this and there was debate. But we will not imitate our oppressors. We are Puerto Ricans, not Iranians.”

“I understand. You’ll tell me where to find Goldor?”

“Oh, yes-and we will do better than that. We have a dossier, complete. It will be handed to you when you get out of the cab later on. And then there is no more from us, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We are not in a race, Burke. We will not interfere with your work. But you must move quickly-we are almost ready.”

“Understood.”

“In return you will tell us anything you may learn. That is all we ask.”

“Agreed.”

There was nothing more to say. We shook hands, the overhead light went off, and I followed Pablo out the door into the corridor. Another man took me up the stairs to the front door where the lobos still prowled. I started to walk through them as I had done before, and found myself held in place. I didn’t resist, just stayed within the group until I heard a car come down the block. The gypsy cab again.

The pack parted and I climbed in the back. The driver didn’t ask me where I was going and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t open my eyes until I felt the cab crossing the Third Avenue Bridge into Manhattan. The driver took the East Side Drive to Twenty-third Street, turned over to Park Avenue South, spotted an all-night cab stand, and pulled over to the curb. As I got out, he handed me a legal-sized envelope and drove off.

I walked over to the cab stand, checked the first cab. I gave him an address within half a dozen blocks of Flood’s studio.

I tried to close my eyes during the ride, but the videotape kept replaying inside my eyelids.

36

THE LEGAL ENVELOPE full of Goldor information had disappeared into the side flap of my jacket by the time I got out of the cab. The pay phone was right where I remembered it, and Flood answered on the first ring.

“It’s me, Flood, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Come downstairs and let me in.”

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you-just do it,” I said, and hung up.

I looked at my watch to avoid thinking about what Flood had heard in my voice-it was past three in the morning.

I walked right up to Flood’s door like I had a key, reached for the handle and it opened. I was so distracted that I didn’t bother to ring for the elevator, just let Flood walk up the steps ahead of me-but I snapped out of it and stopped her halfway up the first flight and motioned her to be quiet. It stayed quiet. We were alone.

We walked through the studio to Flood’s place without talking. I found a place to sit down and lit a smoke, trusting Flood to find an ashtray for me someplace. I took out the Goldor file and stared at the cover-I didn’t want to open it just yet. Flood sat down across from me on the floor. “Burke, tell me what’s wrong.”

My hands were all right by then but I guess my face wasn’t. I didn’t say anything and Flood just let me smoke the cigarette in peace. She moved closer and just leaned her body weight against me without saying anything. I felt