Flood

“If we just work from the corners in… if we work according to a set pattern, well… won’t he know what we’re doing?”

“Not for a while. And when he does see it, when he sees the walls coming in on him, he may put his tile down fast, make his move while he still thinks he has some choices left.”

Flood looked at the wall, speaking in a faraway voice. “Yes… and if he puts his tile down while he still has some room… that’s what you meant about him coming here?”

“Yes, baby,” I said quietly.

“I understand. And the phone call you want me to make…?”

“Another couple of tiles on the board.”

“Let’s do it, Burke,” she said, turning to me with a chilling smile on her beautiful face-and we started the rehearsals together.

47

IT WAS ALMOST four-thirty in the morning by the time Flood and I finished our work. We left her place after the rehearsal and went to my office, let Pansy out on the roof, and gathered up some equipment. Then back into the Plymouth and over to the warehouse. I took Flood’s hand and led her to the back, where I plugged in the phone set. I wasn’t so much worried about a trace on the call, but we needed a private space to work and I didn’t want some nosy citizen blundering into a pay phone at that hour. Or a cop.

I made the connections and switched on the microcassette to check the twin speakers for feedback. The setup worked perfectly, sounds of a nightclub at closing time filled the little room-glasses clinking, loud stupid-drunk voices, tinny disco music, a wall of noise. I played with the volume and equalizer controls until it sounded just right, slipped the encoder disc into the mouthpiece of the field phone, and punched in the number, handing the instrument to Flood.

We heard the phone being picked up on the third ring. “FBI. Special Agent Haskell speaking. May I help you?”

And Flood’s voice came on, sounding cigarette-raspy and scared at the same time. “Is this the FBI?”

“Yes, ma’am, how can we help you?”

“I work at Fantasia, you know, in Times Square?”

“Yes, ma’am. And your name is?”

“My name is… no-wait! Just listen, okay? I’m not going to tell you that. There’s a guy that was in here tonight. He was drinking, but not too much, right? But he was fucked up, you know? His eyes were crazy-not like they usually get here when they see the girls, real crazy. And he was talking to himself. People would sit down near him and then they would just get up and move away.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And… we have to… like, sit with the customers, you know? It’s the job. So he grabbed me and he wouldn’t let me get up. He told me that President Reagan was a miserable traitor, you know? A Commie ass-kisser. He said Reagan promised he was going to invade Cuba and recognize South Africa and all kinds of stuff I didn’t understand.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the agent again, but the twin speakers finally revealed an undercurrent of interest in his voice. “Could you describe this individual, please?”

Flood gave him a detailed description of Wilson, talking fast and breathy-we knew the feds would be recording the call. Then she hit him with the clincher. “And I’m calling you because he said he’s going to kill the president. He said people wouldn’t listen to anything else. And he has a gun. I saw it-a big black gun- and he has this book, like a notebook, you know? He said he works for the CIA and he’s on a secret mission to educate America.”

Silence from the agent, but you could feel him willing Flood to go on, not wanting to break the flow of her words. “I’m so scared,” said Flood, “he knows my name-he asked me if I was a loyal American. I was scared to call the CIA because, like… maybe he was telling the truth. Is he? I mean, do you know…?”

“No, ma’am.” His voice was tense but controlled now. “We know of no such individual as you describe. Did he tell you his name?”

“He said I should call him the Cobra, like the snake on the flag, whatever that means.”

“Yes, ma’am. We would like to have an agent come and speak with you. Are you still at your place of business?”

“Yes-I mean, no! I mean, I’m leaving now… I’m leaving. I just wanted to tell you because I think he really means it, you know?”

“Yes, ma’am, we appreciate your call. Now if we can just-”

But Flood was already hanging up. I disconnected all the equipment, shut off the tape, and went back to the Plymouth. We drove over to Forty-second Street, but on the East Side. I wanted to drop off a new ad for the Daily News, complete with money order. If things went as planned it would run tomorrow: COBRA! I UNDERSTAND AND I CAN HELP YOU WITH YOUR PROBLEM. PLEASE CALL… and then there would be a phone number. Whoever dialed that number would hear the phone answered with “Major Felony Squad, Detective So-and-So speaking,” and I didn’t think the conversation would go on long after that. But its effect would linger.

48

I NEEDED TO go to the Bronx to see the Mole, and I also needed Michelle to work this last bit. I figured I’d ask her to go along for the ride-Flood would have made the mixture too tricky. I told her we wouldn’t be rolling until tomorrow, to get some sleep and be ready. I dropped her off and turned back down toward the docks.

For once I was running in some luck. I spotted Michelle daintily hoisting herself out of the front seat of a dark Chrysler sedan. I watched from a distance as she waved good-bye to whoever was inside, then I nosed the Plymouth slowly over to where she was standing.

She was fumbling in her huge pocketbook for something when I pulled alongside. She recognized the car, opened the door for herself, and climbed in next to me. I pulled away without saying a word.

Finally she extracted a tiny bottle full of some dark liquid from her purse, took a deep pull, swished the stuff around in her mouth, and rolled down the window to spit it into the night.

“Want some, baby?”

“No thanks. What is it… mouthwash?”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Burke. It’s cognac.”

“I’ll pass. You want to work tonight?”

“Baby, I am working-I just spit my last job out of your window.”

“Something else, okay?” Sometimes I hate what she does to make a buck.

“Don’t you snap at me, Burke. You’re not my fucking parole officer.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m your friend, okay? And I’m taking you to see another friend.”

“Who?” Still not mollified.

“The Mole.”

“Oh, the poor child still can’t call up and make his own dates?”

“Michelle, give me a break. We need to set up another office. I need Mole for the electronics and you for the phones.”

“This has something to do with the job for Margot?”

“I hope you heard about that from Margot herself.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise the individual involved may know more than he should.”