Flood

“Oh, Dandy knows from nothing, dear, but the Prophet’s been doing his Armageddon number so I trust whatever’s coming down will be here soon.”

“As soon as I find this freak.”

“Just you and me on this job?”

“And the Mole.”

“Oh goodie. I love the Mole.”

“Michelle, listen-don’t drive the poor bastard any crazier than he already is, okay?”

“Can I help it if I’m attracted to intellectuals? After all, it’s rare enough that a woman of my accomplishments can have a decent conversation with her peers.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised with an evil smile.

We motored along sedately until we crossed the line to the Bronx. I found a working pay phone, reached the Mole, and set up a meet near the junkyard. I didn’t want to bring Michelle inside-I was afraid she’d insist on some major interior decorating.

We sat there waiting. It was a quiet night, except for the occasional howling of a dog or a police siren.

“I’m on a dead fucking blank, Michelle. He was here, somewhere in the cesspool, but he’s gone. I’m not going to find him now-he’s got to come to me.”

“You have to play the cards they deal you, baby.”

“Who says so?”

“The Dealer,” said Michelle. And she was right.

The Mole materialized now at the side of the car. I rolled down the window all the way.

“Mole, I need some work done in an office building-phones, lights, stuff like that.”

“So?”

“So I need it tomorrow. In Moscow’s building-the little place upstairs, okay?”

Before he could answer, Michelle draped herself halfway across my lap and fixed her luminous eyes on her target. “Well, Mole, don’t say hello or anything!”

“Michelle-” was all the Mole got out before she was off and running.

“Now, Mole, it’s not polite to just ignore people. Especially your friends.”

“I didn’t see you-”

“Mole, please. It is common knowledge that you can see in the dark. You wear some clean overalls tomorrow-I don’t want you tracking mud all over my…”

I elbowed Michelle sufficiently to get her back on her side of the car, shrugged what-can-you-do? to the Mole, who just said, “Tomorrow morning,” and disappeared.

Michelle pouted for a few minutes on the way back, then started to giggle. The Mole has that effect on her. We made all the arrangements and I said I’d pick her up tomorrow.

Usually I don’t dream. That night I dreamt of a leering lunatic standing over a fiery pit, throwing in one child after another. I knew somehow that when enough kids hit the bottom of the pit, it would reach critical mass and explode in his face. But I woke up before that happened.

49

WE GOT TO the new office around ten in the morning. I had already called Moscow the landlord and confirmed that the clowns had paid him a month’s rent in front for the two-room suite on the fourteenth floor. As soon as I heard that I sent Max over to see Moscow with the additional two hundred for the little room just above the suite. Two hundred for two weeks-that was the going rate with Moscow for the setup. He periodically rents the two-room suite on the fourteenth to one group after another. He has a long list of clients-I was just one of the list. When the wiseguys pull one of their bust-out deals on a garment center manufacturer or a restaurant they rent the suite as a front and take the little room right above it to have a place to go if things get ugly. And when some dingbat radicals decide to establish a new international headquarters, Moscow rents the little room upstairs to the federales so they can eavesdrop in peace and quiet. The little room upstairs isn’t much bigger than a closet, but it has an attached bathroom and decent ventilation. You can be comfortable up there for days at a time-I know.

Michelle and I took the stairs to the top-she bitched all the way about climbing in spike heels. I set her up in the little room and told her just to wait and be cool. She opened her makeup case, took out a clutch of Gothic novels, and sat down without another word. I took the stairs back down to the unattended lobby, checked the directory but couldn’t find Falcon Enterprises. Carrying my suitcase, I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, knocked, heard “Come on in” from James, who was at the desk in the front room-I heard Gunther rooting around in the back. Nice-looking setup, all right-a battered wood desk with an old wood swivel chair for the front, a long table on shaky legs with two more wooden chairs in the back, linoleum floors, bare whitewashed walls, two windows in the back room that hadn’t been opened since the Dodgers deserted Brooklyn. Moscow wasn’t selling decor.

I shook hands with James. “I brought you some stuff,” I said, opening the suitcase. He looked on happily as I brought out the letterhead stationery complete with cable address, envelopes, business cards, desk calendar, assorted legal pads, and ballpoint pens. Then I took out the Rhodesian army recruiting poster, and a black-and- white line-drawing of a soldier with his foot firmly planted on a mound of dead enemies. The soldier was holding a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. The poster said: “Communism Stops Here!” A couple of large maps of Africa completed the decorations, and we sat down to have a smoke. Comrades in arms.

Gunther strolled in, gave me what was meant to be a chilling look once he saw Max was not on the set. He grunted as he looked over my supplies but his eyes lit up when he saw the business cards. He immediately stuffed a bunch in his pocket-legitimate at last. I sat in the swivel chair, put my feet on the desk. “My man will be here in a while. He’s got an in with the phone company so you won’t have to wait for an installation. You give him a yard and by the time you get the first month’s bill you’ll be gone.”

It was okay by him-they were still playing with my money.

Both were in excellent spirits, smiling between themselves. You could see the idea of a real office and a front appealed to them. James was walking around the place, scratching his chin like he was deep in thought. “It’s going to work-work very well indeed, I can see that. But you know… it lacks something, some touch that would indicate the scope of our operation. Our dedication to purpose, so to speak.”

Before I could say anything Gunther smiled and pulled out a matte-black combat knife-the kind where the handle is a set of brass knuckles so you can break bones or tear flesh. He stared at my face, and I could see he was still hurting from what we did to him in the warehouse. He walked over to the desk where I was sitting and slammed the knife into the top so hard the whole thing jumped. He slowly removed his hand, watching me all the while, the knife stuck halfway into the desktop.

James said, “Yes, exactly. Just the right touch.”

Gunther glared over at me. “You said something about publicity?” He made it sound like a threat, and stalked off into the back room. Gunther was as tough to read as yesterday’s race results.

“Is he okay?” I asked James, just loud enough for Gunther to hear.

“Oh, he’s fine, Mr. Burke. Just nerves. Gunther’s more a man of action, you might say. I’ll handle the recruiting.”

“Okay…” Like I really gave a damn. There was a soft knock at the door and the Mole entered, wearing his Ma Bell uniform, carrying a toolbox and sporting a giant leather belt around his waist full of enough gadgets to perform brain surgery on a rhino. Not on Gunther, though-the Mole didn’t carry a microscope.

Without a word to anyone the Mole walked the length of the front room, his eyes blinking rapidly behind the thick lenses. He squatted down, pulled a couple of push-button phones out of his toolbox, and went to work. He put the white phone on James’s desk and went back to put the red one on the long table. Gunther gave him a fearsome stare and expanded his chest-the Mole never changed expression, just went on with his wiring job. The whole number took him about ten minutes, after which he walked over to James and extended one damp, plump white hand, palm up. James seemed to be thinking it over for a split-second, then reached in his wallet, pulled out a hundred, and handed it over. The Mole turned and exited.