Blossom Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Chapter 151

  Chapter 152

  Chapter 153

  Chapter 154

  Chapter 155

  Chapter 156

  Chapter 157

  Chapter 158

  Chapter 159

  Chapter 160

  Chapter 161

  Chapter 162

  Chapter 163

  Chapter 164

  Chapter 165

  Chapter 166

  Chapter 167

  Chapter 168

  Chapter 169

  Chapter 170

  Chapter 171

  Chapter 172

  Chapter 173

  Chapter 174

  Chapter 175

  Chapter 176

  Chapter 177

  Chapter 178

  Chapter 179

  Chapter 180

  Chapter 181

  Chapter 182

  Chapter 183

  Chapter 184

  Chapter 185

  Chapter 186

  Acclaim for ANDREW VACHSS

  Andrew Vachss

  Also by Andrew Vachss

  Copyright

  FOR ANDREW MITCHELL

  born: October 19, 1985

  unearthed: September 6, 1989

  you never had a good day on this earth

  sleep now, child

  BLOSSOM

  1

  THE SUN dropped on the far side of the Hudson River like it knew what was coming.

  I turned off the West Side Highway at Thirtieth Street, cruising east toward Tenth Avenue. Glanced at the photograph taped to my dashboard. Marilyn, her name was. Fourteen years old, her father said. Chubby, round–faced little girl, smiling at the camera, standing next to a Bon Jovi poster in her pink ruffled bedroom.

  Marilyn ran away from home. Ran herself straight to Hell. I didn't know what she was before she caught the bus that dropped her into Port Authority, but I knew what she was now.

  Raw meat on the streets. A pimp's prey as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk.

  She'd be out here somewhere, chasing money.

  Me too.

  Marilyn wouldn't be working the commuters heading home through the Lincoln Tunnel. The hard–core tunnel bunnies would take her the way a Cuisinart took vegetables. A girl that young should be working indoors, but she hadn't turned up. Only one place left.

  I fluttered my hand in a "get down" gesture but Max the Silent was way ahead of me, puddling himself into a pool of shadow in the back seat.

  You can't make more than a couple of passes at any one block. The working girls know all about comparison shoppers. I stopped for a light on Twelfth. The Prof was at his post, his tiny body in a wheelchair, a Styrofoam begging cup jingling coins in his hand. He caught my eye. Nodded his head. Pointed up the block with a finger held at his waist.

  You couldn't miss her. Babyfat spilling out all around the borders of the red hot pants, nervously plucking at her white halter top. Face unreadable behind the thick makeup. Hair piled on top of her head to make her look taller. Wobbling on spike heels in the heat waves the retreating sun left behind on the pavement. She was leaning against a long low building with some other girls. Cattle waiting for the prod.

  My eyes flicked to the I–beam girder on the corner. Something moving in the shadows. Her pimp? No, one of the triple–threat street skells: clean your windshield, sell you a vial of crack, or slash at your face while another snatched at your wallet. Whatever pays.

  I slowed the Plymouth to a crawl. Empty parking lot to my right. A black girl detached herself from the lineup, cut diagonally across the block toward me, streetlights glinting off her high cheekbones, crack–lust in her de
ad eyes.

  "Want to give me a ride, honey? Change your luck?"

  "Not tonight," I said, my eyes over her shoulder.

  "She underage, man. Jailbait, big time."

  I lit a cigarette. Shook my head. The black girl stepped aside. Walked away, switching her hips out of habit. Her other habit. AIDS and crack—racing to see which would take her down first.

  Marilyn came over. Tentative. "You want to party?" Watching my face. Wanting me to say no. Not wanting me to. Lost.

  "How much?" I asked, so she wouldn't spook.

  "Fifty for me, ten for the room."

  "What do I get for the fifty?"

  Her eyes were somewhere else. "You get me. For a half hour. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  She walked around the front of the car, her head down. Resigned.

  She got in the car knees first, the way a young girl does. Closed the door. "Take a left at the corner," she said, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. I knew where she wanted me to go—one of the shadowy deserted parking lots on West Twenty–fifth. In case I wanted to save the ten bucks for the room. She looked up as I drove through the green light, heading for Ninth. "Hey…I said…"

  "Forget it, Marilyn." Using her name so she wouldn't think I had violence on my mind. Her pimp would have warned her about men who wanted to hurt her for fun. He'd tell her this was all about business. Beat it into her if she didn't understand. Beat her again to make sure.

  "Who're you?" Everything in her voice running together in a sad–scared baby–blend.

  "It's not important. Your father said you ran away, so…"

  "You're taking me back there."

  "Yeah."

  She snatched at the door handle. Jiggled it. Hard. No go. Looked at my face. She knew. Started to cry.

  She didn't look up until I pulled in behind Lily's joint. Max flowed out of the back seat. I lit a smoke, waiting.

  "This isn't my home."

  I didn't answer her.

  Lily came back with Max, her long black hair bouncing in the night breeze. She opened the passenger door, said, "Hi, Marilyn," and held out her hand. The kid took it. They always do. Lily would keep her for a while, talk to her, see what happened, and why. Then, if it was okay, the little girl would make a call and her father would come in and get her. If it wasn't okay, Lily knew what to do.

  I've been doing this for a long time. Cruising the cesspool flowing around Times Square, trolling for runaways. Sometimes the pimp is around when I work—that's why Max was along.

  I used to bring them straight back where they came from. Now I know better.

  It's a new game, but the same old rules—her father had paid me up front.

  2

  I LEFT MAX at Lily's. His woman, Immaculata, worked there too. They'd go home together. The Prof's home was in the streets. I went home alone.

  Pansy's huge head loomed out of the darkness as I entered my office. Her ice–water eyes were glad to see me—disappointed that I was alone. A Neapolitan mastiff, she runs about 140 pounds. In the office shadows she looked like a muscular oil slick. I took out two hot dogs I had wrapped in napkins from my coat pocket. The beast curled into a sitting position, slobber erupting out both sides of her jaws, waiting. I gave it a few seconds. Finally said, "Speak!" and tossed the whole mess at her. It disappeared. She gave me her usual "Where's the rest of it?" look and finally ambled over to her favorite corner where she's worn the Astroturf carpet down to the original cement.

  "You want to go out?" I asked. She was indifferent, but walked over to the back door out of habit. I watched her clamber up the fire escape to the roof. Her yard was all concrete.

  Like mine was once.

  3

  IN THE STREET the next morning, I dialed the pay phone in the back of Mama Wong's restaurant. My number—the only one anyone has for me. Mama answered the way she always does.

  "Gardens."

  "It's me."

  "You come in, okay?"

  "Now."

  "Yes. Front door, okay?"

  I hung up. Pulled off the highway, heading east for Chinatown. Past the tiny triangular park at the back of Federal Plaza Watched an ancient Chinese lead two middle–aged women through an elaborate Tai Chi, oblivious to the bench–covering winos.

  The white dragon tapestry stood alone in the front window of Mama's joint. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't the law and it wasn't trouble.

  I parked the Plymouth in the back, right under the Chinese characters neatly printed on the alley wall. I didn't bother to lock the car—I couldn't read Chinese but I knew what the sign meant. Max the Silent marking his territory.

  The blank–faced steel door at the back of Mama's opened just a crack. I couldn't see inside. They could see me. The door closed. I walked through the alley to the street, turned the corner. Bells tinkled as I opened the front door. A red light would flash in the kitchen at the same time.

  Mama was at her altar. The cash register. She bowed her head slightly, motioned me to her as I returned her greeting. I glanced toward the back. A woman was in my booth, facing away from me. Dark chestnut hair spilled over the back of the blue vinyl cushions.

  "For me?" I asked Mama.

  "Woman come in yesterday. Just ask for Burke. Say her name Rebecca."

  I shrugged. It didn't ring any bells. Even alarm bells.

  "Woman say she wait for you. I tell her, maybe you not come in long time. She say she come back. I tell her to wait, okay?"

  "She's been here ever since?"

  "In basement."

  "She carrying anything?"

  "Just message."

  "That's it?"

  Mama bowed. "You talk to her?"

  "Yeah."

  I walked over to the back. Sat down across from the stranger.

  A slim woman, small face framed by the thick chestnut hair, dominated by big dark eyes, hard straight–cut cheekbones. No makeup. Her lips were thin, dry. Polish half flaked off her nails, roughened hands. Hands that had been in dirt, dishwater, diapers. One of Mama's waiters leaned over, put a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the table. Replaced the overflowing ashtray. Caught my eye. I shook my head slightly. I still didn't know her.

  "You want to talk to me?" I asked the woman.

  "I want to talk to Burke."

  "That's me."

  "How would I know?"

  "Why would I care if you know?"

  "I'm Virgil's wife," she said, watching my face.

  "Who's Virgil?"

  "If you're Burke, you know."

  "You having a good time, lady? You got nothing better to do?"

  Her voice was hard coal, from a deep vein. "I got to know. I'm on my own here. My man's in trouble. He said to find his brother. Told me where to go. I couldn't call on the phone. He said it would be hard. Said you'd be hard. Ask me what you want first…get it over with."

  "Who's Virgil?"

  "If you're Burke, he's your old cellmate."

  "What's his trouble?"

  "Prove it to me first," she said, watching.

  "Virgil went down for a homicide. Manslaughter. He stabbed…"

  "I know about Virgil. I want to talk to Burke."

  "You want the secret code?"

  "Don't mock me. I have to be sure. These Chinese people, they kept me here. Searched my pocketbook. I don't care. If you're not him, tell me what I have to do to meet him. Whatever it takes."

  "I'm Burke. Didn't Virgil describe me?"

  Her smile didn't show her teeth. "Lots of men ain't so good–looking. That don't narrow it down much."

  "Virgil's no Cary Grant himself."

  "My husband is a handsome man," she said. Like she was telling a moron what day it was.

  "Virgil I knew, he was a quiet man. Hillbilly. Didn't do much talking. He came to Chicago when the work ran out back where he came from. His woman followed him. A freak from her hometown followed her. Freak got himself diced and sliced. I spent a long time getting him ready for the Parole Board, then th
e fool blew it when they asked him why he stabbed the man. Virgil told them the guy just needed killing. You remember that?"

  "I remember that. I had to wait another six months for him."

  "He had a long, straight scar on the inside of his right forearm. Chainsaw kicked back on him when he was a kid. Wrote a letter to his woman every damn day. He could play the piano like his hands were magic."

  "Still can."

  "You believe I know him?"

  "Yes. But I don't know you. Virgil said you'd tell me a name. He said to ask you…the most dangerous man alive…he said there'd only be one answer. And Burke would know it."

  I lit a smoke. Watched her face through the flame from the wooden match. "Wesley," I said. Whispering his name. Feeling the chill from the grave.

  She nodded. Let out a long breath. "It's you. Burke." She fumbled in her purse, found a cigarette. I lit it for her. "Virgil's your brother…" making it a question.

  "Yes," I said, making it clear. She was asking about commitment, not genetics.

  She dragged on her cigarette, shoulders slumping against the back of the booth. "Thank the Lord."

  4

  I FELT MAMA behind me. I dropped my left shoulder slightly. She came around to the table, standing between me and Virgil's woman.

  "This is Rebecca, Mama. My brother's wife."

  Mama bowed. "You want soup?"

  I nodded the question at Rebecca. "Yes, please," she said.

  Mama's face was composed, eyes watchful. "You not eat anything all this time. Very hungry, yes?"

  "I think I must be…never thought about it."

  One of Mama's waiters appeared, wearing his white jacket loose to give easy access to the shoulder holster. Mama said something to him in Cantonese. He left as quietly as he had appeared.

  "Everything okay?" she asked.

  "It's okay, Mama."

  The waiter brought a steaming tureen of hot and sour soup. Mama used the ladle carefully, filling my bowl, then Rebecca's.

  "Eat first," she ordered, walking back to her register.

  "Take small sips," I told Rebecca. It was too late. She snorted a harsh breath out her nose, dropped her spoon.

  "Whoa! What is this?"

  "It's Mama's soup. She makes the stock herself, adds whatever's around from the kitchen. It's good for you."

  "Tastes like medicine."

  "Give it another shot. Small sips, okay?"

  "Okay." A tiny smile played at her lips.

  She was hungry. The waiter brought a plate of dry noodles. She watched as I sprinkled a handful over the top of the soup. Did the same. The bowl emptied. I held up the ladle. She nodded. I filled her bowl again. I could feel Mama's approval from across the room. Two dots of color flowered on Rebecca's cheekbones. She was a tough woman—Mama's soup isn't an appetizer.