Hard Candy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Praise

  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

  About The Author

  Also By Andrew Vachss

  Copyright Page

  ALMA HENRY

  BESSIE MYRICK

  MARY SPENCER

  They don't give medals on this planet

  for courage in urban combat.

  But there are silver stars shining in the sky

  that the astronomers can't explain.

  Acclaim for

  Andrew Vachss

  "Vachss is a contemporary master."

  —Atlanta Journal Constitution

  "His writing has the power of a rogue elephant."

  —Cleveland Plain–Dealer

  "A confection from Hell—a poison pill laced with acid and wrapped in razor–edged concertina wire."

  —Courier–Post (Philadelphia)

  "Jolting…eerily seductive."

  —Washington Times

  "Each [Burke book] is as savage as Celine. And there it is, a three sentence throwaway paragraph, as pure as Euclid. I'm a sucker for such Elegance."

  —Newsday

  "It's wonderful. The words do leap off the page. The principal character is an original. The style is as clean as a haiku."

  —Washington Post

  "Andrew Vachss is unique among modern writers; no one else comes close to the raw power and intellectual ambiguity that he manifests so elegantly, so coldly."

  —Clarion–Ledger (Jackson, MI)

  1

  CITY VULTURES never have to leave the ground.

  I was standing on the upper level of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, waiting in the November night. Back to the wall, hands in the empty pockets of a gray raincoat. Under the brim of my hat, my eyes swept the deck. A tall, slim black youth wearing a blue silk T–shirt under a pale yellow sport coat. Baggy pants with small cuffs. Soft Italian shoes. Today's pimp—waiting for the bus to spit out its cargo of runaways. He'd have a Maxima with blacked–out windows waiting in the parking lot. Talk about how hard it was to get adjusted to the city—how he was the same way himself when he hit town. He'd be a talent scout for an independent film producer. If the girl wanted, he'd let her stay at his place for a few days until she got herself together. Projection TV, VCR, sweet stereo. A little liquor, a little cocaine. High–style. The way it's done, you know. Another black guy in his thirties. Gold medallion on his chest under a red polyester shirt that would pass for silk in the underground lights. Knee–length black leather coat, player's hat with a tasteful red band. Alligator–grain leather on his feet. Yesterday's pimp—waiting his turn. He'd have an old Caddy, talk his talk, make you a star. A furnished room in a no–see hotel down the street. Metal coat hangers in his closet that would never hold clothes.

  You could go easy or you could go hard.

  Two youngish white guys, talking low, getting their play together. Hoping the fresh new boys getting off the bus wouldn't be too old.

  A blank–faced Spanish kid, black sweatshirt, hood pulled up tight around his head. Felony–flyers on his feet. Carry your bags, ma'am?

  A few citizens, waiting on relatives coming back from vacation. Or a kid coming home from school. A bearded wino picking through the trash.

  The Greyhound's air brakes hissed as it pulled into the loading port. Night bus from Starke, Florida. A twenty–four–hour ride—change buses in Jacksonville. The round–trip ticket cost $244.

  I know—I paid for it.

  The man I was waiting for would have a letter in his pocket. A letter i
n a young girl's rounded handwriting. Blue ink on pink stationery.

  Daddy, I know it's been a long time, but I didn't know where you was. I been working with some boys and I got myself arrested a couple years ago. One of the cops took my name and put it in one of their computers. He told me where you was, but I didn't write for a while because I wanted to have something good to tell you. I'm sorry Sissy made me run away that time without even telling you goodbye like I wanted. I wrote to her but the letter came back. Do you know where she's at? I guess she got married or something. Anyway, Daddy, you'll never believe it, but I got a lot of money now. I'm real good at this business I'm in. I got a boyfriend too. I thought you could use a stake to get you started after you got out, but I didn't want to mail no cash to a prison. Wasn't that right?

  Anyway, Daddy, when you get ready to come out, you write to me at this Post Office box I got now and I'll send you the money for the ticket up here. It would be like a vacation or something. And I could give you the money I have saved up. I hope you're doing okay, Daddy. Love, Belle.

  The slow stream of humans climbed down. Hands full of plastic shopping bags, cartons tied together with string, duffel bags. Samsonite doesn't ride the 'Hound too often.

  He was one of the last off the bus. Tall, rawboned man, small eyes under a shock of taffy–honey hair. Belle's eyes, Belle's hair. A battered leather satchel in one hand. The Spanish kid never gave him a second glance. A cop would, but there weren't any around.

  I felt a winter's knot where my heart should have been.

  His eyes played around the depot like it was a prison yard. I moved to him, taking my hands out of my pockets, showing them empty. He'd never seen me before, but he knew the look.

  "You're from Belle?" he asked. A hard voice not softened by the cracker twang.

  "I'll take you to her," I promised, turning my back on him so he could follow, keeping my hands in sight.

  I passed up the escalator, taking the stairs to the ground floor. Felt the man moving behind me. And Max, shadow–quiet, keeping the path clear behind us both.

  2

  THE PLYMOUTH was parked on a side street off Ninth Avenue. I opened the driver's door, climbed in, unlocked his door. Giving him all the time in the world to bolt if he wanted to try it.

  He climbed in next to me, looked behind him. Saw a pile of dirty blankets.

  "No back seat in this wagon?"

  "Sometimes I carry things."

  He smiled his smile. Long yellow teeth catching the neon from a topless bar. "You work with Belle?"

  "Sometimes."

  "She's a good girl."

  I didn't answer him, pointing the Plymouth to the West Side Highway. I lit a smoke, tossing the pack on the dash. He helped himself, firing a match off his thumbnail, leaning back in his seat.

  I turned east across 125th Street, Harlem's Fifth Avenue, heading for the Triboro Bridge.

  "You all got nothin' but niggers 'round here," he said, watching the street.

  "Yeah, they're everyplace."

  "You ever do time with niggers?"

  "All my life."

  I tossed a token in the Exact Change basket on the bridge and headed for the Bronx. The Plymouth purred off the highway onto Bruckner Boulevard, feeling its way to Hunts Point. He watched the streets.

  "Man, if it's not niggers, it's spics. This ain't no city for a white man."

  "You like the joint better?" His laugh was short. Ugly.

  I motored through the streets. Blacked–out windows in abandoned buildings—dead eyes in a row of corpses. Turned off the main drag heading toward the meat market. Whores working naked under clear plastic raincoats stopped the trucks at the lights. We crossed an empty prairie, tiny dots of light glowing where things that had been born human kept fires burning all night long.

  I pulled up to the junkyard gate. Left him in the car while I reached my hand through a gap in the razor–wire to open the lock.

  We drove inside and stopped. I got back out and relocked the gate. Climbed back inside, rolled down the window. Lit a smoke.

  "What do we do now?"

  "We wait."

  The dogs came. A snarling pack, swarming around the car.

  "Damn! Belle's here?"

  "She's here."

  The Mole lumbered through the pack, knocking the dogs out of his way as he walked, like he always does. He came up to my open window, peered inside at the man in the front seat.

  "This is him?"

  "Yeah."

  He clapped his hands together. Simba came out of the blackness. A city wolf, boss of the pack. The beast stood on his hind legs, forepaws draped over the windowsill, looking at the man like he knew him. A low, thick sound came out of the animal, like his throat was clogged.

  "We walk from here," I told the man.

  His eyes were hard, no fear in them. "I ain't walkin' anywhere, boy. I don't like none a this."

  "Too bad."

  "Too bad for you, boy. You look real close, you'll see my hand ain't empty."

  I didn't have to look close. I knew what he'd have in his satchel— they don't use metal detectors on the Greyhound.

  The dirty pile of blankets in the back of the Plymouth changed shape. The man grunted as he felt the round steel holes against the back of his neck.

  "Your hole card is a low card, motherfucker." The Prophet's voice, low and strong for such a tiny man. "I see your pistol and raise you one double–barreled scattergun."

  "Toss it on the seat," I told him. "Don't be stupid."

  "Where's Belle? I came to see Belle."

  "You'll see her. I promise."

  His pistol made a soft plop on the front seat. The Mole opened his door. The man got out, the Prof's shotgun covering him. I walked around to his side of the car. "Let's go," I told him, my voice quiet.

  We walked through the junkyard until we came to a clearing. "Have a seat," I said, pointing toward a cut–down oil drum. Taking a seat myself, lighting a smoke.

  He sat down, reaching out a large hand to snatch at the pack of smokes I tossed over to him.

  "What now?"

  "We wait," I said.

  Terry stepped into the clearing. A slightly built boy wearing a set of dirty coveralls. "That him?" he asked.

  I nodded. The kid lit a smoke for himself, watching the man. The dog pack watched too. With the same eyes.

  The Mole stumbled up next to me, the Prof at his side. The little man supported himself on a cane, the scattergun in his other hand.

  "Pansy!" I called out. She lumbered out of the darkness, a Neapolitan mastiff, a hundred and forty pounds of power. Her black fur gleamed blue in the faint light, cold gray eyes sweeping the area. She walked toward the tall man, a steamroller looking at fresh–poured tar.

  "Jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the ground, her eyes pinning the man where he sat.

  I looked around one more time. All Belle's family was in that junkyard. All that was left, except for Michelle. And she'd already done her part.

  The Prophet handed me a pistol. "Here's the sign—now's the time." I stood up.

  "They got the death penalty in Florida?" I asked the man.

  "You know they do."

  "They got it for incest?"

  His eyes flickered. He knew. "Where's Belle? Let me talk to her!"

  "Too late for that. She's gone. In the same ground you're standing on."

  "I never did nothin' to you…"

  "Yeah, you did. I don't have a speech for you. You're dead."

  "I got people know where I am."

  The Prophet smiled at him. "Motherfucker, you don't even know where you are."

  "You want the kid to see this?" I asked the Mole.

  Light played on the thick lenses of his glasses. "He watched her die."

  I cocked the pistol.

  He kept his voice low. Reasonable. "Look, if I owe, I can pay. I'm a man who pays his debts."

  "You couldn't pay the interest on this one," I told him.

  "Hey! I got money
, I can…"

  "I'm not the Parole Board," I said. The pistol cracked. He jerked backwards off the oil drum. I fired twice more, watching his body jump as each bullet went home.

  The Prophet hobbled over to him. The shotgun spoke. Again.

  I looked at the body for a dead minute.

  We bowed our heads.

  Pansy howled at the dark sky, grief and hate in one voice. The pack went silent, hearing her voice.

  I didn't feel a thing.

  3

  AFTER THE COPS took Belle off the count, I thought about dying too. Thought about it a lot. The Prophet told me the truth.

  "If there's something out there past this junkyard, she'll be waiting for you, brother."

  "And if there's not?"

  "Then what's your hurry?"

  "I feel dead inside me," I told the little man with the hustler's soul and the lion's heart. The man who helped raise me inside the walls. Everyone called him the Prof. I thought it was short for Professor—he knew and he taught. But Prophet was the true root. A man who sees the truth sees the future. He showed me both—showed me how to be a man.

  Or whatever it is that I am.

  "You know what to do with it," he told me.

  I knew. Survive is what I knew. What I know. The only tune I know how to play.

  Down here, we have rules. We made them ourselves. Feeling dead inside me—that was a feeling. It wouldn't bring Belle back to me—wouldn't get me closer. But making somebody dead…that was a debt.

  Belle's father. The maggot who made her older sister into her mother. He loaded her genetic dice. She never had a chance. Her mother died so she could run, and she ran until she died.

  I was holding her in my arms when she went, torn to pieces by bullets she took for me. She looked it in the eye when it came for her.

  4

  BELLE DIED in the spring. I went cold through the summer. Waiting.

  Her father was in a prison in Florida, finishing up a manslaughter bit. I did some checking—learned they'd cut him loose in late October.

  Michelle wrote the letter, copying Belle's handwriting from a poem the big girl once tried to write.

  If her father had any family left to spend Thanksgiving with, there'd be an empty chair at the table.

  But the cold was still in me.

  5

  I SLIPPED MY PLYMOUTH through Chinatown, heading for Mama's. The car didn't feel the same since Belle left. I couldn't make it sing the way she could. Her Camaro was cut up into a thousand pieces in the Mole's junkyard. Her body was in the ground. She left her clothes at my office, her life savings stashed in the hiding place in my garage. I burned the clothes. Kept the money. Like she would have wanted.