"You sound like you feel sorry for him."
"I'm trying to feel him, Blossom. Be him, in my mind. Get close. It's the only way."
"You can do that?"
"Yeah."
"How can you be sure?" She felt the chill from me. "I'm just playing devil's advocate," defensive sound in her voice.
I remembered something the Prof told me once. "The devil don't need advocates, Blossom. I know because they taught me. We're all branches from the same root."
"All men…all people?"
"No. Not all." I closed my eyes. Saw a sturdy little boy, big eyes almost hidden under a thick thatch of hair. Standing in the corner of Lily's office, face a mottled patch of red and white pain. Holding the arm of a teddy bear doll in one tiny fist, the stuffing coming out the end. The battered doll lying in the corner where he'd thrown it. "I hate Teddy!" he cried. "I told him what they did. I asked him to make it stop. He was my friend. And he wouldn't. He wouldn't make it stop." Lily held him on her lap, telling him it wasn't Teddy's fault. Teddy did his best. Teddy loved him. And so did she. He was safe now. The child cried against her chest, still clutching Teddy's ripped-out arm. Lily looked over at me. Her Madonna's face was composed, watching me. I caught the fire-dots in her reflective eyes. Then I went out to do Teddy's work.
"It's a Zen exercise," I told Blossom. "Dark Zen. You have to cross over the line to where he is, you want to find him. I can do that."
She nestled against me, half asleep. Murmured something that sounded like agreement.
I didn't tell her the rest— getting over the line is the easy part.
111
I WATCHED BLOSSOM dress in the morning. Not talking, not moving. Sweet smells, soft motions. Round-top little chair at her dressing table, padded seat like a piano stool. Blossom in her slip, walking to it, humming to herself. Her shoulders moved in line with the stool, knees bent as she swung her hips onto it. Hips moving a microsecond slower than the rest of her, after-image of the rounded swelling touching down.
"You can talk to me now, trouble-man."
I watched her in the mirror, blonde head bent forward, working on her nails. Said nothing.
"You miss your cigarettes?" she asked.
I didn't tell her. How you give up cigarettes every time they lock you up. How guys throw the Miranda decision out the window when the cop offers his pack in a friendly gesture. How you don't borrow anything inside the walls. Sooner or later, you make your own connections. Stopping isn't quitting.
"Come over here. Give me a kiss, tell me I look nice."
I got off the bed. Blossom slipped a wine-red light wool dress over her shoulders, cinched it with a wide black belt. She held out her hands to me. Clear lacquer on her nails except for the index finger. That was the same red as her dress.
I took her hand. "How come?" I asked her.
"Remember last night? When I was sitting on your lap, feeding you your vitamins? Remember when you noticed I only had one stocking on?"
"Yeah."
"Remember how bad you wanted to see? Remember how I looked, lying on the bed, one dark stocking?"
I did.
She put one hand on my shoulder, steadied herself as she slipped a spike heel on her foot. "I'm going to see the reporter this morning."
112
I HIT PAYDIRT just past noon. Car phone conversations aren't private— I found a booth a short piece away. Called Virgil.
"He's here. Everything set?"
"I'll be there, ten, fifteen minutes."
113
VIRGIL AND I walked in together. No cover, no minimum. The bouncer stood in the corner. A heavy-duty piece of work. No bodybuilder poses on this one— hard, rubbery muscles under a thick layer of fat, no bridge to his nose, scar tissue for eyebrows.
We found a table in the corner. Women in lingerie and high heels walked the runway. You bid high enough, you got to buy the cheesy crap right off their bodies, grope around handing it to them. Some stuff never goes out of fashion.
Watching the room, we ordered shots and beers. Virgil drank mine. It took another round before I spotted Matson. Alone at a table right across from the bouncer. I got up, walked over, beer in my hand. He looked up as we approached, hands where he could see them. In case he learned anything from his magazine collection.
The bouncer watched us, indifferent.
We sat down across from him. No bracket, leaving him room to move. My back to the door, Virgil with a clear sight-line over my shoulder.
His eyes were squinty under the bill of his red Budweiser tractor cap.
"Buy you a beer?" I asked him.
"I know you?"
"Burke," I said, holding out my hand. He waited a heartbeat, shook it. "My partner, Virgil."
"What can I do for you boys?"
"I heard you were the man to see around here. If you were interested in certain things."
"What things?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. Liking this.
"Doesn't matter. I'm not looking to buy, I'm looking to sell."
"Sell what?"
"Ordnance."
"We got all the guns we need."
"I'm sure you do. But the way I heard it, you could always use some special stuff."
"Like you said, I don't know you."
I took a metal Sucrets box out of my pocket. Opened it to show him it was empty. Handed him a fresh white handkerchief.
"What's this?"
"Wipe it down. Get it clean as you want. Then I'll leave you a print, okay? You take the box with you. Check it out. See I'm what I say I am, maybe we can do business. I can give you some references too, you want them."
He pursed his lips. Dragged on his cigarette. Took the metal box, wiped it down. Watched as I carefully rolled my thumbprint onto its surface. Wrapped it in the handkerchief, stowed it away in the pocket of his jacket.
"Say I was interested…"
"I'm a full-auto specialist. Anything you want. Even got some long-range stuff. Hand-held, shoulder-operated. Disposable."
"Where could I find you?"
"Right here. Say, in three days? Around this time?"
He nodded. Big man, considering his big deals carefully. The bouncer watched. I could feel the sneer.
114
I DROPPED VIRGIL a quarter mile down the road. Rebecca was parked in her cousin's Chevy a few feet away. Paid no attention to us.
I wheeled the Lincoln around, went back the way I came. The Blazer was still in the parking lot. A white Dodge sedan waited by the side of the road, Lloyd hunched over the wheel, eating a hero sandwich.
115
I PICKED UP some more clothes at the motel. Called Bostick, Glenda. Nothing new. Asked Bostick if I could pick up a few things from him.
Blossom got back around eight. Put a leather portfolio down on the couch, slipped off her shoes. "Let me take a shower, then I'll make you some dinner."
"We could go out."
"I already ate."
116
LATER THAT EVENING, the kitchen table covered with press clips. "What'd he do?" I asked Blossom. "Pull every file in the morgue?"
"He's a nice boy."
"You tell him that?"
Her smile was wicked. "I just thanked him. Politely. The way I was raised. You're my only boy."
I sorted the clips, speed-reading, Blossom at my shoulder. "What are we looking for?"
"First, we throw out what we're not. These, so far." Tapping a stack of body-count dispatches from the front lines they call city streets. Shootings where the gunman was apprehended at the scene. Shootings in the course of another crime. Where the victims were only male. Gang fights. Bars, nightclubs, bowling alleys…all discards.