– I'd still say not. That said?
– Yeah?
– This is a high-turnover business and I see a great many waifs looking for a career or extra income. The ones clearly too young, such as this child, are politely rejected at the door. It is possible she crossed the threshold without my knowing.
I take the picture from his desktop and slip it back in my jacket.
– Got it.
He glances at his watch.
– If that's all, Joe?
– Yeah. Thanks.
He leans forward, extending his hand across the desk, sweating from the effort. I take his hand.
– You know, Whitney went out awfully hard for such a young thing, Joe.
I take my hand back.
– What I hear, Chubbs, it had to be that way. What I hear, she was a sick girl and she's better off the way it went.
His hand flies to his mouth.
– Oh, Joe, not that.
– That's just what I hear.
I head for the door.
– You take care of this, Joe, take care of it for good and well.
I stop, the door half open.
– I'm workin' on it.
He puts his eyes on mine.
– Mah nigga.
Dallas is sitting on an old vinyl couch in the reception area. I point toward the office.
– You can go back in.
He tosses aside the magazine he's reading and sniffs into the office. I walk past the girl at the reception desk.
– Hi, Mr. Pitt.
It's Missy. One of the girls from the bondage guy's house. She wasn't out here when I came in.
She's looking better. That ear is never gonna grow back and the smile will never be straight, but she's growing her hair out and it looks like Chubby must have popped for some good bridge-work. Not that he's an altruist or anything, he just knows what's good for business. Take Missy. The other girl disappeared soon after. Maybe she split back to wherever she came from. Maybe she's in a dark apartment right now with a bottle and a handful of pills. But Missy stuck around. The way she looks, there's a market for that, Chubby could have made some nice coin off that. But it would have drawn attention, and Chubby doesn't need attention. But she still wanted a job, so he put her on the phones. Better that than having her turn sour and maybe go talking to the cops. Just business, that's all.
I nod at her.
– Hey, Missy.
Her left hand strays to the side of her head. She tugs absently at the hair, trying to pull it down over the still livid scar where her ear had been.
– Anything I can do for you, Mr. Pitt?
She looks at my face.
I remember the Staten Island house. He'd cut them both, but it looked like he'd taken a special shine to Missy. She would have died soon. Would it be so bad now to tell her Sure you can do something for me. You can let me hook you up to my works and let me tap you for a pint or two of that blood I saved. Hell, she'd probably say yes.
– Tell me, Chubby says any chicken that comes through the door gets sent away?
– That's right.
– You take care of that?
– Sometimes.
I hand her the picture.
– Seen her?
She looks.
– Oh, yeah, sure.
I'm already reaching to take the picture back from her. My hand freezes.
– What?
– Not coming in for work. Just hanging out, waiting for her friend.
– Her friend?
– Yeah, the one that… you know. Whitney.
I ask a couple questions and then I head for the door that will take me to the freight elevator that will take me to the street.
Behind me.
– If you ever need anything else, Mr. Pitt, I'm always here.
I go out the door without saying anything, and I try not to think about how good she smells. Just like food.
Outside I smoke a cigarette.
They knew each other. Of course they knew each other. That's exactly how fucked up this whole thing is.
Missy doesn't know much. She says the Horde girl would come in pretty much every time Whitney had a session. Says she'd wait in the reception area there, read magazines or maybe talk on her cell phone. Says she knew Chubby would be pissed if he knew a little girl was in the building, but she let her stay 'cause she figured the girl was Whitney's little sister. Later she realized they were just friends, but she says they acted like sisters. Like the girl was Whitney's little sister, a little sister who worshipped her big sister.
I smoke a cigarette and look at my watch. Midnight. Early yet.
Chester Dobbs's office is on 14th at First Ave. I get the address out of the Yellow Pages I borrow from a liquor store owner when I slip into his place to buy a pint of Old Crow. I walk over, taking sips from my whiskey in its obligatory brown paper bag. The booze is medicinal. The bite of alcohol and a slight buzz can sometimes take the edge off my hunger. Say in the same way that candy bars help a junkie when he starts to jones.
I cut through Tompkins. Going past the dog run, a girl squatter starts walking alongside me.
– Hey?
I don't look at her.
– I ain't got no change.
– Didn't ask for no fuckin' change.
– Can't have any of my booze.
– Didn't fuckin' ask.
Still walking next to me.
– So?
– You seen Leprosy?
I look at her. She's dirty, ragged, plump with baby fat, wearing combat boots, cutoff fatigues, a Rollins for President T-shirt, a heavy chain runs from one ear to a ring in her upper lip. Sixteen, tops.
– No.
– Hector said he saw you an him talkin' the other day.
– Don't know Hector.
– He says-
– Don't know him.
– Only, me an' Lep been hookin' up most nights an I ain't fuckin' seen him since Sunday. Mean, I don't give a shit cept he has some of my stuff an' if he gonna fuck some other chick I want it back.
But she does care. I can smell it in the salty tears at the edges of her eyes.
– Haven't seen him.
– Well if you-
– I won't.
– OK, fuckin' whatever.
She's still walking next to me.
– What?
– So can I have a drink?
I give her the mostly full bottle. She can use it more than I can.
I could have called Dobbs, Pis keep odd hours, but I plan on tossing his office whether he's in or not, so why bother. The street door is a cheap piece of crap without a dead bolt. I lean my shoulder into it and the lock pops. There's no lobby or elevator, just a dirty hallway with a hand-printed directory at the bottom of the stairs. His office is on the third floor along with American Flag Travel Inc., and DBT Theatrical Agency. Looks like the Hordes spared no expense when they hired a dick to look for their daughter.
I walk up the stairs and try to listen to the building. It sounds dead empty, but that's not right. I should be able to hear things, the whir of hibernating computers, a fan left on, the scratch of a pencil on paper from someone working late in their office, rats in the walls. But all I hear is someone coughing in an office on the second floor and the creaks of the building. It's not that the sounds aren't there, it's that I haven't been taking care of the Vyrus, and now it's starting to not take care of me. My senses are starting to fade. Another day and I'll be just like normal people, a day after that, I'll be worse. Some time after that the Vyrus will give me the last boost that will send my entire system into overdrive. Then I'll be going Jorge's route. I need some blood.
There's no light coming from under Dobbs's door. I knock to be polite. Nothing. I put my ear against the door. Just the sound of an old air conditioner, as loud and wheezy as an iron lung. I sniff the air. Dust, floral air freshener, stale farts. The door is solid and has a dead bolt. At full strength I could bust it in, but not tonight. I take out my picks. I don't have any special talent for this, I usually rely on my hearing and sense of touch to get me through. Not so much tonight. I shove the tension wrench in the keyhole and then the pick, and rake the pins. It's not locked. I try the knob, the door swings open. I put the picks away and take out my piece.
No one is in the tiny office except for Dobbs. He's on the floor behind his desk. He's ice cold, a dead man with dead blood. No use to me. Then I see the other door. I stand next to it, take a sniff, but I don't need any special sense of smell. Dobbs didn't want to share the hall bathroom with his floor mates and had his own put in. Sharp bleach with an earthy tang underneath. And? And something else. I sniff. Someone is in there. Someone I know.