Free Haiku by Andrew Vachss Page A

provide a steady supply for those of our tribe.
    Outwardly, Ranger was dressed as he always is, but his body posture spoke clearly to me.
    “Did we not agree there would be no weapons?” I said, taking care to phrase it as a question, not a command.
    “But, Ho, we’re on a mission,” Ranger said, plaintively.
    “An
undercover
mission,” I reminded him. “And the presence of weapons might compromise our position if the police were to … intervene.”
    Ranger reluctantly nodded agreement. Somehow, his brain had retained sufficient cognitive function to process the fact that his intermittent hospital stays were always greatly extended when preceded by a weapons charge. He extracted a large, formidable-looking knife from his coat and handed it to me.
    “That’s a Ka-Bar,” Lamont said, whistling. “Looks brand-new, too. Got a sheath for it, Ranger?”
    “Roger!” he replied, producing a complicated-looking black nylon harness.
    “Now, this, this is
exactly
what we’ve been looking for!” Lamont said, excitedly.
    “A knife?” Brewster asked, puzzled.
    “Knife! Life! Wife! Strife!” Target muttered.
    “I can get us a
sweet
radio for this,” Lamont vowed. “With plenty of batteries, too. Have to go uptown, though.”
    The others listened closely as I explained Lamont’s theory that the car we sought might have belonged to a pimp. “A dead pimp,” Lamont added. I watched Michael’s eyes flare with gambler’s lust, but he remained silent.
    Once it became clear that a radio was vital to our mission, all agreed that we should do whatever was necessary to obtain one, and that Lamont should be entrusted with the task.
    Michael and Brewster understood they could not accompany Lamont. Their understandings came via different channels, but reached to the same depth. Ranger saw obtaining the radio as a “one-man job.” Target is capable of attaching himself to any of us, but only when at least one more is present. Two is a number he fears.
    In addition to his new shoes, the day’s fishing had gone well for Michael. This even though Ranger had never left his side, which usually creates a significant handicap. There was enough money for us all to eat a healthy meal of noodles and rice. It had taken me a very long time to wean the group away from the filthy, chemically processed foods they had previously preferred. But now the eating habits had becomepart of our band’s culture, an accepted fact of life. Several Japanese restaurants in our part of the city had come to expect my periodic appearances.
    Whenever we decided on a variation—Korean, say, or Vietnamese—Brewster or Michael would be sent in to make the purchase. It is another comic-book myth that all Asians consider themselves brothers. The truth is quite the contrary. Although being able to converse in Japanese had undoubtedly produced larger portions of food in some of the take-out places we frequent, it would have a distinctly adverse effect were the proprietor to be Chinese.
    Dividing our food never presents a problem. Ranger is in charge of this, and believes that troops should share their rations in the field. He is meticulously fair, to the point of self-denial, and is trusted unequivocally. By now, all of us are passably competent with chopsticks, but Target is by far the most adept.

48
    When Lamont rejoined us later that night, it was nine minutes past one o’clock. Ranger announced the time.
    “I had to keep this sucker under wraps,” Lamont said, as he removed a small portable radio from under the black wool overcoat he wears year-round.
    As we all visually admired his acquisition, Lamont proudly demonstrated how the radio had multiple bands, accessible via its extendable antenna. “You can pick up the BBC on this little jewel easy as the local weather,” he told us, pointing out various listening options as he spoke.
    “You did well,” I told him.
    “Goddamn right!” Michael agreed.
    Ranger had not spoken. Lamont reached in his