Free Haiku by Andrew Vachss Page B

coat pocket, and handed him something.
    “What’s that?” Brewster asked.
    “It’s a … compass, man!” Ranger said, temporarily overcome with emotions he has long since lost the ability to comprehend. “Damn! I
needed
one of these. Thanks, Lamont!”
    That was the first time I ever heard Ranger call Lamont by name.
    We listened to our radio throughout the night. The city has several “all-news” stations, and we alternated among them. Several different homicides were reported, but none remotely matched the criteria we sought.
    “Maybe they don’t know yet,” Michael finally said. “I mean, say she killed him indoors—the body could stay there for days without anyone discovering it, especially if she turned the air conditioning way up.”
    “And that car would be hot,” Brewster chimed in. “So she’d want to keep it off the streets.”
    “Sweep the ville!” Ranger volunteered.
    “It would seem there might be too many houses,” I pointed out, spreading my arms to indicate the vastness of the city, as if this were the only impediment to his psychotic suggestion.
    “I’ll keep monitoring the news,” Lamont promised, showing us a small bag full of batteries. “And we can check the papers, too.”
    “How about we put it on the grapevine?” Brewster said, speaking out of the side of his mouth.
    Michael, who refuses to accept that Brewster’s every word is some sort of re-enactment of the books to which he is addicted, immediately said, “No!” I noted the unnecessary sharpness of his tone. “This is
ours,”
Michael said, pointing his finger as if accusing Brewster of betrayal. “If people get the idea that car’s worth something, you think they’re going to come back to
us
if they spot it?”
    “Man’s telling it true.” Lamont supported Michael—another uncommon occurrence. “We gotta keep this to ourselves. Remember, we’re holding aces. We’re the only ones who know. And we got nothing
but
time.”

49
    Several days passed without incident. Each of us waited, each in his own way.
    One especially fine day, Lamont and I were anticipating Brewster’s arrival—he had promised to bring some fresh batteries for our radio. The early-afternoon sun was still strong, and we relaxed under its soothing warmth. Our pleasure was enriched by the knowledge that the sun’s blessing was distributed without regard to status.
    “I got them!” Brewster announced his arrival. True to his word, he had three packets of batteries, still in their plastic seals.
    “You did well,” I told him.
    “I found out something else, too!” he burst out. “This is really important, Ho.”
    “Yes?” I said.
    Lamont took another drink from his paper bag.
    “I went to the library,” Brewster said. “The big one, on Forty-second. You know what Michael’s always saying, you can find
anything
there? So I figured I’d check the papers from other cities. Ones close to here, I mean, like over in Jersey. Maybe there would be something in there about a dead pimp. Or a missing Rolls-Royce.”
    I said nothing. Lamont took another sip of whatever was in his paper bag.
    “But there wasn’t anything, okay?” Brewster continued. “So I figured, as long as I’m there, I should see what they have on Rolls-Royces. I mean, like … research.”
    Again, I did not speak. Again, Lamont’s response was to sip his elixir.
    “You know what I found out, Ho? They only make a few of them every year, and they don’t sell most of them here. In America, I mean. The new ones, they’re called ‘Phantoms.’ That’s not just the make; that’s the model. Like, there’s all different kinds of Fords—you know, like, say a Ford Focus or a Ford Crown Vic—but not for them. Rolls-Royce, I mean.”
    “That seems—”
    “Nah, my man’s on the
case
, Ho,” Lamont said. He turned to Brewster, asked, “You mean, all the ones you could drive yourself around in, those are Phantoms, right?”
    “Yeah!” Brewster said, even more