Free Blackjack by Andrew Vachss

of a stall shower, a towel around his waist. He lit a cigarette, sat down in a sling chair, closed his eyes, and blew smoke at the ceiling. His facial expression resembled an Easter Island statue on Botox.
    Wanda was working at her computer, handing each new piece of printed-out information to the blond man, who scanned and tossed the sheets over his shoulder the way a wolf works his way through the carcass of a fresh-killed sheep, seeking the most edible parts.
    “He’s got communications,” Wanda said. “Microwave … Using a bounce on the transmitter … You have to dial a number.… Okay, I have it. It’s a pay phone. Pulling up the location now.”
    The camera showed a narrow doorway with discreet neon lettering running vertically in a window slit next to it. The neon spelled out:
O
R
C
H
I
D

B
L
U
E
    The camera moved past a muscular woman at the door, her folded-arms stance saying “bouncer” as clearly as if writtenacross her chest. Orchid Blue turned out to be a high-class gay bar, accommodating same-sex and mixed couples both, with nothing outrageously campy allowed. The camera nosed through the place like a patient bloodhound. It ended up in the back, showing a bank of pay phones next to the restroom.
    The last phone had a large “Out of Order” sign prominently placed across its face. Closing in, the camera showed that the receiver itself had been severed from the phone—the coiled metal cord dangled, clearly expressing that there was no point even
trying
to make a call.
    “Okay,” the blond man said, “back to base. It’s time to give this Mr. Cross some idea of who he’s dealing with.”

    INSIDE THE War Room, the blond man could not keep the smirk off his face as he punched in a number on the phone console.
    “Orchid Blue … what kind of name is that for a nightclub?” he asked, slyly. “Any of you guys ever heard of it?”
    Everybody shook their heads except Tiger, who gave him a challenging look … which he promptly ignored.
    A phone rang inside Cross’s cave. It continued to ring as he took three precisely spaced drags on his cigarette.
    The blond man did not share his target’s calmness. He pounded on the console, muttering, “Pick up the damn phone!” at the image on the screen.
    Wanda worked the monitor’s dials. The image on the round screen sharpened.
    Cross reached out a hand, picked up the receiver. Said: “What?”
    “Mr. Cross,” the blond man said, “I have a proposition for you.”
    “Yeah, fine. Meet me at …”
    “There’s no need for that, Mr. Cross. And no time. You either step outside when we tell you or we’ll be coming to pay a visit in person.”
    “Visit me where?”
    “Right where you are, right this minute. We’re locked in on you. In fact, we can see what you’re doing even as we speak.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Mr. Cross, we are aware of your little phone-forwarding system, but you are not dealing with a pack of maladroits this time. You don’t believe me? I’ll make it simple. Raise your hand; I’ll tell you how many fingers you’re holding up. Come on, go ahead.…”
    The screen flickered. Tiger chuckled.
    “Very funny, Mr. Cross. And very mature as well. Have I convinced you yet?”
    “What is it you want, buddy?”
    “I’m not your buddy. And what I want is for you to step out of your cave long enough for a civilized conversation. You listen to our proposition. That’s it. Nothing more.”
    “How close are you?”
    “Forty-five minutes.”
    “I’ll be outside.”

    AS THE surveillance van picked up speed, homing in on its objective, Cross took inventory, as if considering a number of propositions. He glanced at a round hatch-style door set into his back wall—obviously an emergency escape route. The red pull-down handle made it clear that this was an option which could only be used once.
    Finally, he shook his head and started to get dressed.

    WHEN THE van rounded the last corner, Cross was standing at the edge of