Free Born Bad by Andrew Vachss Page B

pounds. Dark, wiry hair, combed straight back. Triple–black on the vine, right down to his shoes. Gold watch on his left wrist, carrying a videocam. Driving a dark blue Lincoln Town Car, license 4–Alpha–7–oh–9–X–Ray. Got it?"
    The huge man listened for a minute, said, "Yeah, yeah: over and out," and handed the phone back to Cross. "Princess is still doing his Lone Wolf number," the big man laughed.
    Cross punched another number, waited for the pickup, then said, "Ready to roll. ETA like we expected. Sit on him tight, all right, brother?"
     
9
     
    I f Reba recognized the pudgy man who had been driving the white Cadillac the night before, she gave no sign. She never gave him a second glance–her eyes were riveted to the man standing next to him…an outrageously overdeveloped bodybuilder with a shaved skull whose heavily corded, deeply veined muscles seemed to threaten the confines of his skin. The bodybuilder was dressed in a pale pink silk tank top and a pair of Spandex white shorts with a matching pink stripe down the side. But Reba's eyes never left the man's face, marveling at the heavy application of rouge, the dark eyeliner, the lip gloss…and the earring that dangled from one ear on a long chain…a miniature of a wrecking ball.
    "God! You see that?" she whispered to Anna.
    "I see it but I don't believe it. You think it's one of those S&M things?"
    "I don't know. I thought I'd seen everything at least once, but…"
    "He's here, you know," Anna said, dropping her voice.
    "I know," Reba said, her eyes glancing over to a far corner where the tall man in black lounged, a tiny smile playing across his thin lips. "He won't try anything as long as I'm around, the sonofabitch."
    "Just relax," Anna said, patting her friend's forearm. "That's what he wants, for you to make a scene. Did you speak to that man? The one–?"
    "That was him. Last night."
    "That guys He didn't look like much."
    "It's not a beauty contest, girlfriend."
    The youthful performers came out one at a time for floor exercises, mostly tumbling runs set to music. As the pudgy man became more one with his surroundings, the bodybuilder seemed to swell with outrageousness, imitating the tumbling moves, screaming encouragement to the kids, raising enough of a fuss so that he soon had a clear circle of empty space around him, spectators clucking their tongues in disapproval as they gave him room. The man in black was still, only his eyes animated.
    "That was Roscoe Holmes!" the announcer said over the P.A. system as a caramel–skinned boy maybe twelve years old bowed deeply at the conclusion of his routine. "Next up, Angel Andrews!"
    The little girl bounded onto the mat, gave a brief bow to the audience, waved gaily at her mother, and charged to the far corner, flinging herself into an airborne one–and–a–half gainer before landing lightly on her feet.
    "Way to stick it, honey!" Anna shouted.
    As the child got deeper into her routine, the man in black pushed himself off the wall, unlimbering his videocam, moving closer. The bodybuilder tracked him like a heat–seeking missile, banging his way through the crowd. Standing just off the man in black's right shoulder, the bodybuilder spoke in an overenthusiastic, booming voice.
    "Hey! Is that one of them mini–cameras? Damn, it sure looks like fun."
    The man in black looked over his shoulder, shuddered, and moved quickly to his left, slamming into the pudgy man who had quietly taken up that post.
    "Please," the man in black said. "She's almost through. I have to–"
    "Can I see?" the bodybuilder asked, reaching for the camera.
    The man in black snatched it away, but he was too slow. The bodybuilder's hand wrapped around the man's biceps, squeezing it into liquid pain. The videocam slid from the man's hand, and the bodybuilder grabbed it, holding it to his eye. Before the man in black could react, the bodybuilder pointed the camera at his shocked face and pushed the RECORD button.
    "You can't do