Free Mortal Lock by Andrew Vachss Page A

starting to finally snap that Veil hasn’t just showed up for an assassination. He’s investigating, and, well, I don’t know how, but I’m just sort of falling in with him. In spite of his sweet personality, there’s something about me and him that clicked.”
    “I adore a love story,” Leonard said.
    “So anyway, I wasn’t exactly shocked when Veil put the pistol away, stuck a little flashlight in his teeth, worked the locks on the guy’s van like he had a key. We both climbed in, being real quiet. In the back, under a pile of equipment, we found the … pictures.”
    “Guy was a blackmailer?” Leonard asked, a little interested now.
    “They were pictures of kids,” I told him. Quiet, so’s he’d know what kind of pictures I meant.
    Leonard’s face changed. I knew then he was thinking about what kind of pictures they were and not liking having to think about it.
    “I’d never seen anything like that before, and didn’t know thatsort of thing existed. Oh, I guess, in theory, but not in reality. And the times then, lot of folks were thinking free love and sex was okay for anyone, grown-ups, kids. People who didn’t really know anything about life and what this sort of thing was all about, but one look at those pictures and I was educated, and it was an education I didn’t want. I’ve never got over it.
    “So he,” I said, nodding my head over at Veil, “asks me, where does the guy with the van sleep? Where inside the house, I mean. I tried to explain to him what a crash pad was. I couldn’t be sure where he was, or even who he might be with, you understand? Anyway, Veil just looks at me, says it would be a real mess if they found this guy in the house. A mess for us, you know? So he asks me, how about if I go inside, tell the guy it looks like someone tried to break into his van?
    “I won’t kid you. I hesitated. Not because I felt any sympathy for that sonofabitch, but because it’s not my nature to walk someone off a plank. I was trying to sort of think my way out of it when Veil here told me to take a look at the pictures again. A good look.”
    “The guy’s toast,” Leonard said. “Fucker like that, he’s toast. I know you, Hap. He’s toast.”
    I nodded at Leonard. “Yeah,” I said. “I went inside. Brought the guy out with me. He opens the door to the van, climbs in the front seat. And there’s Veil, in the passenger seat. Veil and that pistol. I went back in the house, watched from the window. I heard the van start up, saw it pull out. I never saw the photographer again. And to tell you the truth, I’ve never lost a minute’s sleep over it. I don’t know what that says about me, but I haven’t felt a moment of regret.”
    “It says you have good character,” Veil said.
    “What I want to know,” Leonard said, looking at Veil, “is what did you do with the body?”
    Veil didn’t say anything.
    Leonard tried again. “You was a hit man? Is that what Hap here’s trying to tell me?”
    “It was a long time ago,” Veil told him. “It doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is: You want to talk to me now?”
    3
    The judge looked like nothing so much as a turkey buzzard: tiny head on a long, wrinkled neck and cold little eyes. Everybody stood up when he entered the courtroom. Lester Rommerly—the local lawyer I went and hired like Veil said to—he told the judge that Veil would be representing Leonard. The judge looked down at Veil.
    “Where are you admitted to practice, sir?”
    “In New York State, your honor. And in the Federal District Courts of New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Michigan, California, and Massachusetts.”
    “Get around a bit, do you?”
    “On occasion,” Veil replied.
    “Well, sir, you can represent this defendant here. Nothing against the law about that, as you apparently know. I can’t help wondering, I must say, how you managed to find yourself way down here.”
    Veil didn’t say anything. And it was obvious after