Mask Market by Andrew Vachss

wait. I came up fast behind them, shouldered them both into the apartment, and let the pimp see my pistol—a short-barreled .357 Mag—before he could make a move.
    “What is this, man?”
    “I’m collecting for the Red Cross,” I said. “They take money or blood, your choice.”
    “Oh,” he said, visibly relaxing as the message that this was a stickup penetrated. “Look, man, I’m not carrying no real coin, you understand?”
    “A major mack like you? Come on, let’s see the roll. And move slow —this piece could punch a hole in you the size of a manhole cover.”
    The girl stood rooted to the spot, her eyes darting around the vile room, taking in the stained, rotted mattress in one corner, the white hurricane candle in a wide glass jar, the huge boom box, and the word “Prince” spray-painted in red on a nicotine-colored wall.
    The pimp reached…slowly…into the side pocket of his slime-green slacks, came out with a fist-sized wad of bills. At a nod from me, he gently tossed it over.
    I slipped the rubber band with my left thumb. A Kansas City bankroll: a single hundred on the outside, with a bunch of singles at the core.
    “Where’s the rest?” I said, gently.
    “Ain’t no ‘rest,’ man. I’m still working on my stake.”
    The girl walked over to the closet, head down, as if some instinct told her not to look at my face. She opened the door, gasped, and jumped back. I glanced in her direction. Inside the closet was a single straight chair. Draped over the back were several strands of rope and two pairs of handcuffs. On the seat of the chair was a thick roll of duct tape, and one of those cheap Rambo knives they sold all over Times Square.
    “Get the picture?” I said to her, nodding my head at the other item in the closet—a Polaroid camera.
    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “What?”
    But she just kept saying “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
    So much for my big score.
    “Turn around,” I told the pimp.
    “Look, man, you don’t gotta—”
    “I’m not going to shoot you,” I said. “I’m a professional, just like you. Thought you’d be carrying heavy coin. Now I’ve got to get out of here. So I’m going to put those handcuffs on you. Your friends will get you loose soon as they show up.”
    “I ain’t got no—”
    “Friends? Yeah, that’s right, you probably don’t. But you’re expecting some company, aren’t you, Prince ?”
    “Shit, man,” he said, resignedly. He turned around, put his hands behind his back.
    The Magnum was a heavy little steel ingot in my right hand. I stepped close to him, tipped his floppy hat forward with my left hand. He was still saying “What you—?” as I chopped down at his exposed cervical vertebrae with all my strength. He dropped soundlessly—his head bounced off the wood floor and settled at an angle that looked permanent.
    “Come on,” I said to the girl.
    She followed me without a word.
    On the walk back to the Port Authority, I said, “You know what was going to happen to you, right?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry. I—”
    “Don’t say another word,” I told her. “Not until you get back where you came from.”
    “I don’t have any—”
    “Where did you come from?”
    “St. Paul. I thought I—”
    “Shut your stupid fucking mouth,” I said.
    Inside the terminal, I bought her a one-way ticket to St. Paul, handed her two ten-dollar bills, said, “I’m going to watch you get on that bus, understand? If you ever come back here, you’re going to get hurt worse than you ever imagined.”
    “I’m—”
    “I told you to shut up. Don’t say another word until you’re talking to someone you know. ”
    I watched the bus pull out. She didn’t wave goodbye.
    I never got paid for that one.
     
    L ike I said, that was back in the day. In Times Square, you could buy anything on the back streets, from a hooker to heroin, and some of the stores sold magazines with photos so foul you wanted to find the people who