Blossom

by Andrew Vachss

  "Let 'em hold me."

  "It won't fly, Virgil. You're on a minor league thing and they know it. Besides, I need you out on the street. I don't know my way around out here."

  "You already did your part, brother. You did what I needed you for. Lloyd, he didn't do this thing. That's enough for me. His family, we'll take it from here."

  "What good is that? You know Lloyd didn't do it. Me too. So what? So he goes to jail and you all wait for him. Keep enough money on the books for him to stay in smokes? There's going to be a trial. They don't have much, but maybe they got enough. Lloyd's got no alibi and he looks good enough. Maybe not good, but good enough, you understand? They want a sniper, big time. He wouldn't be the first man to go down for something he didn't do."

  "What's left?"

  "Lloyd didn't do it, somebody did. There's a sniper–rapist out there."

  "You could find him?"

  "Remember what you called me for. I don't know who he is, Virgil, but I know what he is."

  "It's not yours." The kid spoke up. "Like Uncle Virgil said, it's family. I'm family. I didn't do it. But I've been talking to Uncle Virgil. I know what it takes. I won't disgrace my people—I done enough of that already."

  "Who asked you?"

  "Mr. Burke." The kid's voice was steady now. Not deeper, but stronger. Growing into his lines. "I don't mean no disrespect. I know what you did for me. Like Uncle Virgil promised me—you'd find the truth…make it come out. My part's now…I'll go to trial. Stand up. Like I'm supposed to."

  "Yeah. You want to go to jail, Lloyd? Make it right? Your uncle Virgil ever tell you how he came to do time?"

  "Burke!"

  "Hey, let me tell him, Virgil. You been pushing the truth like it's cocaine. You got the boy high on it."

  "Whatever I did, it's long dead. It's the past—this is now."

  "What you did, you didn't have choices at the time, right? The way you saw it? We got some choices now. More cards to play." I turned to face the kid. "Your uncle, he stabbed a man. A man who needed killing. The reason's not important now—what I told you is the truth. But Virgil, he did the same thing today, he'd maybe have enough sense to know he didn't have to go to prison. See, your uncle, he didn't want the whole truth to come out…"

  Virgil got to his feet. Lit a smoke, watching me closely. Not trying to stop it now.

  "Listen close, Lloyd. Your aunt Rebecca, she knew a man back home. A bad man, with ugliness inside him. Rebecca met Virgil. And she started her life over. The way people got a right to, okay? She came to Chicago. She and Virgil, they got together. Got married. Virgil was working, this man came around to see Rebecca. She told him to get lost. But he kept coming back. He put some pressure on her. Virgil, you know him, he's a proud man. And Rebecca, she knew how proud a man he was. She wasn't thinking of herself, just of him. So when this other guy came back with some pictures…pictures she thought would hurt Virgil…he gave her a choice…get back together with him or he'd go to Virgil. You understand?"

  The kid nodded, laser–focused on my voice, nothing else in the room for him.

  "Rebecca stabbed him. A whole bunch of times. Virgil came home in the middle of it. Nobody knows whether he finished the job or if the man was dead when he walked in the door. Rebecca told the police she did it. Virgil told them it was his work. They kept it in their family—never told the Man the real truth. Never even tried to bring it in front of a jury. And Virgil went to prison."

  I tapped a cigarette filter on my thumbnail. Virgil stood against the wall.

  "What could they've done?"

  "Who knows? I wasn't there. Put the body in a Hefty bag, throw it in the trunk of the car, take it to the city dump. Chop it into little pieces and feed it down the drain in the bathtub. Carry him up to the roof and leave him there. Pack their clothes, dump gasoline all over the body, and leave the Arson Squad to figure it out. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You try something, it don't work, you're no worse off, see? But Virgil, all he thought about was protecting Rebecca…and Rebecca, all she wanted to do was take the weight on herself. They never even got their stories straight, they was so busy confessing on themselves."

  "Virgil was a…"

  "A what? A hero? A chump? Who knows…all we know is he was a convict."

  "I…"

  "Yeah, he's so family–crazy, this was some regular killing he thought you did, he'd probably walk down to the police, tell them he did it. Like he did before."

  "I wouldn't let him."

  "Take a look, kid. Look at your uncle. You think you could stop him?"

  The kid looked. Saw the steel Virgil used for bone marrow. "What d'we do?"

  "What we do is, we make some plans. Work the angles. It doesn't play, you can always go to jail. They're always open for business."

  "Uncle Virgil…?"

  "Lloyd, from now on, you just call me Virgil. A man don't call another man uncle anything, okay?"

  A smile flashed across the kid's face. Then it was gone. His face hardened, jaw tightened. Shoulders straightened. Getting ready for it. "Okay," is all he said.

  40

  I CALLED BART BOSTICK'S office the next morning. His secretary got him on the line when I told her I couldn't give my name.

  "This is Bostick."

  "Mr. Bostick, my name is Burke. I'm from New York. You're representing a boy named Lloyd. The kid charged with those sniper killings. There's been a change of plans. I need to come in, talk to you about it. Before I do that, you need to know who I am, whether you can trust me. My lawyer's name is Davidson. He's in New York. Manhattan. And the boy's aunt, Rebecca, if you'll go by and see her…don't call her on the phone…she'll tell you too. If you can do this today, I'll come by and see you tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

  "You didn't give me your lawyer's phone number."

  "I figured you'd want to look it up yourself. Maybe in Martindale–Hubbell. Make some calls yourself first. Know who you're talking to.

  41

  "IT'S ME" I told the hum on the phone line. It didn't answer. "Tell the Prof to go and see McGowan. Get a number where I can call him tomorrow night—anytime he says. And have the Prof leave a number with you too. I need to talk to him."

  The hum hung up.

  42

  I LOOKED AT more racetrack sites until lunchtime. Found one that looked good. Stock–car track at Illiana, right on U.S. 30. In Schererville, close enough to Virgil's house so I could be in the neighborhood.

  The Lake County Public Library was on the same highway. Ultra–modern, all glass. The young black woman at the reference desk showed me where to find the back issues of the Post–Tribune on microfiche. I scrolled through. Whenever I came across a story on the sniper killings, I pushed the button for a copy. My attaché case was stuffed by the time I left.

  43

  THAT NIGHT, we started Lloyd's survival school.

  Virgil taped the kid's hands from wrists to knuckles. Slapped a wide band across Lloyd's mouth.

  "That's to teach you to breathe through your nose," I told him. "When you get scared, you breathe through your mouth—take in too much air. It helps you panic. That's not what we want, okay?"

  The kid nodded, watching.

  "You're going to start on this heavy bag. No jabs. That's okay for the ring, not for inside. Hooks. That's all we want. Both hands. Nothing to the head. Everything to the body. Stand close. We want a hundred punches in a row. Without stopping. You're not going to get it right away—it takes time. But a hundred punches. Real punches. That's what we're working for."

  Virgil stood behind the heavy bag, steadying it with his hands. The kid walked over to it, drew a deep breath through his nose, fired a left hook, a right, another left. His arms dropped—he was out of breath.

  I put my hands on the back of his shoulders. He was covered with sweat under the T–shirt. "Don't take a big breath and hold it. Nice shallow breaths. In and out. You stop breathing, you stop punching, okay?"

  He nodded, weak but game.

&
nbsp; "And stand closer, Lloyd. You'll always be fighting bigger guys. Get close so their arms reach over your shoulders." Virgil left the bag, came over to stand in front of me. He was taller. I stepped into him, face against his chest, dropping my shoulders, hooked toward his body in slow motion. Virgil's long arms reached past me, hands slapping against my back.

  Lloyd nodded. Stepped into the heavy bag, firing hooks, right, left, right, over and over. This time he went a good fifteen seconds before he ran out of gas. The kid raked air into his nose, holding his stomach.

  "Much better," I told him. "But stop punching with your arms. You're doing this…" I stood in front of the bag, feet planted, launched a hook as I twisted my shoulder into the punch. The bag popped. "That look pretty good to you?" I asked him.

  He nodded, eyes sharp on the target.

  "Looks don't get it in a fight," I told him. "That was an arm punch. Like you've been throwing. The power comes from here." Putting my thumbs on my hip bones, fingers spraying down to my upper thighs. Twisting my hips in slow motion as I got off another hook. "See? Turn your hip into the punch—what you got from the waist up isn't enough to really drive, all right? Watch…" I double–hooked the bag with my left hand, popped in a right, switched back to the left. Virgil nodded approval.

  Lloyd came back to the bag, stepped in, and launched a jet–stream hook from somewhere around his ankles. Virgil pushed the bag against him as the blow landed and Lloyd hit the floor. He jumped to his feet and swung even harder. This time he stayed on his feet, but he was so off–balance he couldn't throw another punch. I went back to work.

  "Plant your feet. Spread 'em apart. Yeah, that's it…a little more. Don't punch at the bag, punch through it. Yeah! Drive those shots, Lloyd! Balance, balance." I kept my hands on his hips, not letting him get too far out of alignment. "Alternate the punches. Double up on the left. Drive, damn it! Drop down with those shots—lower. There's no below–the–belt crap where you're going. Don't be admiring your work, drive!"

  The kid staggered forward, face green. I ripped the tape off. Vomit rushed out. Virgil wiped him off with a damp rag. Patting him on the back. "You doin' good, Lloyd. I felt those punches, son. Hit the showers, okay?"

  The mountain man looked at me. "He was throwing up inside that tape…never even thought about ripping it off himself."

  "He'll get it. He's got the hate, just needs some technique."

  "He's one of us," Virgil said. Pride in his voice.

  44

  TRAINING A FIGHTER isn't all inside the ring.

  "How much time we got?" Virgil asked me.

  "I'm seeing the lawyer tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I'll make a call to the city. Ask this cop I know if he'll front me some references. It all comes together, it's time for Lloyd to come in.

  "We're good here till forever. Just say the word."

  When Lloyd came back inside, we started on the hard part.

  45

  "PRISON'S NOT like jail," I told Lloyd. "Prison, there's nobody coming to the gate with bail money. You're down for a long time. You count the days. Some guys, they got too much time to count for themselves, so they look to take a piece of yours."

  The kid nodded, focused like he'd never been in school.

  "It's like the street, only…compressed, you got it? Everything happens close up. There's no place to go. No place to hide. So you give nothing away. Nothing. Never. Look down or look hard. Your face stays flat. You don't smile, you don't cry. And you protect your space…the space you carry around with you…the space around your body."

  "Don't take nothing from nobody," Virgil put in. "Nothing good, nothing bad. Inside, it's all the same. Guy offers you a smoke—no, thanks. Guy tells you the only way to get along is get down on your knees, you don't argue with him—you got to hurt him. Before he finishes the sentence. Right then."

  "The counselors…"

  "Guards, son. Hacks, screws, cops…don't matter what you call them. But they ain't no counselors inside. What a counselor does, you tell him this booty bandit got your name on his list, he asks you maybe you want to talk about it. You talk about it, you end up in PC. Protective Custody. Only it ain't protected, just custody. Close custody. Like solitary."

  "Okay."

  My turn. "There's three ways to survive inside, Lloyd. Remember what the Prof used to say, Virgil? Cold, crazy, or connected—that's the only way to play."

  "I miss that man."

  "Who's the Prof?" the kid wanted to know.

  "He's this little black dude," Virgil told him. "Tiny. Got the magic in him. Like some preachers got." I felt Lloyd stiffen. If Virgil noticed, he didn't show it, continuing on in the same voice. "Most of the time, he talked in rhyme." The mountain man chuckled. "Like I guess I just did. He's been jailing since they made jails. I never had much truck with black folks till I went down. Didn't hate them or anything, like some did where I'm from. Just never knew one to really talk with, understand? Anyway, the Prof, it's short for Professor. Or Prophet. He's a truth–teller. And a fearless little maniac, I'll swear that to anyone. He's the one who schooled Burke. Used to call him 'schoolboy' when Burke would act the fool."

  "You?" Lloyd looked at me.

  Virgil laughed. "Yeah, this hard–case was a young fool once. Had to learn. Like you learning now."

  "What do I do?"

  "When you get inside," I said, "look around. Pick one out. They'll all challenge you, give you those hard looks, try to back you down with their eyes. Even the weasels'll try it, not knowing you. Pick one out, like I said. Watch his eyes. You'll smell it on him. Coward. Hard in a pack, nothing by himself. Then you walk up to him, ask him if he got a problem with anything. He drops his eyes, mumbles something, you let it slide. Anything else, any fucking thing else, you move your left hand fast at the waist, then come overhand with the right. Aim it right at the side of his neck. And drive it. He goes down, don't wait for him to get up, get your foot into his ribs, quick. Don't stop until they pull you off. Don't think about it. That's what you do. What you got to do."

  "What if…?"

  "There's no 'if' here, kid. What if you go to solitary for a few days? What if they write something down in a report? Don't matter. When they let you back out, they'll wonder. Maybe you're crazy. That's okay. Maybe you're just a cold young man. That's okay too. And while they're thinking about it, they're gonna find out you're connected too."

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. When you were in, who was the barn boss?"

  "Barn boss?"

  "The duke. The head man. Every joint's got one, especially the kiddie camps. The baddest guy there. Come on."

  "Oh, you mean…like, one of the residents."

  "They got such fancy names for stuff now, don't they, brother?" Virgil's chuckle didn't reach his eyes.

  "Lloyd," I said patiently, "residents, they're people who stay in hotels, okay? Now, who was the boss inside?"

  "Hightower. I never knew his first name. Big black guy. One of the kids told me he was in for a homicide. In a drug deal."

  "The others, they get out of his way when he walks?"

  "Oh yes."

  "He only hang with blacks? Is it a racial thing?"

  "I don't know. I wasn't…"

  "That's okay. When you go back inside, you find out. This Hightower s still in charge, he got transferred, he got himself replaced by some other boy, it doesn't matter. You just let us know."

  "Okay."

  46

  I CHECKED MY messages before I went back to the motel. Nothing. Virgil would keep the boy up until first light, working. I closed my eyes, asking for Belle to come back to me in the only way she ever could.

  After a while, I slept.

  47

  I GAVE MY NAME to the receptionist at Bostick's. "He's been expecting you," she said, pointing down a dark carpeted corridor.

  The sign on his office said Private. I knocked. Davidson opened the door.

  "Mr. Bostick?" I asked. Nothing showed in my face.

  Davidson l
aughed, turned to a short, Roman–faced, slim man seated at a kidney–shaped white plastic desk. "Pay up," he said.

  Bostick slid a hundred–dollar bill across the clean surface of the desk. Stood up, offered his hand.

  I shook hands, sat down, lit a smoke. Davidson's foul cigar was burning in a deep glass ashtray.

  "Bart called me. I wasn't too busy, so I thought I'd fly out, see if there was something we could put together."

  I bowed my head slightly. Just enough. "Much appreciated."

  "Where are we?" Bostick asked.

  "Lloyd didn't do it," I told him. "We need to know how it looks for him, he comes in and surrenders. And what the Man wants with Virgil, he comes in too."

  "If the kid comes in, I can work bail for him again. Take a couple–few days. The rifle they found in his room, it bounced. No connect to the murders. What they got is a kid with a porno collection, a loner who prowls around at night. Maybe a peeper," he continued, watching my face.

  "I know."

  "And they got a couple of kids that were out one night. Some statements our boy may have made about killing people in parked cars."

  "He's a juvenile in this jurisdiction?" Davidson asked.

  "Doesn't matter," Bostick replied. "Homicide's an adult offense. Here, he gets bound over for the Grand Jury no matter how old he is."

  "That's good."

  Bostick nodded agreement. "Yeah, a jury won't go for all this collection of crap, but a Juvenile Court judge…you know how they are."

  I did. "You going to push it to trial?" I asked.

  "It's still a crap–shoot. If this boy didn't do it, somebody did. Better to hold off, see if they make another arrest."

  "They're looking?"

  "I don't think so. Not most of them anyway. This one detective, Sherwood, he's got a lot on the ball. I think he knows Lloyd isn't the one. But the cops…they want to close cases, not solve them."