Shella

by Andrew Vachss

  ACCLAIM FOR Andrew Vachss’s

  SHELLA

  “Vachss is a contemporary master.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Shella, Vachss’ latest excursion to the American underbelly, is his darkest yet…. Vachss’ characterizations are so strong, so immediate, that it’s impossible to brush them easily out of mind …. And I defy anyone to remain untouched by the climax, which manages to be horrific, touching, tragic and strangely hopeful.”

  — Arkansas Democrat & Gazette

  “Terse, intense and brilliantly written, Shella is a body-blow of a book delivered by an emerging literary heavyweight.”

  — Flint Journal

  “Next to Vachss, Chandler, Cain and Hammett look like choirboys.”

  — Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A book so icy it can freeze your fingers as you turn the pages, and numb your soul in the process. Shella is as lean and mean—but also as literate and deeply felt—as crime fiction, or any fiction, gets.”

  — Cemetery Dance

  “Vachss distinguishes himself as a writer with an assurance of words and experience that has a discomfiting ring of truth.”

  — Austin Chronicle

  Andrew Vachss

  SHELLA

  Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a “children’s book for adults.” His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times, and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.

  The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is

  www.vachss.com.

  BOOKS BY Andrew Vachss

  Flood

  Strega

  Blue Belle

  Hard Candy

  Blossom

  Sacrifice

  Shella

  Down in the Zero

  Born Bad

  Footsteps of the Hawk

  False Allegations

  Safe House

  Choice of Evil

  Everybody Pays

  Dead and Gone

  Pain Management

  Only Child

  The Getaway Man

  for:

  Doc Pomus

  and

  Iceberg Slim

  truth, still shining

  down

  GHOST

  The first time I killed someone, I was scared. Not scared to be doing it—I did it because I was scared.

  Shella told me it was like that for her the first time she had sex.

  I was fifteen that first time. Shella was nine.

  We bumped paths in Seattle. I was in a strip bar, looking for a guy. She was dancing there, taking off her clothes to the music, humping something that looked like a fireman’s pole in the middle of the runway.

  After her number, she came over to my table in the back, just a gauzy wrapper on over her G-string. I thought she was working as a B-girl between sets, but it wasn’t that. Like blind dogs, we heard the same silent whistle. Recognized each other in the dark.

  After that, we worked Badger together, riding the circuit. I’m not real big—Shella’s as big as I am, taller in her heels. She works out regular, a real strong girl. I don’t do muscle—I just talk to the marks, tell them the truth. Most of them get it then—they pay the money and go away. In L.A., a guy didn’t listen. Big guy, bodybuilder. Flexed his biceps, came right at me. I stopped his heart, left him there.

  We kept moving. Denver, Houston, New Orleans. Shella took a mark home after work one night in Tampa. Back to the motel room just off the strip. I sat near the connecting door, waited for her signal. Nothing. Couldn’t even hear her voice. When I let myself in, moving soft, the room was dark. Shella was face down on the ratty bed, lashed spread-eagle with wire coat hangers, a gag in her mouth. Her back was all bloody.

  He never saw me coming. In his coat I found his works—a pair of black gloves, a wad of white cheesecloth, and a little bottle with a glass stopper. He had a plastic jar of Vaseline too. I smeared it all over Shella’s back so her blouse wouldn’t stick to her. Told her to get going, take the car, I’d meet her later, when I got done wiping down the rooms.

  When the cops kicked in the door a few minutes later, I was still there.

  They threw down on me, pistols and shotguns. Three in the room, probably had backup outside. I went easy. They’d been tracking the freak—he’d done three women in the last month. Same pattern. I told them my story. A drifter, passing through. I heard the noise, went inside—he was working on a girl. We fought, she ran away. He died.

  The cops did their tests. Blood tests, DNA. I wasn’t the guy who did those other girls—the dead guy was. One of the detectives said they should give me a medal. He wasn’t stupid—kept asking me if I might know the girl who’d taken off. The one whose blood was all over the bed. Asked me about who might have been staying in the connecting room next door.

  Shella had the car, all the money, everything. I was indigent, they said, so they got me a lawyer. He wasn’t much—said the only way I could help myself was if they could find the girl who’d been in the room. I told him what I told the cops.

  When we finally got to court, I looked straight ahead in case Shella was dumb enough to show up. Nobody said much to me—the lawyers all talked together up at the front, where the judge was. This lawyer they got me, he came back, told me they had the death penalty in Florida, said I could plead to manslaughter, how did that sound?

  I asked him how much time I’d have to do—I didn’t care what they called it.

  After a while, I said what the lawyer told me to say and they took me down.

  I did the time. Quiet time, after the first week. Some wolf thought I was a sheep. I could have killed him quick when we were alone, but then there would just be another one. I know about the other ones. I said I’d do what he wanted. He said to meet him in the showers.

  He was there, waiting. I turned my back to him, dropped my towel, bent over. I felt his hands on my waist, and it happened like it always does. I whipped an elbow into his throat—crushed his Adam’s apple. He went down, holding his throat, trying to scream. I got hold of his face in my hands. I could feel all the bones in his skull—I could feel them start to crack. The shower room floor was hard tile. The water was coming down on us. Blood ran out of the back of his head.

  I could feel the other cons come in behind me, watching. Nobody did anything. It was a crazy, wild place, that prison—they wanted to watch me kill him. I got my thumb in his eye. Pushed it through until I felt it go all wet and sticky.

  The guards pulled me off. I put my thumb in my mouth, sucked on it while I stood against the wall. I knew what they would think. That I liked the taste.

  The wolf didn’t die—they transferred him someplace.

  I got thirty days in solitary. When they opened the cage, I watched for a while. To see if the wolf had friends. Nobody came.

  I was a good inmate. After what I’d done to the wolf, I couldn’t fool anyone in there, but they stayed away. That’s all I ever want.

  The work wasn’t hard. I didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t have any money on the books, so I quit smoking. They came around to my cell, told me how I could get cigarettes, get anything I wanted. I looked at them until they went away.

  I never got a visit, never got a letter.

  In my cell, I did my exercises. Not like the weightlifters, just
stretching and breathing. Slowing down inside so I could count my heartbeats.

  They let me out on a Monday.

  You can go a long distance in three years. I’m no good on the phone, talking to people. I reported to the Parole Officer, got a job working produce.

  Soon as I drew a paycheck, I went back to the bar where Shella was dancing when it happened. Sat through all the shifts, came back a few times. She wasn’t there.

  I walked the strip, checked every runway in Tampa. Shella wasn’t dancing there anymore. One night, in one of the bars, a man offered me a job. I don’t know how he knew.

  When he paid me, I bought a car. Kept looking. Couldn’t find her.

  I did a couple more jobs for the man, saved my money. When I had a stake, I headed north to Atlanta.

  I don’t have a picture of Shella. Just in my mind. Big girl, white-blonde hair, gray eyes. Some things she couldn’t change. The beauty mark on her left cheek, just past her lips. I put it there. She wanted one, asked me to do it. I rubbed some Xylocaine into the spot, froze it with ice cubes. Burned a hypo needle in a match flame, held two fingers inside her cheek to steady it, tipped the needle in black India ink, jabbed it in a perfect little dot—my hands are real steady. Shella said she never felt it, but I could see little things move in her eyes while I was doing it.

  Her name too. She gave it to herself. She was a runaway, she told me. When she was a kid. Some social worker in one of the shelters told her she had to come out of her shell. So they could help. A shell, that’s what she needed. So she turned it around, made it her name. She told me it was all she had that was really hers.

  But she didn’t use it with people—it was a secret she told me. When I met her, her name was Candy. A runway dancer’s name.

  I always thought about Shella in prison, but I thought about her strong now. Stuff she told me, signs on the track.

  Atlanta has a strip, they all do. Shella would be dancing someplace. She wouldn’t turn tricks, wouldn’t have a pimp. I asked her about that once, if she ever had one. She told me her father.

  I was in Atlanta a week. Bought some stuff I needed while I was looking around. I’d never find her, the way I was working. I thought about a guy in New York. I’d done some work for him, years ago. He would maybe have something for me, for how I do it—up close. I don’t use guns or bombs or anything. I could see him again, maybe make a trade.

  Before I left, I got a set of ID from a guy who sent me to another guy. Driver’s license, Social Security card, like that. The guy asked me if I wanted a passport, cost an extra grand. I told him no.

  I bought a better car, a nice Chevy, couple of years old. I paid cash, drove it right off the lot. I mostly live in it now, keep my clothes and stuff in the trunk.

  In Baltimore, one of the dancers came and sat at my table after her shift, hustling drinks. Told me she wasn’t allowed to date the customers, she’d get fired if the boss found out. But she’d take a chance, she said, flicking her red fingernail against one nipple, licking at her lips. Because she liked me so much.

  We went to her apartment. It was Badger, like I thought. She was on her knees when the hammer came in. Big guy, said she was his wife. Going to hurt me for messing around in his patch. I told him how scared I was, took my pants off the bed, handed them over so he could have my wallet. He watched my eyes, never saw my hands. The girl didn’t move to help him, didn’t make a sound.

  Shella wasn’t like that. I had trouble with a mark once. It was in Phoenix. He took my first shot to the side of the neck—I heard a crack but he didn’t go down. Pulled a straight razor out of his shirt pocket. I backed off to get room to go again when Shella hit him from behind, an icepick in her hand. She stabbed him so many times I had to pull her off.

  The hammer had almost three grand in his pockets, half a dozen different credit cards, a little gun with a pearl handle. The girl talked fast, said he made her do it, she was afraid of him. Showed me a little round scar on the inside of her thigh. Cigarette, she said, a present from the hammer. So she’d remember.

  He wasn’t dead. I could feel the pulse in his neck. I told the girl I’d have to tie her up, give me time to get away. She said she wanted to come with me. I figured she was just scared, scared stupid—if I wanted to do her, taking her out of there would just make it easier. She lived with the hammer—let the cops think she’d done him, taken off. I told her she could take one suitcase.

  On the highway, she wanted to stop a couple of times, use the bathroom. I pulled off to the side of the road, walked her into the bushes. She didn’t try to run.

  I spotted a motel just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike, circled around, stopped at a 7-Eleven, bought enough food for a couple of days, went back and checked us in.

  She told me her name was Misty. A short, chunky girl, heavy thighs, breasts too big for her body. Implants, she told me—the hammer made her do it.

  I told her I’d have to tie her up. So I could get some sleep, not worry about her doing anything. She wiggled on the bed, smiled at me, said a little girl like her couldn’t hurt me. That was what the hammer thought about me, I told her, and she held out her hands for the rope.

  She woke me early in the morning. Soft, just rubbing against me. Asked me, didn’t I want to finish what we started just before her man came into the room? I thought about what Shella told me once, how it’s evil to hurt someone’s feelings, just to be doing it. How it’s worse than a beating, makes you feel like nothing. So I didn’t say anything to Misty. Never even untied her. She acted like it made her feel good, made little noises in her throat, went to sleep right after.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I had to find Shella.

  In daylight, she looked older. I untied her so she could use the bathroom—there was no window in there, nothing she could do.

  She came out wrapped in a couple of towels, hair all wet. Sat down on the bed next to me.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You let me go, you’re afraid I’ll go back to the block?”

  “Your man’s not dead. He’s not gonna go to the cops. You go back there, he’s gonna thank you for saving his life, you tell him the right story.”

  “You don’t know him. He likes to hurt me. He doesn’t need an excuse.”

  “So?”

  “So I can’t go back.”

  “All right. You stay with me a few days. You got friends in Baltimore? Make some calls, find out if anything’s going on?”

  “Just a couple of girls at work. They’d know, maybe. But they’d rat me out in a minute, there was money in it. They’re mostly junkies anyway, always getting busted. I couldn’t trust them.”

  “You got money?”

  “Yes. In my suitcase. You want me to get it for you?”

  “No. It’s enough, get you someplace, start over?”

  “Yes.

  “Okay. We’ll do that, couple of days.”

  Misty couldn’t drive, said she’d never learned. Shella was a good driver, but kind of wild—I always had to watch her, especially on the highway. I took the wheel all the way past Philadelphia, found another motel near Trenton.

  I didn’t tie her up that night. Prison teaches you to sleep light, even with the door locked. One guy, he dropped a dime on this shakedown gang, took a PC lockup, thought he was safe. They filled a plastic bottle with gasoline, squirted it in between the bars, dropped in a match. The guards couldn’t get close enough to open his cell. By the time they got a hose down the corridor, he was gone. They never got the smell out.

  Misty was still asleep when I woke up in the morning.

  I asked her again if she had enough money. Made her show it to me. She had a few thousand. Holdout money. Shella never did that with me. I told Misty I’d drop her at the bus station, or she could come along as far as Newark, catch a plane.

  She told me she had no place to go, asked me where I was going. I told her Chicago.


  She said she always wanted to try it there, said she heard it was good pickings.

  I told her I was going alone. She asked me, did I have a girlfriend.

  I made her stay in the bathroom while I took a shower. I could see her through the cheesy plastic curtain. She took off her clothes and we had sex when I got out.

  On the road to Newark, Misty was quiet. I thought about it. I don’t look like much—even if she described me, it wouldn’t help the cops. But the car, the license plate …

  I’m not a good thief, don’t even know how to hotwire a car. We had to get a car once, in a hurry, me and Shella. She broke in, got it started. She thought it was funny, I didn’t know how to do it.

  Misty looked at me like she knew what I was thinking. “You don’t like to hurt girls, do you?”

  “I don’t like to hurt anyone.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean … like to hurt them. For fun.”

  “It’s not fun.”

  “Maurice liked to hurt me.”

  “Don’t go back.”

  “I’m not. I’m good, you know. Real good. Everybody says so. I’m good. I look better when I’m dressed up. I could go with you.”

  “Why?”

  “To be with you, okay? I can make money. Dancing, whatever you want.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  She started to cry then. Soft, to herself, not putting on a show. It reminded me of something, couldn’t remember what.

  I drove through this long tunnel from New Jersey. It let us out in Times Square, long blocks lined with hookers. They looked used.

  There’s a hotel there, right near the highway. I put the car in the lot, checked us in for a week.

  It didn’t take long to unpack. Misty bounced around—she really liked the room. Took a real long shower. When she came out, I was lying on the bed, feeling the room.