Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

You don't got the right gear, you ain't shit out here. Motherfuckers be wearin' old raggedy hightops, yesterday's stuff, they don't get over. Bitches don't want a man who don't sport the gold.

  My birthday's Saturday night–I'm gettin' too old to be foolin' with this rookie shit. I need to hook up, get somethin' sweet for me.

  I'm ready. Man, I been ready. Last time I was busted, went down to the fuckin' Youth House, I carved a name for myself, you understand what I'm sayin?

  I saw the posse car pull over across the street. An all-black Jeep. The windows was black too–a very def ride. Everybody knows whose ride that be.

  The front window slides down. Big guy in the seat. "Yo! Tyrone!" he calls out.

  I cruise over to the car, proud in front of my homeboys. Posse don't be callin' on you for nothin'. A big guy gets out, opens the back door for me. Like a star climbing in a limo. Everybody on the corner saw it.

  The car slides off. I'm sitting next to Luther Beauchamp. The Man himself. He got houses all over the 'hood.

  Luther don't say nothin' to me at first. The guy driving takes off slow. Smooth. Very chilly. Nice.

  Luther, he got a Mercedes hood ornament on a chain around his neck. Solid fucking gold. Black leather gloves on his hands. Thin black gloves.

  We go up Buffalo Avenue, turn down behind the Projects.

  "Z'up?" I ask him, like I go in his ride all the time. I'm with it, whatever it is.

  "You know the house I got over by the Flats?" Luther asks me.

  "Sho," I tell him. It's over in East New York. The Badlands. Big house, all empty upstairs, got no windows. There's a steel door with a slot in it. You slide the cash through, the crack come back.

  "I'm needin' another man, work the front. Been hearin' about some young dumb motherfuckers, thinkin' about takin' what's mine. I don't play that. Five bills a day, you watch the front. Dust any motherfucker acts stupid. I been hearin' about you. Hear you got a lotta heart. That you?"

  "That's me, man."

  "You got your shit with you?"

  I go in my waistband, pull out my piece. Luther opens his palm–I hand it to him.

  "You see this trash?" he says, handing it to the big guy in the passenger seat up front.

  "Chinese, man. Probably blow up in your dumbass face, you pull the trigger. How much this cost you, youngblood…a half yard?"

  "Seventy-five," I tell him.

  The driver don't say nothin' just keeps rolling.

  "Give my man Tyrone somethin' good," Luther says.

  The big guy hands me a brand new piece. Bigger'n mine. He wearin' black gloves too. I got to get some.

  "This here's a Glock, homeboy," Luther says. "Smoothest thing they make. You got sixteen rounds in there. Super Nine. Come out fast as you pull the trigger. You know how to work it?"

  "Yeah, well, I…"

  He takes the piece from me, pushes on a button. The clip comes out the butt. He slams it back in, jacks the slide forward. "There ain't no safety on this sucker. It's locked and loaded now…all you do is pull. Got it?"

  "I got it."

  "I got dissed the other night," he said. "Dissed bad. I park my ride over the other side of Atlantic, do one of the clubs. I come out and some foul little motherfucker scraped a key all along the side. Took the paint right off. You know what that mean, boy?"

  "Mean somebody got to pay."

  "Righteous. Nobody works one of my houses 'less he shows his heart. You ready to go the other half?"

  I knew what he meant, the other half. I got a baby. By this girl Sarita. A little boy. He named for me. I can make a life. The Man wants to know…can I take a life?

  "Fuck, yeah." I says to him. Icy, the way you suppose to say it. Be for real. That's me. Real. 24–7, real.

  He gives me a long, cool look. Nods his head. "We goin' round the block, homeboy. Right past the corner where I got dissed, okay? We just go'n' drive by. They be standin' on the corner, doin' what they do. You push this switch here, the window goes down. Then you do some motherfuckers, understand? Take 'em out. Many as you can, got it?"

  "I'm down," I tell him.

  This is where it shows, the heart of a man.

  The Jeep makes the turn, slows down, rolling near the curb.

  There's a righteous rap on the speakers inside the ride. Chug-a-chug. Like a train.

  "Hit the window, Tyrone," the man up front tells me.

  I push the switch. I don't feel nothin'.

  People all over the corner, sittin' on the stoops, couple a girls dancin' to the music from a big box sittin' on a car. Hot weather brings 'em out.

  I stick the piece out the window, start pulling the trigger. Blam! Blam! People screamin', runnin'. I keep pullin' till I hear a click in my head. No more.

  The Jeep turns the corner, rollin' fast now. I hand the piece back to Luther.

  We make it back to the block. Luther, he dukes five yards on me, all in hundreds. New bills. Clean and green.

  "You my man, Tyrone. You did the thing. The piece is yours now–be waitin' for you at the house tomorrow. You musta dropped half a dozen of those fuckin' Jakes…teach those Rasta motherfuckers they don't be downin' me–it don't fuckin' pay. Come by the house tomorrow, ask for Dice, he run the joint. He'll show you where you work. You in the crew now."

  I slap him five, hit the pavement.

  I'm out there a long time that night. Tellin' my homeboys the score. Tyrone's movin' up. Movin' out. Go'n' be somebody. I flashed the cash. No more rustlin' for me–I'm a shooter now.

  Women come over, give me the eye. Bitches, they always the first to know who's the man.

  We did some smoke, did some wine. Went down to the basement, did me a bitch too. Fine little young bitch. I give her one of the new bills, tell her, next time I see her, she be wearing somethin' nice. For me. Her eyes get big behind that. They all ho' in they heart anyway.

  Like my momma, and that's the truth.

  Almost light when I roll back to my crib. Climb the stairs, smell them nasty smells. Elevator don't ever fuckin' work in this place. Even the Welfare don't come around no more. Soon's I get the bread, I get me a place. Giant color TV, white shag carpet.

  Maybe I get me a ride like Luther's too.

  I get to my floor, open the staircase door. Two Jakes standin' there, dreadlocks down to they shoulders–got sawed-off shotguns in they hands.

  I guess I never get to be sixteen.

  Dumping Ground

  Sodium lights burned islands of orange on the dark wet streets. Sunburst patches. Hard-bright centers tapering off to soft rays around the edges. Black splotches between the islands. Prowler's footprints.

  A maroon sedan cruised the streets, a string of police lights across its roof. Safeguard Security Services between two broad white stripes on each side. The factory district was deserted after dark.

  Two men in the front seat. Gray uniforms, police caps, gun belts. The radio on the console between them crackled. The man in the passenger seat picked up the microphone, thumbed it open.

  "We're swinging past Ajax, then we're checking the freight yards."

  "Dead zone," the dispatcher's voice chuckled.

  "We're on the job," the guard said, a hurt tone in his voice.

  "Ten-four."

  The sedan's tires hissed on the greasy streets. The guard looked out his window.

  "I don't like this part," he said.

  The driver was a tall, slightly built man in his forties. Dark hair, long, hollow-cheeked face. His eyes had a yellowish cast in the streetlights. He glanced over at his partner. "You like the other part."

  The passenger lit a cigarette. "You think maybe we should find another spot?"

  The driver's lips moved, showing his teeth. "It's perfect. Everybody knows the wiseguys use the back end of that wrecking yard to dump toxic waste. Nobody's going to go poking around in there."

  "You really think…you think the ground is poison and

  all?"

  "How could it be? The dogs are always there."


  The passenger dragged on his cigarette, watching the empty factory buildings as the cruiser sliced through the night.

  The car circled the dump at the edge of the district. On patrol.

  "Quiet as a grave," the driver said.

  "Tommy, the last time we were here…the dogs tore the bag open."

  "So what? They're animals. They get a taste of something, they want more."

  The passenger's face was sweat-sheened. He stubbed out his cigarette. His hands shook.

  "Like us," he whispered.

  The driver wheeled the patrol car onto a dirt road, running parallel to the pit. He killed the headlights. "Last stop," he said, turning off the ignition.

  They climbed out. The driver opened the trunk. It was lined with green plastic garbage bags. Industrial strength. A heavy white canvas sack was inside, dark stains running across its surface like marbled fat. They each took an end of the canvas sack, wrapping the garbage bags around their hands. Pulled it free from the trunk. They made their way down the embankment in the dark, balancing the weight of the sack between them.

  "She was the best one yet," the driver said.

  At the bottom of the slope, they swung the bag back and forth. "One, two, three!" the driver grunted as they flung the bag into the pit.

  Fire-dots of light shone from below. The passenger was breathing hard. "Fucking dogs. They always know we're here."

  "They're the only ones who do," the driver said, starting back up the slope.

  The patrol car waited for them as they climbed toward the dirt road.

  "Tommy, maybe we shouldn't do it for a while. Maybe–"

  "Shut up!"

  "What?"

  The soft wet ground around the car was a pool of shadows. The shadows moved. Low throaty sounds, gleaming eyes. A river of dogs, rushing.

  Exit

  The black Corvette glided into a waiting spot behind the smog-gray windowless building. Gene turned off the ignition. Sat listening to the quiet. He took a rectangular leather case from the compartment behind the seats, climbed out, flicking the door closed behind him. He didn't lock the car.

  Gene walked slowly through the rat-maze corridors. The door at the end was unmarked. A heavyset man in an army jacket watched him approach, eyes never leaving Gene's hands.

  "I want to see Monroe."

  "Sorry, kid. He's backing a game now."

  "I'm the one."

  The heavyset man's eyes shifted to Gene's face. "He's been waiting over an hour for you."

  Gene walked past the guard into a long, narrow room. One green felt pool table under a string of hanging lights. Men on benches lining the walls. He could see the sign on the far wall: the large arrow–EXIT–was just beyond Monroe. They were all there: Irish, nervously stroking balls around the green felt surface, waiting. And Monroe. A grossly corpulent thing, parasite-surrounded. Boneless. Only his eyes betrayed life. They glittered greedily from deep within the fleshy rolls of his face. His eight-hundred-dollar black suit fluttered against his body like it didn't want to touch his flesh. His thin hair was flat-black enameled patent-leather, plastered onto a low forehead with a veneer of sweat. His large head rested on the puddle of his neck. His hands were mounds of doughy pink flesh at the tips of his short arms. His smile was a scar and the fear-aura coming off him was jail-house-sharp.

  "You were almost too late, kid."

  "I'm here now."

  "I'll let it go, Gene. You don't get a cut this time." The watchers grinned, taking their cue. "Three large when you win," Monroe said.

  They, advanced to the low, clean table. Gene ran his hand gently over the tightly woven surface, feeling the calm come into him the way it always did. He opened his leather case, assembled his cue.

  Irish won the lag. Gene carefully roughened the tip of his cue, applied the blue chalk. Stepped to the table, holding the white cue ball in his left hand, bouncing it softly, waiting.

  "Don't even think about losing." Monroe's voice, strangely thin.

  Gene broke perfectly, leaving nothing. Irish walked once around the table, seeing what wasn't there. He played safe. The room was still.

  "Seven ball in the corner."

  Gene broke with that shot and quickly ran off the remaining balls. He watched Monroe's face gleaming wetly in the dimness as the balls were racked. He slammed the break-ball home, shattering the rack. And he sent the rest of the balls into pockets gaping their eagerness to serve him. The brightly colored balls were his: he nursed some along the rail, sliced others laser-thin, finessed combinations. Brought them home.

  Irish watched for a while. Then he sat down and looked at the floor. Lit a cigarette.

  The room darkened. Gene smiled and missed his next shot. Irish sprang to the table. He worked slowly and too carefully for a long time. When he was finished, he was twelve balls ahead with twenty-five to go. But it was Gene's turn.

  And Gene smiled again, deep into Monroe's face. Watched the man neatly place a cigarette into the precise center of his mouth, waving away a weasel-in-attendance who leaped to light it for him. And missed again…by a wider margin.

  Irish blasted the balls off the table, waited impatiently for the rack. He smelled the pressure and didn't want to lose the wave. Irish broke correctly, ran the remaining balls and finished the game. EXIT was glowing in the background. As the last ball went down, he turned:

  "You owe me money, Monroe."

  His voice trembled. One of Monroe's men put money in his hand. The fat man spoke, soft and cold: "Would you like to play again"

  "No, I won't play again. I must of been crazy. You would of gone through with it. Yes. You fat, dirty, evil sonofabitch…"

  One of the calmly waiting men hit him sharply under the heart. Others stepped forward to drag him from the room.

  "Let him keep the money," Monroe told them

  Gene turned to gaze silently at the fat man. Almost home…

  "You going to kill me, Monroe?"

  "No, Gene. I don't want to kill you."

  "Then I'm leaving."

  A man grabbed Gene from each side and walked him toward the fat man's chair.

  "You won't do anything like that. Ever again."

  Monroe ground the hungry tip of his bright-red cigarette deep into the boy's face, directly beneath the eye. Just before he lost consciousness, Gene remembered that Monroe didn't smoke.

  He awoke in a grassy plain, facedown. He started to rise and the earth stuck to his torn face.

  His screams were triumph.

  Family Resemblance

  It's easy to find a parking place in the Garment District on a Sunday morning. I locked the Hertzmobile sedan, sweeping the street with my eyes. Empty. A cold, hard wind hawked in off the Hudson. I adjusted the black–wool watch cap until it rested against the bridge of my dark glasses, slipped my gloved hands into the side pockets of my gray arctic coat, and started my march.

  The back alley was clogged with trash, already picked clean by the army of homeless looking for returnable bottles. A wino was sprawled half out of a packing crate, frozen fluid around his open mouth. Working on being biodegradable.

  I found the rust–colored back door. Worked the numbered buttons in the right sequence, checked behind me, and slipped inside. Staircase to my right. One flight down to the basement, four up to the top floor, where they'd be.

  My rubber–soled boots were soundless on the metal stairs. I tested each one before I moved up. No hurry.

  I heard their voices behind the door. Just murmurs, couldn't make out the words.

  I pulled off the watch cap, pocketed the dark glasses, fitted the dark nylon stocking over my face, the big knot at the top making me look taller. Like the lifts in my boots.

  I unsnapped the coat. The Franchi LAW–12 semiautomatic shotgun hung against my stomach, suspended from a rawhide loop around my neck. The barrel was sawed off to fourteen inches, the stock chopped down to a pistol grip. Twelve–gauge magnum, double–0 buckshot–four in the clip, one in the c
hamber. The safety was off. I checked the heavy Velcro brace on my right wrist—the cut—down scattergun kicks hard.

  The door wasn't locked. I stepped inside. The voices went silent.

  I was in a small room, facing three men, one directly in front of me, one to each side, ledger books open on the small table between them. Their eyes locked on the shotgun like it was the answer to all their questions.

  The far tip of the triangle was a fat man with a suety face. White shirt, black suspenders, half–glasses pushed down on his nose. The man on my right was barrel–chested, wearing a red sweatsuit zipped open to show a hairy chest and some gold chains. On my left was a younger guy dressed in one of those slouchy Italian jackets, a pastel T–shirt underneath.

  "Put your hands on the table," I told them. The stocking mask pressed against my lips, changing my voice, but they heard me clear enough. Hands went on the table. The guy on my right sported a heavy diamond on his ring finger. The young guy had a wafer–thin watch on his wrist.

  I let the scattergun drift in a soft are, covering them all, letting them feel the calm.

  "There's no money here today," the fat guy said, just a slight tremor in his voice. It wasn't his first stickup.

  "Shut up," I told him, not raising my voice.

  '"What is this?" the heavyset one asked.

  "I ask the questions, you answer them," I told him.

  "And then?"

  "And then I kill one of you."

  "Why?" the young guy squeaked.

  "That little girl, the one they found strangled in the basement a couple of months ago. They found her when this joint opened up on a Monday morning. You three meet here every Sunday. To cook the books, play games with the IRS, whatever. It doesn't matter. One of you killed her."

  "The cops already checked that out," the fat man said.

  "I'm not the cops."

  "Look, pal—" the guy to my right said.

  "I'm not your pal. Here's the deal. One of you killed her, period—I got no time to argue about it. I don't find out who did it, now, in this room, I blow you all away. Then I'm sure."