Choice of Evil

by Andrew Vachss

  It had been, what? Six, seven years. But this was her time. If the number was still good. . .

  I found a pay phone and pushed the buttons, remembering you needed an area code to reach Queens from Manhattan now. It rang only twice before it was picked up.

  “Hhhmmm?” is what it sounded like. It was enough.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “I knew you would come.”

  “I—”

  “I know,” she said in her witchy voice. “Now, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come,” she whispered.

  I was driving through a time warp. Nothing had changed. The same car, the same streets. And, when the Plymouth’s headlights picked it out, the same house. I drove around to the back, the way I always had. The garage door was closed. The house was dark. I got out, walked to the back door.

  It opened while I was still on my way. She was wearing a red slip dress the exact same shade as her flaming hair. Even the spike heels and the lipstick matched. As if she’d had years to shop for this minute.

  “Hello, Jina,” I said.

  She stepped in to me, her face in my neck, hands locked around me. “Say my name,” she whispered. “My real name. You didn’t come for Jina. She’s not for you.”

  “Strega,” I said.

  She cooed, licked the side of my face like a cat. A silk-tongued cat, but one with fangs and claws. Then she turned and grabbed my hand, leading me through the house to that ice sculpture of a living room I’d spent so much time in. Terror time. The chair was still there, too. She pulled my jacket off my shoulders. I sat down. She went off somewhere. I closed my eyes.

  “Here,” she said. On her knees next to the chair, holding my cigarettes and matches.

  I lit the smoke, blew a jet out my nose.

  “You look the same,” I told her.

  “I will always look the same to you,” she said. “You know that. But that’s not what you came for. I know you. Tell me what you want.”

  “It’s a long story. How much of it do you—?”

  She climbed into my lap, snuggled against me. “Remember what we did, right in this chair?” she asked softly.

  “Yes. How could I—?”

  “Forget? I don’t know. You’re a man. I don’t know what men forget. I know what I don’t forget. You saved my Mia. You found Scotty’s picture. And you made that. . . filth dead. While I watched. I sleep with you inside me. Not inside my heart. You don’t want my heart. Not the part of it that’s left. That’s only for Mia.”

  Mia was her daughter. That’s how I’d met Strega. She was being threatened. By some freak who’d been watching her jog in the nearby park, saying he was going to do something to her child if she didn’t. . . do what he wanted. Julio remembered me from the joint, and he called, gave me the job. He didn’t want it done by the Family, so he needed a mercenary. One he could trust, is what he said. Made sense.

  There wasn’t much to the job. Max and I found the freak. We hurt him. He didn’t like pain. We promised him much more if he ever came near the woman again. He never did.

  But then it whirlpooled. Her daughter had a pal, a little kid named Scotty. And somebody in a clown suit had taken a Polaroid of Scotty being raped. Scotty thought they had captured his soul, and his therapist couldn’t convince him otherwise. Strega hired me to get that picture back. And she helped too. Witch’s help. We had sex in this chair. She didn’t want to use anything but her mouth. And I had to tell her she was a good girl every time she was done. I should have known then, but I was too focused on staying alive. The maggot who had taken Scotty’s picture was half of a husband-and-wife team. And they’d hired muscle—a White Night gang I knew from Inside. I had to walk that tightrope. Then I had to sit in a room with a human so foul that killing him would have given me an orgasm. And listen while he spooled out evil, showing me how pedophiles computer-networked their traffic in trophies. . . pictures of raped babies. It ended in murder and arson. Later, two more fires: one in Strega’s hands as she burned the Polaroid I’d found in front of Scotty; one in her eyes as she told me the truth about her Uncle Julio.

  It was years later when that score got squared. The vicious old gangster had used me once and gotten away with it, but he went to the well once too often. He started it with Wesley, then he couldn’t make it stop. So he tried to middle me, figuring the ice-man would kill the messenger and forget the message. But it was Julio who went down—his neck broken on a bench near La Guardia, Strega watching from the car as it happened.

  I don’t know how she did some of the things she did. But I knew her word was platinum, her heart was steel, and her touch terrifying.

  So I told her the truth.

  “I still don’t understand,” she said when I was finished. “You already have the money, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So. . . Ah, it’s the woman. This woman. Your woman. The one who got killed?”

  “I. . . think so.”

  “You’re a very religious man, aren’t you, Burke? It’s always in you. This isn’t for love. Did you love her?”

  “I. . . guess I did.”

  “But you can’t bring her back, no matter what you—”

  “Did you ever hear anything about. . . a Gatekeeper?”

  “Oh God, not that thing. Yes, you crazy, dangerous man, I’ve ‘heard.’ Do you believe it?”

  “No. I just—”

  “It’s only for the evil,” she said softly. “Or those who did evil. It’s from the same root. The revenge root. Are you saying you loved an evil woman? Is that why you came to me?”

  “No. She wasn’t evil. The opposite.”

  “So even if there is a Gatekeeper, what good would it do you?”

  “None, I guess. I just. . . heard about it. And I thought I’d ask you.”

  “Want me to kiss you?” she asked, hand drifting into my lap.

  “No.”

  “I know you don’t. But someone made that mistake, didn’t they? With a lot less evidence than this, huh?” she whispered, flicking her long thumbnail just under the head of my cock. The response was a match in gasoline, but she just kept holding me, gently, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes. That happened.”

  “Some woman thought you wanted her, but you didn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s involved too?”

  “I. . . think so.”

  “But she doesn’t know you?”

  “No.”

  “Know how I know? That she doesn’t know you?”

  “No.”

  She grabbed my cock around the shaft, squeezed hard, made one of her little sounds deep in her throat. “I asked you what you wanted. That never works on you. It hurts you to say you want something. Anything. So you never say. But if I asked you. . . if I said, ‘Could I?’ you would have said something different, huh?”

  I didn’t answer. It was like it always was with her. She frightened me past fear.

  “Some men like to be asked. Begged, even. If I got down on my knees and begged, would you like that?”

  “No.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? It would be a very pretty sight, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sarcasm isn’t pretty,” I told her.

  “Ummmm,” she moaned. “I don’t beg, and you don’t take orders. It’s so hard, huh?” She squeezed my cock again, chuckling, enjoying her magic tricks. Like always.

  “You want to know why I came?” I asked her.

  “You want me to stop playing with you?”

  “No. It feels. . . nice. I just want. . . something else. Like I said.”

  “You can have it,” she promised, breath soft against my face. “Whatever it is. You know that.”

  “The way this started—the drive-by—I learned some things about that. It was a hit. Somebody was deliberately taken out, the rest of it was just cover. The guy who ordered the hit was Gutterball Felestrone. The dead man was Lonnie Cork. . . ‘Corky,’ they called him.”

 
“So? Gutterball’s with the Donatelli crew. And they’re part of the—”

  “Yeah, I know all that. Listen for a minute, okay? The way I heard it, when Gutterball made the. . . arrangements, it was on the phone. And the guy he thought he was talking to—the hit man—it was Wesley.”

  “Wesley’s—”

  “Right. But he’s the key to all this.”

  “How could he be, my poor baby? All Wesley is, is a ghost. A rumor. People talk about him in the street like he was a god, but he was a killer, that’s all.”

  “That’s not all he was,” I told her. “I know. I know. . . him. We came up together.”

  She nibbled at the carotid artery in my neck, waiting.

  “Look,” I said, “here’s what I need to know: Is it true? All I got is a handful of rumor. I don’t even know if the stuff about Gutterball is the real thing. Maybe it’s just cop-talk bullshit.”

  “Ah. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you could find out some other—”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Or I would have.”

  “Are you afraid?” she asked me.

  “I’m always afraid,” I told her.

  “I know. I didn’t mean. . . that. I mean. . . this. Of this. You don’t think Wesley’s alive, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Because, you know, it’s true, some say he’s not gone. That he never died. That he’s still. . . working. Some even think he’s the one doing all this. . . killing now.”

  “But not you.”

  “No. If Wesley was still here, I’d know it.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “I already said I would. But you have to trade.”

  “Trade what? First you say you’ll—”

  “I swore I would always protect you,” she hissed, “and I will. But you have to let me do it my way. My way, the way I know. I’ll get what you want—it won’t be hard. I have all the wires. But I need something. . . need you to do something.”

  “What?”

  “I need you in me. I need to taste you. So sweet. It banishes the. . . I’m not going to tell you. I want to taste you again.”

  “All right.”

  “Yes. And I want her too. I want to see her.”

  “Who?”

  “This woman who doesn’t know you.”

  “Why would you—”

  “Ssshhh,” she said, holding her fingers against my lips. “You don’t ask now. Two things. For what you want. Will you do them? Do them both?”

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “Do one now,” she said, her mouth dropping onto me.

  Pansy and I watched first light come, sitting together. I wondered if I’d ever watch it come with a woman next to me. I knew Strega would do whatever she promised. She was a woman without boundaries, but she hated liars. In her mind, “they” were all liars. I knew who “they” were. . . . It was a secret she’d shared with me, and I never with her, but we were the same. She knew I lied. Knew it was part of what I did. But I didn’t lie to her, and I guess that kept the wolfpack of her witchery at bay.

  I remembered one of the first things the Prof taught me Inside. “Nothing be strong if it don’t play long, Schoolboy. Insistent, persistent, and consistent, that’s the train you got to ride.”

  I didn’t know why I was doing this anymore.

  “You go there, now, okay?”

  “Where, Mama?”

  “Girl who eat here call. Her place. Now, okay?”

  “I’m rolling,” I told her.

  Broad daylight, but I moved the Plymouth through the badlands without attracting even a glance. Just another rustbucket on its way to one of the dozens of bootleg, no-license repair joints in that part of Bordertown—no big thing.

  Mama had to mean the same place I’d found Xyla the last time. But I thought they wouldn’t open until it was time for the supper crowd.

  Sure enough, when I pulled into the parking lot, it was deserted.

  I got out, unsure of myself. But before I could make a move, Trixie came out a side door I didn’t know was there, and made a waving motion at me. I walked over to where she was standing, as evenly balanced as if she was tuned to the earth’s rotation. The way Max stood.

  Xyla was at her computer chair, but the screen was blank in front of her.

  “It’s the screen-saver,” she said over her shoulder by way of explanation. “He came back. There’s a file. But I haven’t opened it. Wait a minute, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  She tapped some keys. The screen came to life. “It was all encrypted, but this is as far as I went,” she said. On the screen, I saw:

  Your ID accepted. Dialogue will now commence. A file is attached. *Warning!* If any attempt is made to copy this file, to print it, or to enter it in any way, it will vanish. Further, be advised that it will appear in chroma-blue, rendering it impossible to photograph. Further, understand that, once opened, it will remain on screen only long enough to be read at an appropriate speed. It will then vanish. When it disappears, you will be required to furnish certain information in order to see the next transmission. I estimate approximately twelve (12) transmissions before you have viewed the total. The transmissions were originally not intended for publication until my death. However, I am now prepared for that death, metaphorically speaking. And I expect you to aid therein. All will become clear as you read. I am certain whoever sent the original contact messages on your behalf will tell you that there is no technological means to determine if other individuals view the screen along with you. This same individual will tell you that my own expertise in this area far exceeds their own. View the following *alone*. It is for your eyes only. When the screen clears, you may summon your confederate(s), as some cyber-communication will be required. When ready, open the attached file.

  “You want me to open it?” Xyla asked.

  “If I understand him right, something’s going to show up then? Something I can read?”

  “Yeah. But not copy. Or even take a picture of. You have to scroll down, like this,” she showed me, tapping an arrow key, “to read it. Better do it pretty quick—I don’t know what ‘appropriate’ reading speed means to someone like him, but I can guarantee, if you try and scroll backward, you’re gonna lose it all, understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. When you’re ready, just hit this key,” she said, pointing. Then she got up and left the room, leaving me alone.

  I took a deep breath. Lit a cigarette, grateful for the empty ashtray someone had placed right next to Xyla’s machine table. Then I hit the key. The screen danced for a good long minute, then it turned white. Words popped up—in some shade of blue I’d never seen before.

  Any moderately discerning individual could deconstruct the failures of Leopold and Loeb simply through perusal of the tabloids of that era. Yellow journalism notwithstanding, there *was* no “Leopold and Loeb.” There was a “Leopold,” and there was a “Loeb.” The media created the illusion of “oneness.” Ironically, that illusion originated in a delusion of the participants. A shared delusion. Folie à deux, the psychiatrists call it.

  [Of course, these are the self-same psychiatrists who call child molestation “pedophilia.” That same flock of politically driven sheep who change their own bible—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. . . or, as they term it so worshipfully, the “DSM”—as the dictates of grantsmanship command. At one time, they characterized homosexuality as a “mental disorder,” subject to the profession’s varied and sundry “treatments,” all of which were doomed to fail. Today, homosexuality is viewed as a “life-style,” an equally stupid misunderstanding of reality. In truth, homosexuality is genetic. Its manifestations may be more or less syntonic with the individual so marked, but that is internal. Only the behavior is external.]

  Christ, I thought to myself. That’s what it’s been about all along, huh? But I kept scrolling, reading fast, knowing I’d have to remembe
r it later.

  Forgive the digression. A mind such as mine multi-tasks constantly—insights simply fly off the diamond-faceted surface of my intellect. And because insights have value only in proportion to their dissemination. . . this journal.

  A brief word about the journal itself. My art demands egolessness. Hubris has ruined many aspirants to greatness. And as I aspire even higher—to nothing less than uniqueness—egotism is not permitted to intrude upon my work. No “Please catch me before I kill again!” notes to the police; no bombastic letters to newspapers; no “unconscious” clues left at the scene of my crimes.

  What was this lunatic talking about? He’s a goddamned specialist at writing letters to the newspapers. . . . I hit the scroll key before I got lost in that thought.

  To the world, I am a criminal. A professional. And in my specialty, anonymity and success are inextricably intertwined.

  But I am, above all else, an artist. Where is the ego in art? That has long concerned me. Should the true artist be satisfied with his art? Or must he share it with others, subject it to their critical appraisal, and await trepidatiously their biased and agenda’ed response?

  The answer continues to elude me. So I compromise. This journal is a meticulous record of my art. As matters now stand, it will be released, automatically, upon my death. Should I change my thinking on the subject, it could be released sooner. For now, it shall remain covert.

  Am I replicating the mistake of so many others who have walked this road before me unsuccessfully? Am I creating evidence to be used against me in some future trial, as though I were a demented mail-bomber or religious fanatic? No. Rest assured, access to this journal will occur only upon my express consent. The encryption codes are known only to me, locked in my perfect memory, never put to paper. Any attempt to access this computer will crash the hard drive. Any “recovery” software will yield only gibberish. And a random program designed to reveal the password would require a mainframe running at capacity for approximately 7.44 years to locate its target.

  Of course, all of that is secondary to the vial of sulfuric acid inside this very computer, its trigger set to discharge the contents should any unauthorized intrusion be attempted.