Choice of Evil

by Andrew Vachss

  “So how come the Man didn’t shake down the whole place?” I asked him. That’s what happened every time there was a stabbing and the weapon wasn’t recovered at the scene.

  “What would be the point?” Doc responded. “It was weeks old by the time they found it. Whoever did it certainly got rid of it by then. Or took it apart, turned it back into whatever he made it from. Who knows?”

  “Who cares?”

  “You got a point,” Doc agreed. “No way this’ll kick off a race thing—Tower locked in H Block.”

  I just nodded. H Block was all white. Not all AB, true, but all white, for sure. Everyone in there didn’t have the same politics, but they had the same color.

  Same color as Wesley.

  And when I’d sent “blowgun dart” to this super-killer, he’d just nodded from his cyber-hideout. He knew. So I had to play it like he knew it all.

  I was going to get close to him soon. But there’d be bars. Some kind of bars. My hands wouldn’t do it.

  A muscular guy with deep-glazed eyes staggered past us. He bumped into Rusty, knocking the big man’s drawing tablet onto the floor. Rusty didn’t say anything, just bent to pick it up.

  “You got a fuckin’ problem?” the guy asked, speech slurred but fists clenched.

  “There’s no problem,” I told him.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, motherfucker,” he said to me, eyes only on Rusty.

  Before he finished, Trixie was standing next to him, off to the side. “What’s he been drinking?” she asked the waitress.

  “V and V,” the girl said.

  “You’re out of here,” Trixie told the muscular guy.

  “Fuck you, butch.”

  “Step off!” she warned him.

  “I’ll fucking step—”

  Rusty shoved the heavy wood table he was sitting at right into the guy’s knees, driving it so hard you could hear bone snap. The drunk dropped.

  “Goddamn it, Rusty!” Trixie yelled at him. She reached down, hooked the guy’s belt, and dragged him off somewhere. The waitress went with her.

  “What’s a ‘V and V’?” I asked Rusty.

  “Vodka and Vicodin,” he told me. “Lots of fools taking that now. Really gets you wrecked.”

  Freddy Fender’s “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” mocked me from the Plymouth’s speakers as I headed back to my place.

  When I got upstairs, I saw Pansy had Max’s singing bowl on the floor. She was just nosing it around with her snout, not biting it or anything. But she must have worked hard to get it down from the shelf where I’d put it.

  “You like the sound, girl? Is that what you’re trying to do?” I asked her.

  Pansy just looked at me.

  I sat on the floor next to her, worked the wooden whisk until the bowl began to sing.

  And then I went into it.

  When I came back, I had the weapon. A bomb. A bomb built in hell. I knew it was there. I knew I could bring it with me. But I didn’t know if I could detonate it.

  And then there was nothing left.

  I wasn’t worried about walking out of there alive. Without me, the killer couldn’t be.

  “She knows what we’re doing,” Strega whispered at me from her silky bed.

  “So what?”

  “It’s part of her. . . discipline. She has to know.”

  “All right,” I said softly, knowing I was near the edge, dancing with a witch.

  “Now she has to have more.”

  “What?”

  “She has to watch. I’m going to bring her in here. And make her watch us.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You know how I hold her? How I keep her here?”

  “No.”

  “I love her,” Strega said. “And she loves me. I let her. . . here,” she whispered, guiding my hand to between her legs, a moist soft trap.

  “Because you—?”

  “Because she,” the witch said. “Understand? We’re the same. . . some ways. The same. She wouldn’t let a man. . . either. But me. . .”

  “I already know she’s gay.”

  “She’s not,” Strega said, dropping her face, nipping at my cock. “Me either.”

  “Look, I don’t care what you—”

  “She has to watch,” Strega hissed at me, nipping harder. “And, if you want, we could all. . .”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t let her hurt you, my darling. I’ll be right here.”

  “I don’t want her near me—not like that.”

  “Oh, yes you do, baby. My baby. But you’re afraid. You never have to be afraid when I’m here. When I’m alive. Even when I’m not, I’ll always be with you.”

  “Strega,” I asked her, sitting up, tugging at her hair to pull her face away from my cock, “did you ever meet the Gatekeeper?”

  “She has to watch,” the witch said. Like the Gatekeeper herself; always a price.

  “Just. . . watch, right?”

  “If that’s all you—”

  “Just watch,” I told her, surrendering. Hating a piece of myself but staying within the circle surrounding my life. Everything costs. Everybody pays. . . and I’d paid so much to learn even that.

  “Hmmmm. . .”

  “And then you’ll tell me?” I asked, telling myself it would be over soon. And then I’d know. Not why Strega did things, but what she knew. What I needed.

  “Yessss. . .” she whispered.

  Strega disappeared. I lay there, my back against some propped-up pillows, smoking and waiting. Knowing it wasn’t about giving in to Strega, or doing what she wanted. No, whatever it was, she was doing it for me. But she was a witch, and she couldn’t work without her charms.

  Nadine walked in. Nude. I couldn’t see her face in the shadowy light Strega seemed to bring with her as she followed the bigger girl into the room. Strega stood next to Nadine, her right hand somewhere behind the other woman.

  I watched them watch me.

  Strega crawled onto the bed between my legs. Then she stopped, well short of reaching me. “No closer, understand?” she said.

  I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about. Strega was a witch, not a tease. And I was. . . limp, anyway. Frightened. Strega always frightens me. This was worse. There was lightning in the room. No thunder, just the soundless pressure of electricity ready to crackle into life. Or take it.

  Strega got up, went back to where she had been standing. Then Nadine crawled onto the bed. I was frozen. If she. . .

  Nadine stopped, right where Strega had. And stayed there, arching her back as Strega knelt on the floor behind her and took her. Nadine’s eyes gleamed, but they weren’t seeing me. She made a throaty sound. Strega hissed into her. I couldn’t not look at them.

  Nadine let go, exploding inside. Even her overdeveloped arms wouldn’t hold her as her shoulders dropped and her face hit the bed, only inches from me. Strega slithered across Nadine’s back until her mouth was on me.

  “It works now, doesn’t it, baby?”

  I didn’t want it to, but it did.

  Nadine never moved, staying face-down on the red silk sheets. Strega gulped hard—but she didn’t swallow the way she always did. She yanked hard on Nadine’s hair and when the bigger girl’s face came up, Strega kissed her. Deep and long.

  “You’re in her now too,” Strega said when she was done. “I washed your blood. It’s mine. I can give it to whoever I please.”

  I couldn’t move. My spine was frozen. But I’d paid the tolls.

  Trixie approached my table, telling me it was time without saying a word. I got up and followed her to the back room.

  “Incoming,” Xyla said, over her shoulder.

  I watched the screen.

  >>Meet. Now.<<

  where?

  >>ground rules: (1) no “friends”; (2) no weapons<<

  understand

  >>pay phone. corner 23rd and 1st. go there now. one hour. no more. await call. follow instructions.<<

  bringing woman, r
emember?

  I had Xyla type, stalling for time as I thumbed my cellular into life.

  “Hmmmm,” Strega answered.

  “Get ready to ride,” I told her. “Right now. Corner of Twenty-third and First.”

  “We’re ready.”

  “Now!” I told her, hitting the “End” switch just as his response popped up on the screen.

  >>yes. *you* remember. same rules for her.<<

  ok

  >>leave *now* one hour, no more.<<

  The huge digital clock above Xyla’s computer read 02:12. Sure, no traffic at that hour. I’d be able to get where he said on time, no matter where in the city I was. He couldn’t know the woman wasn’t with me already. I told Xyla to type:

  leaving now

  “He’s gone,” she said, fingers tapping impotently.

  In another minute, so was I.

  I knew he had the technology to monitor cellular traffic, but he couldn’t hear me speak face to face. “Pay phone. Twenty-third and First,” I told Clarence as I opened the door to the Plymouth.

  “With you, mahn,” the islander said, strolling over to his own car. They’d all be there, most of them before me.

  I couldn’t afford to be stopped, so I kept well within the limits all the way over. Still, I was there with a good twenty-five minutes to spare. I opened the transmission tunnel and pulled out the ice-cold untraceable pistol. Not for him—in case somebody was using the pay phone.

  But it was deserted. I put the gun back.

  A flame-colored Porsche Boxster roared up across the street from the pay phone. Strega, flying her flag.

  I walked over to her, not feeling his eyes, but believing in them. No way he wouldn’t have the whole terrain covered. I couldn’t see any of my crew, and hoped he couldn’t either. I bent down just as her window lowered.

  “He’s going to call me on that phone,” I told her, nodding in its direction without turning my head.

  “Kiss me,” she commanded.

  Her tongue was fire in my mouth.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She licked the backs of them across the knuckles.

  “Mine is stronger,” she said. “I’ll send her over in a minute.”

  “Then go,” I told her.

  “I’ll never go,” she witch-promised me. “And if you do, I’ll bring you back.”

  Nadine walked across the street to where I was standing at the pay phone. The Porsche roared away.

  “He’s going to call and—”

  “I know,” she said. She was dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans and a pink T-shirt, plain white sneakers and sweatsocks on her feet. If she felt the chill in the night air, she didn’t show it.

  I lit a cigarette.

  “She did that,” Nadine said to me.

  “What?”

  “Burned me. With a cigarette.”

  “She doesn’t smoke. . . .”

  “On purpose. So I would understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “What I did. To. . . my friend. She said if I hurt you she would find me in hell. I had to wear her brand when I met. . . him.”

  “And you just—?”

  “You don’t understand,” Nadine said quietly. “But she does.”

  “I—”

  The phone rang.

  “The woman with you—is she the one?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, knowing I could be talking to a tape recording, not wasting an atom of concentration on the voice.

  “Turn around.”

  I did it. Waited. Nadine didn’t move, so I was looking over her shoulder.

  “You are under observation. Full thermal. Discard all weapons, recording devices, and transmitters now.”

  “Don’t have any,” I told him.

  “See building directly ahead of you to the right? Gray stone. Twenty-nine stories?”

  “Yes.”

  “Security box to right of door. Access code is: thirteen thirty-three thirty-nine zero three. Repeat.”

  “Thirteen. Thirty-three. Thirty-nine. Zero. Three.”

  “Enter building. Summon elevator. Last car on your left. Enter. Follow instructions.”

  I heard a disengagement click!

  “Let’s go,” I told Nadine.

  The building had twin front doors of thick glass, each with a long vertical brass handle. I punched in the numbers. Pulled on the handles. Nothing. The muscles between my shoulders tightened. I took a deep breath through my nose and pushed. The doors opened inward. We walked across a medium-sized lobby with an unattended doorman’s desk. The last elevator to my left was standing open. We stepped inside. As the door closed, I saw a typed note taped to the control panel.

  PRESS → 21-11-19-4

  I did that. The car started to rise. A digital indicator showed each floor as we passed. When it reached 29, it kept on going. Like my old place, I thought. Crawl space. . . off the charts.

  The elevator door opened into an archway. I knew what it was right away. Security gauntlet. The most sophisticated detector made, as sensitive as an MRI. I’d seen one like it before. On the private penthouse floor of a terrified billionaire with enough cash to indulge his paranoia.

  I didn’t waste time worrying about the zipper in my jacket or my belt buckle or. . . anything. He’d trust his machines. I just said, “Come on” to Nadine and started to walk through it.

  The place was operating-room cold. I felt Nadine behind me, her hand fluttering against my shoulder. At the exit end of the archway was a small table, standing just off to the right. The only thing on it was a box about the size of an eight-by-ten photograph. I looked down at it. Greenish glow. I placed my right hand flat, making sure my fingerprints would register. I looked around. A tiny red light was standing above a door a few feet away. Even in the murky light, I could tell that the door was built hard and heavy. I could feel Nadine’s breath against my neck. It was ragged but not frightened. More like. . . excited.

  The red light blinked off. I walked to the door. Couldn’t see a knob. I pushed gently. It opened, swinging free. I stepped inside, Nadine so close now she almost shoved past me.

  The floor was carpeted. I could feel it, but I couldn’t see it. A single strand of blue neon tubing ran all around the walls. That was the only light. I could make out two metal chairs, a coffee table between them, standing lengthwise so the chairs were close together. On the table, a long narrow tray full of sand, like one of those miniature Buddhist gardens.

  I took the chair to the right, furthest from the door, showing him I knew I couldn’t get out if he didn’t want me to. Nadine sat down next to me. The blue neon amped up just enough for me to see what was in front of us. A wall of thick plastic, like they use in liquor stores, only this one had no money slot. Lexan, probably. I could make out a shape behind it. Seated. Impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.

  “The instructions I taped to the inside of the elevator car—did you bring them with you?” a voice asked. A man’s voice, coming from speakers somewhere on my side of the glass. No way to tell if it was his own or an electronically altered version.

  “No. I left them there,” I said.

  “Good. If your. . . friends overheard the coordinates to enter the building and try the elevator, I presume they will push the same sequence. It has been reprogrammed.”

  “They won’t—”

  “If they do that,” the voice continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “the doors will seal. And unless they came equipped with gas masks, they are already dead. The stairway is secured against anything other than low-yield explosive, and I have it on both visual and audio right in front of me. That option is closed as well.”

  “I played this square,” I told him. “I’m alone. And unarmed. You must have your own way out of here.”

  “Of course.”

  “So. You want to do business or I wouldn’t be here, right?”

  “Yes. Questions first.”

  “Mine or yours?”

&nb
sp; “Mine. Why is the woman with you?”

  “Not now,” I told him.

  “You have no options,” the voice said.

  “Yeah, I do. If I gave a damn about dying, I wouldn’t have looked for you in the first place.”

  “I would have found you.”

  “I know that now, but I didn’t when I started. I know what you want. You can’t get it snuffing me. I’m sure you got gas jets in the ceiling. Probably got electricity in these chairs too. I got the message, pal. I’m surrounded. It’s no new experience for me. Your questions have nothing to do with her. She’s here because she wants to be. Ask her whatever you want. . . when you and me are done.”

  “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “No? You think you know me. You don’t. You think you know Wesley. You don’t know him either, for all your fucked-up ‘research.’ Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. What’s your problem? We can’t leave. And we can’t hurt you. Do what you want—I don’t give a good goddamn.”

  The voice was quiet after that. Nadine twitched in her chair. I probably shouldn’t have said anything about electricity. I breathed through my nose, shallow.

  Time passed.

  “I thought you would have wanted one of your cigarettes by now,” the voice said, like he had all the time in the world. “By the way, purely as a matter of interest, what brand did Wesley smoke?”

  “Dukes,” I told him. “Same as me.”

  “Dukes? I am not familiar with—”

  “New York has a humongous tax on smokes,” I said. “Lots of states do. Contraband creates opportunity. There’s major traffic in bringing them up from North Carolina. Tobacco country. ‘Dukes,’ get it? You buy them from a wholesale jobber down there, truck them up here, sell them for fifty percent retail, and everybody scores. Doesn’t matter what the brand name is—Dukes is what they call smuggled smokes. Me, I smoke whatever’s on the truck that month, understand?”

  “Certainly. Nothing in your profile indicates a connoisseur’s taste, even in something so mundane.”

  His voice wasn’t anything like Wesley’s. The voice coming through the speakers was machine-altered. Wesley was a machine.

  I waited.

  “I am in no particular hurry,” the voice said, picking up on my thoughts. “Even if your. . . friends have this building under surveillance. . . even if you have notified the authorities. . . I am able to leave undetected.”