Sacrifice b-6

by Andrew Vachss

  "Luke is a patient, I'm a physician." Meaning she knew the whole story.

  I lit a smoke as the waiter came to clear away the plates. Noticed Mama didn't offer Teresa anything.

  "Lily tell you how I fit in?"

  Teresa let her gaze trail across Mama's face. "There are…confidentiality issues. If Mrs. Wong would…"

  "Mama is my family," I told her. "I have no secrets from her." Mama smiled— at the truth and at the lie.

  Teresa watched my face. I dialed sincerity right up into my eyes. Waited.

  She took a breath. "Lily said you were her friend. That you specialized in some sort of currency transfers…she wasn't specific. And she said you could be trusted."

  "She tell you I was in the middle of a goddamned war between her and one of her sisters?"

  "Yes. Wolfe."

  "Yeah, Wolfe. And this Wolfe has a pack, understand? I'm about out of time. What I need is to have you talk to her. Let her see where things are. Back her off a bit."

  "I'm on shaky ground with that," she said. "I can't reveal information about a patient."

  "She doesn't have to know your name— she'll play square."

  "You think if she believes Luke is close to recovery, she'll give him more time."

  I dragged deep on the cigarette. Mama's face was bland, like she didn't understand English.

  "Wolfe's gonna give somebody some time, Doc. Somebody has to pay. I know that's not your department, but that's the game. I'm no psychologist, but I know Luke wasn't born like he is, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Somebody did something to him. Something bad. You go far enough, you'll find out, yes?"

  "Probably. Not for sure."

  "That's what I need you to tell Wolfe. Just like that."

  "I don't understand what good that will do."

  "Wolfe's a hunter. That's what she does. Sometimes she does it by trading, you understand? Gang rape, four punks involved, okay? The evidence is weak…dark in that alley, hard to make a stand-up ID, like that…but they nail one of them— say with a DNA match. The rest are gonna walk. Rape's a B felony here: twenty-five max on top. So she offers the one freak she has cold maybe four-to-twelve…and he rolls over on the others, nails them down."

  "Yes, I know. Plea bargaining."

  "No, you don't know…not the way Wolfe plays it. When she deals, it's a bargain for the victim, not the rapist. She'll take any case to trial, go the limit. She makes a deal, it's gotta be a good one."

  "So…"

  "So whatever Luke did, he was just the messenger. The freaks who turned him out, Wolfe'd take them in exchange, see?"

  "Yes. All right, tell her to call…"

  "That's not the way it's done. I'll bring her here. You'll talk to her here."

  "Why not just…?"

  "I think I know Wolfe, how she'll act. But if I'm wrong, if she won't play, then I'll take her away …she won't find this place, she won't know your name."

  I ground out my cigarette, waiting for her answer.

  She got up to leave. Turned to speak to me. "I am treating a patient. A seriously disturbed patient who also happens to be a child. If someone shows up in my office…wherever that is…and I believe it to be in my client's interests to discuss the matter, I would do that."

  "Thanks."

  She offered her hand. I shook it. "Goodbye, Mrs. Wong," she said to Mama.

  Mama inclined her head a fraction of an inch.

  Teresa went out the back, one of Mama's waiters just behind her.

  95

  I took the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, heading for Queens. Shoved a cassette into my tape player. Judy Henske. Making a comeback now, playing clubs on the Coast. She wasn't back in the studio yet— the bootleg tape cost me fifty bucks. Fucking thieves. It was like she'd never been away-still had all the chops-wailing, growling, cooing at the crowd, owning the audience. Shining her torch. "Duncan and Brady," her own take on "StagoLee." Perfect. The Plymouth hit one of those lunar craters they call potholes here— I just caught the tail end of some Primo Bitch piece I hadn't heard before.

  I've had just about enough of your love

  It's time to take it on the road

  It started out with a hug. darlin'

  But now it's a stranglehold

  You say you've been saving for our future

  You say you got some Master Plan

  Well, you can keep your Social Security, sonny

  What I need now is a man

  I listened to the end-tape hiss, thinking about the waiter in Mama's joint, the one following Teresa. Sword or shield?

  96

  I found a pay phone on Queens Boulevard. They put her through.

  "This is Wolfe."

  "It's me. Could you spare a few minutes to talk to me about something?"

  "You don't want to come here?"

  "No."

  "Remember where we last had lunch?"

  "Sure."

  "One-fifteen, more or less, okay?"

  "Okay. Remember what I brought you— last time we ate there?"

  "Sure."

  "Can you bring it with you?"

  "Why?"

  "I'll explain."

  "I'll see."

  97

  They were in the same place, Wolfe and Lola. I sat down, ordered another chef's salad. It wasn't much— the restaurant's produce buyer had gotten to the market after the Koreans that day.

  "You bring it?" I asked her.

  "Tell me why you want it."

  "Okay with you, I talk like this…?" Eyes on Lola.

  "Yes. In fact, it's the only way."

  "You looked in the bag, right?"

  She nodded, not saying anything.

  "And you took it apart real careful, one pin at a time, analyzed what you found inside?"

  Nodded again.

  "No baby?"

  "Chicken parts," Lola said. Caught a warning look from Wolfe.

  "I need it back. You probably tagged it, so you'll have to put something else in its place in the evidence locker."

  Wolfe pushed her salad aside, lit a smoke. Raised her eyebrows to ask why.

  "The people who it belongs to…they want it back. You opened it, you know what it is. These aren't people I can play with. It was evidence of the homicide, I wouldn't say anything."

  Wolfe pulled on her smoke, thinking. Lola scanned the room over my shoulder.

  "You get the divers yet?" I asked her.

  "Couple, three days," she said.

  "What I asked for…?"

  "Your turn to pay the check," she said.

  98

  Lola opened the trunk of her Reatta. I transferred the package to the Plymouth.

  "Is she married?" I asked, nodding my head toward Wolfe, sitting in the front seat.

  Lola held her finger to her lips in a "ssssh" gesture.

  99

  Back in my office, I took a look. Carefully unwrapped the layers of plastic, bracing myself for the smell. It didn't come.

  The juju bag looked like it hadn't been touched. Somehow smaller than when I'd first seen it, not as menacing lying on my desk.

  Pansy poked her nose over the desktop, trying to see what I was doing. I told her to go to her place. She ignored me. Snarled— a higher pitch than I'd heard before.

  I still didn't want to touch it.

  100

  There's places even zombies won't go. I walked to the station at Chambers Street, slipped into the underground. Dropped a token into the slot. The Exit door was propped open— most of the citizens just walked through without paying. Social protest, like the yuppies who throw Israeli shekels into the Exact Change baskets on the highway. Sure.

  It didn't look like rain, but I carried a little red umbrella— the kind you can compress to baton size. A real piece of junk— so cheap that one of the ribs had worked itself loose— one pull and it would come right out in my hand. The tip was real sharp.

  At West Fourth, I changed to the F train. Got a seat next to an old m
an who looked like he snorted interferon— pinch-faced, thinning hair nicely parted at the back to reveal dime-sized dandruff flakes. He opened a copy of the Times, spreading it across my face. His hands were liver-spotted, nails long and yellowing, curving at the tips. He smelled like his life.

  The train picked up speed, rocking on the rusty tracks, overloaded with human cargo, paradise for the rubbers and the gropers. And the boys who carried box cutters to slice wallets free of clothing. If the air conditioning was on, it never had a chance.

  The old man slammed a sharp elbow into my chest, shoving for more room, making high-pitched grunting noises, rattling his newspaper, flakes flying off his skull like greasy snow.

  A good-sized Puerto Rican woman got on at Thirty-fourth, a plastic shopping bag from a drugstore chain in one hand, using it as a purse. She was wearing a white uniform of some kind, white flats with thick soles, white stockings. Coming from work. She worked her way over to a pole in the subway car, leaned against it gratefully.

  I saw my chance.

  Caught her eye, rose to my feet, my back to the rest of the humans, bowing slightly, gesturing with my hand like an usher showing a customer to her seat. There was maybe eighteen inches of seat showing— she dropped into it just as the vicious old man slid over to close the gap. She pancaked him like he was Play-Doh— the Times went flying, a thin shriek came out of his mouth. After that, they fought in silence.

  My money was on the right horse. The old man finally extricated himself, stumbled off to another part of the subway car, reeking hate.

  The Surrogate Ninja Body Slam— it doesn't always work, but when it does, it's a thing of beauty.

  101

  I got off the train at Rockefeller Center, stepped out and walked back along Sixth to Forty-second. It wouldn't be dark for hours, but clots of teenagers were already on patrol. "Driving the Deuce," they call it, cruising Times Square, eyes lusting into the windows full of things: electronic gear, overdose jewelry, flashy clothes, battery-powered body parts. Down here, the only culture is Cargo Cult.

  I had more pieces to put together before I brought Wolfe to meet Luke. The library had signs all around— the Campaign to Combat Illiteracy.

  They should have asked me to be a consultant. I learned to read, really read, in prison. The Prof told me you could steal more money with a briefcase than with a pistol. I know that's true— but I never seem to get it right.

  When I came back outside, it was just getting dark. I called Bonita at the place she works— told her I'd come by later, take her home.

  102

  Almost four in the morning when I stepped out of Bonita's building. Lighter, not happier. She'd made sweet little come-noises in her bed, following the script.

  I lit a cigarette to scan the street, feeling the night shift. I'm not usually a target, but predators work the same way lonely losers do in singles bars— the closer it gets to quitting time, the more desperate they are to make a connection.

  Almost to my car when a van prowled up on my right. I stepped behind the fender of a parked car, reaching inside my jacket when I saw what the van was tracking…a woman in a red dress slit up one side, walking unsteadily, like she was drunk. A street snatch is high-risk— maybe the van held a pack of gambling beasts, out to gang-rape Lady Luck. Or maybe I spent too much time on the dark side, manipulated by memories.

  "Linda! Wait for me!" I yelled, loud enough to make her turn around.

  The van took off.

  103

  Still wasn't tired when I got back to the office. I gave Pansy a couple of pints of chocolate chip ice cream I'd picked up at an all-night deli, smoked a cigarette, read through Michelle's letters again.

  I flicked the channels on the black&white set, ignoring Pansy's annoyance when I couldn't find any pro wrestling. Finally settled for Mayberry, R.F.D. Fell asleep wishing Andy Griffith had been the Sheriff last time I'd stuck up a liquor store.

  104

  In the morning, I thought it through again. Stepping back, watching the edges. I had the bag. Wolfe had agreed to the meeting. It didn't feel dangerous to me. I could square it all up, get out, go back to taking off Carlos.

  Time to roll, right? Get on with it.

  Something holding me back.

  Maybe I wasn't scared enough, yet.

  105

  At Mama's, waiting for Teresa. After my soup, Luke brought out a deck of cards, asked me if I wanted to play.

  "What do you know how to play, kid?"

  "Gin. Max taught me."

  We played a few hands. Played a few more before I realized the little bastard was no amateur.

  "How many cards left outside your hand?" I asked him.

  "Twenty-six," he said, guilelessly.

  "Where are they?"

  "You have ten, there's one up, so there's fifteen in the deck."

  "What are the cards, Luke?"

  "If I tell you, then you'll know what's in my hand, kind of."

  "Yeah. Like you kind of know what's in mine, right?"

  "Right!" He smiled brightly.

  "So you always beat Max?"

  "No. Sometimes, it doesn't matter what you know. Some of it's just luck."

  "Un-huh. You like it better when it's not luck?"

  "Yes. Mama's going to teach me another game. Blackjack."

  Mama loomed over my shoulder, putting her finger to her lips, smiling indulgently at her prize pupil. "Luke, remember what Mama tell you…blackjack a secret, yes?"

  "I don't like secrets," the boy said, his voice dropping a register, eyes flickering.

  "It's okay, Luke," I said, shooting a warning look at Mama. "There's no secrets here. Nobody's going to give you secrets. Mama was only playing."

  "Playing?"

  "Yeah. Like joking. Understand?"

  His eyes flickered again. "Can I have some duck, Mama?"

  Mama only serves duck about once a week— says it's a real pain to prepare properly.

  "Sure, baby. Maybe some prawns too?"

  "Yes!"

  "Good baby," Mama said, reaching over to muss his hair.

  106

  While Teresa was downstairs with Luke, Max came in. Sat across from me, watching.

  The phone rang in the back. Mama came to the table. "For you," she said. "Sunny man."

  "It's me," I said, picking up the receiver.

  "It is me too, mahn. With some news for you. I spoke to those people. Tomorrow night, you know Corona?"

  "Yes."

  "On Astoria Boulevard, city side of Ninety-fourth, a few blocks down, you will see an old drive-in. Hamburger joint, abandoned now. Drive there, midnight. They will meet you, take you to her."

  "Okay."

  "You have her property, mahn?"

  "Yes."

  "Sure. You understand."

  "Can I bring a friend?"

  "You are, mahn. Clarence will meet you there too."

  "Clarence is afraid of those people."

  "Everyone is, mahn."

  107

  I explained it all to Max. Slowly. Usually, he gets things as sharp as anyone who hears, but he was playing it dumb. Like he does when he doesn't like what I'm saying. He kept trying to deal himself in. I kept shaking my head.

  Mama came back, sat down with us, a paper bag in her hands.

  "Bonds all gone," she said.

  "That was damn fast— you score ten points?"

  "Not all. Three hundred for us."

  "Elroy gets a hundred, Mama. But it's still a giant hit."

  Mama bowed. Put the money on the table, shuffled it like a casino dealer, spun it into piles. Three stacks, a hundred grand in each. Brushed one to the side, Elroy's money. I counted off five grand, handed it to Max. He gets ten points for deliveries. That's what he does, deliveries. Guaranteed. I made the signs for Elroy. Max's thin lips curled— he clapped his first two fingers hard against his thumb, like jaws snapping. I knew what he meant: yak yak yak. He pointed at me, made the sign of driving a car. He'd have to borrow m
ine to make the delivery. I nodded okay. Then he made the sign of dialing a phone— also my responsibility to tell the maniac Max was on his way. Okay again.