Haiku

by Andrew Vachss

  ALSO BY ANDREW VACHSS

  The Burke Series

  Flood

  Strega

  Blue Belle

  Hard Candy

  Blossom

  Sacrifice

  Down in the Zero

  Footsteps of the Hawk

  False Allegations

  Safe House

  Choice of Evil

  Dead and Gone

  Pain Management

  Only Child

  Down Here

  Mask Market

  Terminal

  Another Life

  Other Novels

  Shella

  The Getaway Man

  Two Trains Running

  Short-Story Collections

  Born Bad

  Everybody Pays

  for …

  Anna Politkovskaya

  Born: August 30, 1958

  Profession: Investigative Journalist.

  Assassinated: October 7, 2006

  Legacy: The Immortality of Truth.

  Prologue

  Just before dawn. Bitterly corrosive cold has descended, creating a bleak concrete wasteland. The street is deserted except for a man watching the ruins of a recently burned-out pawnshop. The man is as motionless as the dead-eyed lamppost beneath which he stands, a single blotch of shadow in a street of many.

  The firefighters have been gone for hours, leaving the ravaged building slathered in yellow plastic WARNING signs.

  The man is wrapped in layers of discarded carpet roughly stitched together to form a sleeveless coat. His head is covered by a hooded sweatshirt worn over a dark woolen watch cap.

  Another ten minutes pass before the man crosses the street, moving with such economy of motion that he seems to have suddenly materialized out of the ashes.

  Again, the man becomes a shadow, one among many.

  As dawn begins to threaten the darkness, the man makes his way to what was once the edge of the burned-out building. Spotting a cast-iron bathtub, he lifts one end without apparent effort before gently lowering it back to the ground a few feet from its original position.

  The man flows to his knees, and thrusts his hands deeply into the newly exposed bed of ashes. A faint gleam attracts his eye—a stainless-steel appliance of some kind. He pushes it aside, quickly covers it with ashes, and continues to dig.

  Light from the east is beginning to slice between buildings as the man stands up. His hands disappear under his coat.

  As if propelled by the throbbing sunlight at his back, the man starts walking.

  By the time he reaches an abandoned pier, the winter sun is blazing in a cloudless sky. The man seems to disappear into the pier itself.

  In a capsule far too small to be called a “room,” the man shrugs off his outer garments and examines his new acquisition: a hand-crafted notebook fully wrapped in oxblood leather, fastened by a tongue-and-groove of the same material. Its heavy pages are slightly yellowed, confirming its status as a thing of beauty from another time.

  The man examines each page, using a long thumbnail to separate those that had been age-welded together. Finding the notebook devoid of writing, the man nods as if acknowledging an inescapable truth.

  His hands find a slitlike indentation in the wall of his capsule, from which he deftly removes a small jar of India ink and a stylus created from a honed piece of iron. He extracts a tiny scrap of paper from within his coat. Nodding again, he transcribes from the paper to the notebook. Despite the pitch-darkness, his hand moves with confident strokes.

  His task completed, the man tears the scrap into minute fragments. Satisfied, he inserts the notebook into a leather pouch sewn inside his coat. It fits as if created for that very purpose.

  Only then does the man lie on his back, pull the coat over him as a blanket, and close his eyes.

  Sleep comes instantly.

  1

  “This is the big one, Ho,” the man wearing three raincoats whispered to me, his thin, reedy voice steeled with the absolute certainty possessed only by a true believer. He did not face me directly as he spoke—his eyes were focused somewhere beyond the night’s horizon.

  Every winter, Michael lines his raincoats with discarded tickets he collects from the floor of a nearby OTB parlor. He armors himself with what they symbolize … that all the world gambles, but most do so without skill. This is the only warmth he needs.

  Michael sees himself as a master of logic, scornful of “amateurs.” His faith is as unshakable as his contempt for those who worship the false idol they call “Luck.”

  That his logic is founded on faith would never occur to him. And I have never pointed it out. It is not my place to do so. I renounced all such conduct long ago, and I have stayed true to my vow.

  “Yes?” I said. All I said.

  “It’s a mortal lock,” he assured me. Michael had once enjoyed high status in the financial services industry. But that was when his mind was in perfect synchronicity with his profession, a profession that requires total control of one’s own emotions in order to fully exploit those of others.

  Michael had spent his days delicately balancing on a high-wire stretched across a world he now describes only in fragments: “arb edging,” “no-cash margin bluffs,” “counter-hedge plays.” Always painfully conscious of a void deep within himself, Michael kept demanding that the wire be raised. Over and over again.

  After many years, his expertise at perceiving risk wove itself into Michael’s very essence. He became a believer in the religion of his own infallibility. Too late, the risk-taking he had come to worship finally threw off its disguise and revealed itself for what it was.

  The impact of Michael’s downfall was greatly magnified by the height from which he descended.

  By then, it no longer mattered. Gambling had invaded Michael’s spirit and taken it captive. The parasite was not symbiotic. It took without giving, keeping its host alive only by increasingly rare gifts of good fortune. All that remains of Michael today is his demented worship of what he calls “action.”

  2

  When Michael began his prayer chant that morning, I waited patiently for him to finish. Patience is not a personality trait, as most believe. Patience is a skill—a skill that can be practiced only when undetected.

  I knew no further encouragement would be needed for Michael to continue; all he ever requires is acknowledgment that someone is listening. My simple “Yes?” was more than sufficient.

  This need for acknowledgment limits his potential audiences significantly. Were it not for our tribe, no one would ever listen to Michael. Not anymore.

  Our very existence stands against Michael’s greatest fear: that, one day, he will begin speaking to himself. All those of our band see such tortured individuals every day. We know this to be the ultimate loneliness.

  Perhaps that is why so many of this city’s nomads are accompanied by dogs as they travel their circular journeys. And why they will feed their animals even before themselves.

  3

  “I was over in the slot on Nine, Ho. I saw the whole thing,” he said, lowering his voice and partially covering his mouth with one hand, as if to further protect his secret. The taut skin covering his face seemed to draw tighter with each word he spoke.

  Michael is aware of his tendency to become excessively aroused; he knows his speech can become so pressured that it feels like an assault to others. He once told me that is why he refuses to stay in the shelters, even when the world out here turns to ice. That was when I learned of his deepest fear.

  “They have this ‘Intake’ thing you have to go through. And they always try and make me see a shrink, Ho. Like I’m crazy when I tell them how I don’t want to bed down with a bunch of psychos. I tried it once. And let me tell you, these guys are way over the edge. If they’re not
muttering about how they’re going to get even with someone who ‘dissed’ them, they’re talking to themselves. And answering themselves, too!”

  Had Michael confided this to me many years ago, I might have uttered something profound about how humans can be colder than the elements that surround them. But I am no longer in thrall to my own arrogance. So, when Michael speaks, I listen. And try to learn.

  This is a technique I taught myself. The most difficult of all those in which I have attained proficiency.

  Today, when others address me, I stay silent, shifting my posture slightly to communicate I am paying attention, neither encouraging nor discouraging their flow of words.

  Thus, I learn.

  The “slot” to which Michael referred is actually a series of coffin-sized dugouts carved into the wood at the base of Pier Nine. The wood had been allowed to deteriorate through a lack of maintenance. The pier itself has been inactive for many years, visited only by ghost ships.

  It took us many months to create our place of safety, as we could work only at night, using whatever implements had come to hand on any given day.

  The slot had been my idea, modeled on the “capsule hotels” popular in Japan. They allow no room for heating units, but, once properly insulated, the tight, shielded spaces enable one’s body to retain warmth throughout the most bitter of nights.

  To sleep under such conditions, calmness is essential. I shared my skills by showing the others how to slow the heartbeat, regulate the breathing, and drop the pulse. They all have learned these techniques, to varying extents.

  Such learning requires commitment. But what is of greatest significance—no, the only true significance—is that each man’s commitment was his own. The others were not following my orders; they were not slavishly imitating. They listened to me on a subject I know well, just as I would defer to each of them in their own areas of expertise.

  Listening is how I have learned to see the world as they do. And now, it is a world seen as we do.

  Rather than lecturing about the dangers of plugging space heaters into bridged connections, or burning kerosene pots as they slept in abandoned buildings, I showed the others how calmness within the slots could keep them warm and safe.

  They listened as I explained that excitement is like alcohol—it temporarily gives the illusion of warmth, but that is soon replaced by enhanced transmission of cold. Each of them knew others who had failed to survive winter’s assault.

  They find fundamental truth in their own life experiences. This is what makes my explanations acceptable, not because they are the words of some “master.”

  People descend into our world by different paths. But among our band, certain commonalities had been experienced before our paths had crossed. To live on the streets of this city is akin to standing in the rain: some are better equipped for this than others … but rain falls equally on all.

  Each one in our band is an individual, which means each has his own reason. Ranger is still sufficiently connected to his past life so that he regards the slot as an excellent place to hide from an omnipresent enemy, whereas Michael had simply accepted that I would be culturally correct about this method of creating shelter—after all, I am Japanese.

  4

  Time passed. People passed around us as if we did not exist.

  Although his belief system is powerful, Michael is ever-vigilant against being mocked. Just as no evidence was required to sustain his beliefs, no assurances could overcome his fear of being viewed with scorn. But our band knows of my ability to become still within myself, so there was no danger that Michael would misread my patience as silent commentary.

  “Okay,” he finally said. His tone communicated that I had succeeded in persuading him I would not scoff at whatever he might say, not that I might actually believe it. “What about a white Rolls-Royce, Ho? How many of those do we ever see around there? That has to mean something.”

  I bowed slightly, having long since accepted Michael’s faith in omens. I never once indicated how this belief refuted his claim that his own gambling was ruled by logic. In our world, contradictions are not confronted, they are absorbed. The same skills used to disable a stranger whose drunkenness induces him to attack also enables a skilled practitioner to restrain a friend who has consumed too much liquor and prevent him from injuring himself.

  But this time, I had simply misread Michael’s statement. He was not relating to this automobile as a guiding sign; it was merely the opening card in the hand he was slowly dealing.

  Impressed by this demonstration of Michael’s enhanced ability to practice self-control—formerly, he would routinely blurt out long, rambling accounts from which one could barely extract enough information to respond—I moved my head in a gesture of attentive approval.

  “This Rolls drives right out onto the pier,” Michael recounted, switching quite matter-of-factly to the present tense, as if this would help me visualize his narrative, “and then it stops. Out steps a woman, wearing a white fur coat. It was mink, the real thing; I could tell. And she heaves something into the water. Something heavy; I could tell by the splash it made.”

  “You saw a white Rolls-Royce?” Lamont suddenly spoke for the first time that morning.

  Lamont’s life has prepared him to never even approach the border of confrontation with Michael. His voice was clogged and raspy, as always, but its tone was as neutral as stone. And as flexible.

  “You saw a white Rolls-Royce?” Lamont repeated. “Driven by a woman in a white mink coat? Was she by any chance a white woman?”

  “Yes …” Michael said, immediately sensing Lamont’s unvoiced skepticism. “But … but Ranger was there, too. He saw the whole thing.”

  “Confirmed!” Ranger snapped out. “Oh three hundred twenty-one. Local plates. Tango, Victor, seven, Echo, Zulu, eight.”

  I bowed slightly. Ranger does not possess a watch, but he has demonstrated an uncanny ability to tell time without artificial assistance. In other areas, however, he is less reliable: Ranger sees the same license plate on every vehicle.

  “Yeah, I know,” Michael answered Lamont’s arched eyebrows, “but I was there, I did see it, and, I’m telling you, it is worth money.”

  “Bunny! Sunny! Honey! Funny!” Target burst out.

  We do not ignore Target; he is one of us. But we have learned that any direct response to his verbal explosions throws more wood on a bonfire that, if not fed, will eventually self-extinguish.

  “How is it worth … dollars?” Lamont asked Michael, careful not to repeat the word that had triggered Target’s uncontrollable clanging.

  “Okay, a Rolls, that’s … cash,” Michael said, showing he had understood Lamont’s warning. “Major-league cash, all by itself. Now you throw in the mink. More of the same, am I right?”

  Michael’s “Am I right?” had been his “closer,” a sure indication that he was now paralleling his former life.

  “Plenty of people have … dollars,” Lamont said, working hard at maintaining a non-challenging tone. “They walk right past us, every day.”

  “When we’re out fishing, sure,” Michael retorted. By “fishing,” he means begging, but that word is not one we use. “But we only fish midtown. Down here, where we live, we never see those kind of people.”

  “It’s them that don’t see us,” Lamont corrected, his own trip-wires having been brushed.

  “She didn’t see us,” Michael shot back.

  I gave Lamont a look of empathy. I know it pains him greatly when his gift for nuanced expression cannot penetrate the concreteness of Michael’s “logic.”

  When Lamont is not floridly drunk—he is always intoxicated, but that is just his maintenance dose—he is capable of astounding subtlety of language. The first time he told me that he had once been a poet, I had replied that a poet is what a man is, not what he does. That, I believe, was the beginning of the bond between us.

  “Had to be a dead drop,” Ranger said, nodding his head knowingly. He was wearing
the Army field jacket from which he had meticulously removed all identifying insignia. “Once you’re deep in-country, you can’t have the gooks telling you apart by rank on sight,” he had explained. “They don’t get the name-rank-and-serial-number routine unless they can read it off your dog tag.” I understood this to mean what an American soldier recites when captured—I had heard those same words a lifetime ago.

  Some part of Ranger is always in-country. He is able to move between two worlds with such fluidity because he never remains totally in either. His mind has learned to instantaneously convert anything his senses cannot otherwise explain … or accept. This is not so much delusional as it is adaptive—a self-taught skill.

  Whenever he is hospitalized, Ranger regards himself as a prisoner of war. Because he responds correctly to “time, place, and person” questions as if reciting name, rank, and serial number, he is usually released rather quickly. He considers escape to be a POW’s duty, and believes he has achieved his release by duping his captors.

  This same capacity allows Ranger to perceive me as Hmong, a Cambodian warrior tribe he holds in the highest esteem. For Ranger, “gook” has no racial connotation; it is a synonym for “enemy.”

  “Dead drop? You mean, like when you dump a body in the river?” Brewster stammered excitedly. He is the youngest of us, and extremely prone to inappropriate arousal, especially whenever he has traded his medication for paperback books. Brewster knows he should not do this, but his need to grow his collection is as overpowering as Michael’s gambling.

  “No,” Ranger said solemnly. He is never surprised by a display of civilian ignorance, and always eager to explain his world to those who have never visited it. “A dead drop is a place where you leave messages, so you can pass intel without an actual meet. The VC used them, too. We always searched for ’em like bears after honeycomb.”

  If it occurred to anyone present that retrieval of a message from the harbor waters would be extremely difficult—and hardly circumspect—nobody said so aloud.