Sacrifice

by Andrew Vachss

  I was the vigilante Wolfe thought I was, he'd be dead.

  The last time we talked, I'd learned something. Never put it together before last night. All freaks are dangerous, but they're not all the same.

  No point calling the Mole. He'd give me the same warning. Insist on going with me again. Maybe even tell me to stay away.

  The Israelis wouldn't be watching his house, but breaking in would be tough. And for this guy, the cops would use the siren.

  154

  I shaved carefully the next morning. Put on one of the suits Michelle had made me buy, dark gray. A pale blue shirt, dark silk tie with blue flecks in it. Laced up my shoes, gave them a final buff with an old T–shirt.

  "Where're we going, mahn?" Clarence asked as he got into the front seat.

  "To school," I told him, heading back to Manhattan.

  It took a while, three full circuits of the cesspool. The Prof was on his cart, tiny body looking legless under the blanket, talking to a pair of hookers a block from the exit off the Lincoln Tunnel. Two young black girls, one with a blonde wig, both wearing short shorts, halter tops, high heels. One squatted next to him, listening. The other tapped her foot nervously, looking left and right. I pulled over, motioned Clarence to come with me, started back up the block.

  The Prof was gesticulating wildly, his arms flapping in the oversized sleeves of his coat. Last year's Cadillac squealed to a stop, a baby–blue coupe, gold custom wheels, gold trim. A player oozed out the driver's side, a heavy–bodied man in a short red jacket with gold trim, white pants tucked into red boots. We closed the gap on his blind side.

  "Get your black ass back on the stroll, bitch! You costing me money."

  The blonde–wigged one looked at him cautiously. "We was just…"

  He slapped her so hard the wig went flying. She went to her knees in the street, snatched it up, took off. Her sister went with her, moving fast.

  "Hold up, brother!" the Prof said. "The Lord will punish the wicked. Do not harm these children."

  "Yeah," I said from behind him. "Don't."

  The pimp whirled on us. "This ain't your business, man."

  "That's right," I said, reasonable–voiced, "it's not. But I don't want you thinking maybe you don't like my brother talking to your women, maybe you figure you'll catch him again someday, alone."

  "Tell the little nigger stay away from my string, then."

  "I can't tell him that—can't tell him nothing. It's not what I do. I'll tell you instead, okay?"

  "You looking to cut in, motherfucker?" Trying for ice in his voice, eyeing Clarence. Clarence in his tangerine silk shirt, fingertip white linen jacket. "You fronting off for pretty boy here?"

  "You think I want your dirty women, mahn?" Clarence asked sweetly, the pistol materializing in his hand, leveled at the pimp's beltline.

  "No trouble, man," the pimp said, ice melting. Backing away toward his car.

  "Put away the tool, fool," the Prof snapped at Clarence. "There heat on the street." He unwrapped the blanket, climbing off his cart. We put the cart in the trunk. The Prof jumped lightly into the back seat.

  155

  "Carlos is history," I told the Prof, talking just over my right shoulder. He was draped across the back of the front seat, between me and Clarence.

  "Some dreams turn to screams, bro'. Ain't no big thing."

  "Yeah."

  "There was a cop…" Clarence started to say.

  The Prof waved away the explanation. In our world, "why" won't draw flies.

  I made the introductions. "Prof, this is Clarence. Clarence, my brother the Prof."

  "Prof?"

  "Some call me the Prophet for what I preach—some call me Professor for what I teach."

  "What do you teach, then?"

  "Time and crime, son. Time and crime. You from Jacques?"

  "Yes, mahn. He is my boss."

  "You working with Burke?"

  "Learning, more like."

  "And what you think this schoolboy could teach you? He's still learning himself."

  "From you?"

  "You ever been to prison, boy? Ever been behind the walls? I met this fool, he was a crazy rookie. Gunfighter, he wanted to be, posing for bank cameras until they dropped him for the count. I taught him to play with fire, walk the wire, you understand? I'm a thief, boy. A sweet thief. Make a buy, tell a lie. No guns, son. I don't fall, been through it all."

  I nodded. "The stone truth," I assured Clarence.

  "You work free–lance?" the Prof asked. "Or you on apprentice? Jacques gonna teach you to run the guns?"

  "I'm on the payroll, mahn. But to run the business…Jacques has plenty ahead of me."

  "Cold beats bold, son. You don't wait, you visit the State, understand?"

  "Yes, I know this."

  "That pimp, back there by the tunnel, the one running those scaly–leg girls…you'd shoot him?"

  "No, mahn. I was just showing him some firepower. Playing backup."

  "Play ain't the way, boy. Your eyes fire when he call your name, then the man knows your game. You want to scare a motherfucker, hot ain't worth a lot—ice is nice."

  "He said…"

  "Hey, say ain't play. Jump, and you're a chump. Man slaps you in the face, what you do?"

  "I kill any man who slaps me. I'm not a woman, a man be slapping me."

  "Schoolboy, what's the first two things I taught you, a man slaps you."

  I lit a smoke, buying some seconds. The Prof had done the voice–over, but it was Wesley who walked it through. Years ago, on the prison yard. An iron–freak named Dayton had slapped the ice man in the face, right in front of everybody. Wesley just slumped to the ground, didn't say a word. Dayton strutted off, floating on the whispers. The cons said Wesley was a dead man—a man who won't fight when he's slapped is pussy. Free meat. They kept saying it until the guards found Dayton dead in the weight room.

  I looked over at Clarence. "Smile," I said. "And wait. You're gonna come, come quiet."

  The kid wouldn't let it go. He turned to the Prof. "That religion stuff I heard you run down…you're a preacher, where's your church?"

  "You think the Lord's got nothing better to do than be sitting up there taking attendance? I got the call when I was small. Where I walk is where I talk."

  "I was just…" Clarence's voice trailed off. I wondered if he got it, if he understood the legless man on the cart was a giant.

  "You got a silencer for that pistol?" the Prof asked him.

  "Yes, mahn. I mean, not with me, but…"

  "Get one for your mouth," the little man snapped, lighting himself a smoke.

  156

  Limestone town house just off Fifth Avenue. I pulled to the curb. "I'm going inside," I told them. "Clarence, when you drive, watch the gas, this thing'll pull stumps. The guy I'm going to see, he's about forty–five. Rail–thin, dark hair, going bald on top. Face makes kind of a triangle, wide across the top. Thin lips, long fingers. Name's on the door, brass plate right over the bell. Come back in about an hour. I'm not here, just park anywhere on the block, wait, okay?"

  "Sure, mahn," Clarence said, sliding over behind the wheel.

  The Plymouth drove off. The Prof would tell the kid what to do if I didn't come out.

  157

  The teak door sat smugly behind a wrought–iron gate set flush in the frame. I pushed the pearl button. No sound from inside. Waited.

  The door swung open. The vampire was wearing a quilted burgundy robe of heavy brocade, a black length of braid knotted at his waist. Hard to make out his features in the shadows, but I recognized the shape of his face, the hair dark at the sides. Saw the skull beneath the taut skin.

  "You," he said, a whisper–hiss of surprise.

  "Can I talk with you?"

  "We've already talked."

  "I need your help."

  "Surely you know better than that."

  "If you'll hear me out…it's something you'll want: to do. And I have something to trade."


  "You're alone?"

  "Yes."

  He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside.

  "After you," he said, gesturing toward the staircase.

  The room hadn't changed. Old–money heavy, thick and dark. Only an amber computer screen marred the antique atmosphere. The screen had several rows of numbers across the top—it blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare.

  "Notice anything new?" he asked, pointing to the chair I'd used last time.

  I sat down—swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, all with wide white stripes outlined in black.

  "This is different," I said. "What are they?"

  "Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are Perculas," pointing at a fat little fish near the top. "And we have Tomatoes, Maroons, even some Flame Clowns—my favorites."

  The Flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes—the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank.

  "Saltwater fish?" I asked him.

  "Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually."

  "They're beautiful. Are they rare?"

  "More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact—they stay with their own kind, even in a tank."

  "They don't fight for territory?"

  "No, they don't fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with other fish."

  I watched the aquarium. Each tribe of Clowns stayed in its own section, not swimming so much as hovering. I saw his reflection in the glass fade as he went over to a leather armchair and sat down. I took the chair he'd first indicated, faced him.

  He regarded me with mild interest, well within himself, safe where he was.

  "You said you had something…"

  "Yeah. The last time we talked…when you told me your…philosophy. About kids…"

  "I remember," he said stiffly. "Nothing has changed."

  "I know. I listened. You told me you loved little boys then. I came because I need to see how deep that goes.

  "Which means…?"

  "What you do, what others like you do, it's love, right?"

  He nodded, wary.

  "You don't force kids. Don't hurt them…anything like that."

  "As I told you. What is wrong with our behavior…all that is wrong with our behavior, is that it is against the law. We are hounded, persecuted. Some of us have been imprisoned, ruined by the witch–hunters. But we have always been here and we always will be. You didn't come here to engage in philosophical discourse…"

  "No. Just to get things straight."

  He got to his feet, turned his back on me. Tapped some keys rapidly on the computer, too fast for me to follow. He hit a final key with a concert pianist's flourish. The machine beeped. He got up, went back to his easy chair.

  "You've been logged in. Physical description, time of arrival, your code name, everything. It's all been transmitted—the modem is open."

  "I didn't come here to do anything to you."

  "I'm sure."

  "Listen to me," I said, leaning forward, keeping my voice low. "Can we not be stupid? I didn't come here to do anything to you. But don't confuse yourself—the Israelis aren't your pals. I don't know what you did for them, what you do for them…and I don't care. But all they are is a barrier. A threat. Like you think I am. Somebody drops you, they aren't going to get even. Understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes, quite well. You are saying if I don't give you information you want, you'll kill me."

  "That's cute. You got enough for your tape recorder now? I'm not threatening you. Not with anything. I'm just trying to tell you something…and you should listen. Listen good…maybe you don't want this on tape."

  He steepled his long fingers, regarding me over the top of the spire. I counted to twenty in my head before he moved a muscle. He got to his feet, languid movements, tapped into the computer again. Sat down, waiting.

  "This is the truth, okay?" I told him. "You don't have friends in high places. Not true friends. What you are is an asset…something of value. Everybody protects what they value. You know that good as anyone. You have this valuable painting, okay? Somebody steals it, you try and buy it back. But if there's a fire, all you can do is collect on the insurance. The Israelis can't protect you unless it's the federales who pop you. They got no reach with the locals. What I have for you, it's another barrier. Something you can't get from your friends."

  He raised his eyebrows, didn't say a word.

  I reached in my pocket, handed him an orange piece of pasteboard, about the size of a business card. He turned it over, held it up.

  Get Out of Jail Free.

  "Is this your idea of a joke?"

  "It's not a joke. You got a lawyer, right? Probably got a few of them. Have your lawyer go over to City–Wide, speak to Wolfe…you know who she is?"

  "Yes."

  "See if I'm telling the truth, then."

  "I'd get…?"

  "Immunity. Kiddie porn's the only way you're going down, right? The only risk you take. And you're not getting stung by Customs—you don't deal with people you don't know. Only way it's gonna happen, somebody drops a dime, City–Wide does the search."

  "There is nothing here."

  "You're looking at the big picture, pal. And that's a mistake. What you should be looking at is the frame, see?"

  He took a breath. Small, cold eyes on mine. "You couldn't deliver," he said quietly. "We know about Wolfe. People have…talked to her before. She's not…amenable…to…whatever you propose."

  "Have your lawyer talk to her again. Do it first, before you do anything for me, okay? I'll tell you what I want, tell you right now, in this room. Just listen—I guarantee you it won't be against you or your people. Give me a couple of days, have your lawyer go see her, all right? Nothing's changed, you don't have to do a thing. You decide, okay?"

  He steepled his fingers again. I counted in my head. "Tell me what you want," he said.

  158

  I lit a smoke, centering. I'd only get one shot.

  "We both know how it works, you and me. Child molesters…"

  His thin lips parted—I held up my hand in a "stop!" gesture, going on before he could speak. "I'm not talking about your people now. There's people who molest children, right? I'm talking about rape. Sodomy. Hard, stick–it sex. It happens. Don't go weak on me now. I know what you do—I know what you told me. I could play it back for you, word for word. The kids you're involved with, it's love, right? There's always a consent—you wouldn't do a thing without it. I remember what you said…you're a mentor, a teacher. Not a rapist. I'm separating you now—listen good. Those people who say child sexual abuse is a myth—we know better, you and me. I'm not saying you do it—I'm saying it gets done. People do it, right?"

  "Savages do it."

  "Yes. Fathers rape their daughters, it's not a fantasy. Humans kill kids, make films of it, it's not a myth."

  "And you think we're all the same, you think…"

  "No," I said, eyes open and clear, calling on a childhood of treachery for the effortless lying that they made second nature to me before I was ten. "What you do, people could argue about it, but I know you love children. Maybe I don't agree with it, but I'm not a cop. It's not my job. It's the baby–rapers who make your life hell, isn't that true? You love children. You'd be as angry about torturing them as anybody else would. Even if the laws changed, even if they eliminated the age thing, made it so a kid could consent to sex, then they'd be like adults, right? And rape is rape."

  "Society calls it rape when…"

  "I'm not talking about statutory rape, pal. List
en close—stand up to it now. I'm talking about black–glove, hand–over–the–mouth, knifepoint rape. Blood, not Vaseline. Pain. Screaming, life–scarring pain. A little boy ripped open, maybe one of your little boys…you like that picture?"

  "Stop it! Stop it, you…"

  I dragged deep on my cigarette, staying inside. "That's what I want to do. That's what you've got to do. Help me.

  "I…"

  "You know. You know it happens. They did it to my client. A little boy. They split him open like a ripe melon—he's a basket case. And they videotaped it. A group. An organized group. Satanists, they call themselves, but we know what that's about, don't we, friend?"

  "I don't deal with…" Sweat streaking his high forehead, tendons cabling his hands, veins like wires in his throat.

  "I know you don't. You wouldn't do anything like that. Or your people. I know." I spooled velvet over him, a cop telling a rapist he understands…those cunts, displaying themselves, wiggling like a bitch in heat, fucking asking for it, right? Men like us, we understand each other. "But freaks like that, they have to be stopped. They bring heat, and heat brings light, you know what I'm saying? You know what I do. I've never made trouble for you, right? Help me."

  "How could I…?"

  "The computer. They raped that little boy to make a commercial product. Not like your icons—not to remember a boy as he was—pictures to sell. The kid was a product, and they need a market. They'll be on the board somewhere. You could find them. Your friends could find them. That's all I want."

  "And…"

  "And they'll never know. And if you should happen to slip, Wolfe will make sure you don't fall."

  He searched the pockets of his robe. Found a black silk handkerchief, patted his face dry, deciding. I waited, watching the dice tumble across the green felt in my mind.

  Finally he looked up. "Tell me what you know."

  159

  Clarence slid over as I got behind the wheel. "Where can I drop you?" I asked him.

  "It's okay, 'home," the Prof said. "He'll come with me, ride the IRT."

  I looked over at Clarence. He nodded.