Dead and Gone b-12

by Andrew Vachss

  “Mole,” I said, “I’ve got a picture I need to find. The way it was taken, Polaroid camera and all, it had to be for sale. If it goes in a magazine, then it’s in the stream of commerce and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  He looked up, listening the way he always does—silently.

  “But I don’t think that’s the deal,” I told him. “I think it was taken for a collector—a private thing. If they put it in a magazine, someone could see it. Cause a lot of problems. I need some freak who gets off looking at this stuff. You understand? Someone who’s got shoeboxes full of pictures like that.”

  The Mole nodded, not arguing with my logic. So far.

  “So I need to talk to a collector, ” I went on. “A serious, hardcore pedophile. Someone with the money to buy things like this. This is a no-consent picture, understand? The freaks might trade copies back and forth, but this one would be too risky for general commerce.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “Mole,” I said, keeping my voice level, “you have friends. Associates, anyway. People I did some work for a couple of times. When we first met.” No point mentioning names—they were all part of some wet-work group.

  The Mole turned so he was facing me. “So?”

  I was fast-talking now, knowing the door wouldn’t stay open long.

  “So they have to keep files on freaks like that. Blackmail, whatever. They have to know what’s going down on the international scene—know who the players are. I know they don’t do law-enforcement or vice-squad stuff, but information … that’s something all the services want. Anything to give them a leg up … a handle.”

  We made our deal. It took a while to set up, and I had to let the Mole come with me, but it finally went down.

  A limestone-front townhouse just off Fifth Avenue, three stories high, level with the rest of the buildings on the block. Maybe thirty-five feet wide. A seven-figure piece of property in that neighborhood, easy. Four steps took us to a teak door, set behind a wrought-iron grating. The Mole’s stubby finger found the mother-of-pearl button, pushed it once.

  We didn’t have long to wait. The teak door opened. A man was standing there, waiting. You don’t need a peephole when you have a couple of hundred pounds of iron between you and whoever’s at the door. I couldn’t see into the dark interior. The man at the door was tall and slender, both hands in the pockets of what looked like a smoking jacket.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Moishe Nineteen,” the Mole said.

  “Please step back,” said the man. He had a semi-British accent, as if he’d been born here but gone to prep school over there or something.

  The Mole and I stepped back so the iron grate could swing out.

  We walked past the man inside, waited while he bolted the grate shut and closed the door. We were in a rectangular room, much longer than it was wide. The floor was highly polished dark wood, setting off overstuffed Victorian furniture, upholstered in a blue-and-white floral pattern. Only one light burned off to the side, flickering like it was gas instead of electricity.

  “May I take your coats?” the man said, opening a closet just past the entranceway.

  I shook my head “No.” The Mole wasn’t wearing anything over his jumpsuit.

  “Please …” the man said, languidly waving his hand to say we should go up the stairs before him. I went first, the Mole right behind me. We were breaking all the rules for this human.

  “To your right,” I heard him say. I turned into a big room that looked smaller because it was so stuffed with things. A huge desk dominated the space, standing on thick carved claws at each corner. An Oriental rug covered most of the floor—it had a royal-blue background with a red-and-white design running from the center and blending into the borders. A fireplace was against one wall, birch logs crackling in a marble cage. The windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes the same royal blue as the rug. Everything was out of the past—except for a glowing amber video terminal on a butcher-block table parallel to the desk.

  “Please sit anywhere,” the man said, waving one arm to display the options as he seated himself behind the big desk. I took a heavy armchair upholstered in dark tufted leather. A large flat glass ashtray was on a bronze metal stand next to the chair. The Mole sat on the floor, blocking the door with his bulk, putting his satchel on the ground. He looked from the man to where I was sitting, making it clear that we had an agreement and he expected me to honor it. Then he pulled out a sheaf of papers and started to study some of his calculations—taking himself somewhere else.

  “Now, then,” said the man, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Some excellent sherry?”

  I shook my head. The Mole never looked up.

  “A beer perhaps?”

  “No,” I told him. I’d made a deal not to do anything to him, not even to threaten him, but I didn’t have to pretend I was his pal.

  The man reached for a cut-glass decanter on his desk. Something that looked like a silver leaf dangled from just below the neck of the bottle, attached by a silver chain. He poured himself a wineglass of dark liquid from the bottle, held the glass up to the light from the fireplace, took a small sip. If he was any calmer he would have fallen asleep.

  It was hard to make out his features in the dim light. I could see he was very thin, balding on top, with thick dark hair around the sides of his head. Heavy eyebrows jutted from his skull, hooding his eyes. The face was wide at the top, narrowing down to a small chin—a triangular shape. His lips were thin. His fingers were long and tapered, with a faint sheen of clear polish on the nails.

  “Now,” he said, taking a sip from his glass, “how may I help you, Mr.…”

  “I’m looking for a picture,” I told him, ignoring the request for my name. “A picture of a kid.”

  “And you think I have this picture?” he asked, his heavy eyebrows lifting.

  I shrugged. I should be so lucky. “No. But I hope you can tell me about that kind of thing in general. Give me an idea where to look.”

  “I see. Tell me about this picture.”

  “A picture of a kid. Little chubby blond-haired boy. About six years old.”

  The man sat behind his desk, patiently waiting, making it clear I hadn’t told him enough.

  “A sex picture,” I said.

  “Um …” he mumbled. “Not such an unusual picture. Little boys in love do things like that.”

  Something burned inside my chest. I felt the Mole’s eyes on me, got it under control, stuck a cigarette in my mouth, my teeth almost meeting in the filter. “Who would have a picture like that?” I asked him.

  “Oh, just about anyone. It all depends on why the picture was taken.”

  “Why?”

  The man made a tent of his fingers, his semi-Bri t accent making him sound like a teacher. “If the picture was taken by his mentor, then it wouldn’t be circulated commercially, you understand?”

  “His mentor?”

  “A mentor, yes. One who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems … that sort of thing.”

  I looked at him, picturing a little dot of cancer inside his chest, keeping my hands still. I raised my own eyebrows as a question.

  “Men who love boys are very special,” the man answered, his voice reverent. “As are the boys who love them. It is a most unique and perfect relationship. And very little understood by society.”

  “Could you explain?” I said, my voice flat.

  “When a boy has a sexual preference for men, he is at grave risk. The world will not understand him. Many doors will be closed to him. It is the task of a dedicated mentor to bring the tiny bud to full flower. To help nourish the growth of the boy into manhood.”

  “By taking pictures of the kid having sex?”

  “Do not be so quick to judge, my friend. A true mentor would not take such a photograph for commercial purposes, as I said before. Such pictures preserve a uniq
ue and beautiful moment. Children grow up,” he said, his voice laced with regret for the inevitable, “they lose their youth. Would not a loving parent take pictures of his child, to look upon in later years?”

  I didn’t answer him—I didn’t know what loving parents did. The State raised me. And the State takes a lot of pictures—they’re called mug shots.

  “It is capturing a moment in time,” the man said. “A way of keeping perfection with you always, even when the person is gone.”

  “You mean people … people like you … just want to keep the pictures? Not sell them or anything.”

  “People like me …” the man mused. “Do you know anything about ‘people like me’?”

  “No,” I said. The deal was I couldn’t hurt him—nobody said I had to tell him the truth.

  “I am a pedophile,” the man said. The same way an immigrant would one day say he was a citizen—pride and wonder at being so privileged blending in his voice. “My sexual orientation is toward children … toward young boys, specifically.”

  I watched him, waiting for the rest.

  “I am not a ‘child molester,’ I am not a pervert. What I do is technically against your laws … as those laws now stand. But my relationship with my boys is pure and sweet. I love boys who love me. Is anything wrong with that?”

  I had no answer for him, so I lit another cigarette.

  “Perhaps you think it’s simple,” he said, his thin mouth twisted in contempt for my lack of understanding. “I love boys—therefore, you assume I am a homosexual, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I assured him. The truth, that time. Homosexuals were grown men who had sex with other grown men. Some of them were stand-up guys, some of them were scumbags. Like the rest of us. This freak wasn’t like the rest of us.

  He watched my face, looking for a clue. “You believe my orientation to be so unusual? Let me say this to you: some of the highest-placed men in this city share it. Indeed, were it not for my knowledge of such things—of powerful men with powerful drive-forces in their lives—I would not have the protection of you people,” he said, nodding his head in the Mole’s direction.

  The Mole looked straight at him, expressionless.

  “Any boy I love … any boy who returns that love … benefits in ways you cannot begin to understand. He grows to youth and then to manhood under my wing, if you will. He is educated, both intellectually and spiritually. Prepared for the world at large. To such a boy, I am a life-changing force, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said. Thinking I finally knew what to call Mr. Cormil after all these years. A “mentor.”

  “And I would … I have taken pictures of my boys. It gives us both pleasure in later years to look at this icon to our love, as it once was. A boy is a boy for such a short time,” he said, sadness in his voice.

  “And you wouldn’t sell these pictures?”

  “Certainly not! I have no need of money, but that is not the point. It would cheapen the love. Almost immeasurably so. It would be a violation of the relationship—something I would never do.”

  “So nobody would ever see your pictures?” I asked him.

  “Nobody outside my circle,” he replied. “On some rare occasion, I might exchange pictures of my boys with others … like myself. But never for money.”

  “You mean you’d trade pictures? Like baseball cards?”

  The man’s eyes hooded again. “You have a crude way of putting things, sir. I know you do not mean to be offensive.…”

  I nodded my head in hasty agreement. I didn’t want him to stop talking. The Mole’s head was buried in his papers, but I could feel him telling me to watch my step.

  “My boys enjoy knowing they give me pleasure. And it gives me pleasure to show their love for me to other men who believe as I do.” He took another sip of his drink. “To be sure, there may be an element of egotism in exchanging photographs with others. I am proud of my … achievements. But—and I am sure you understand—one must be very discreet at all times.”

  I gave him another nod of agreement. I sure as hell understood that part.

  “There are those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes, ” he continued. “Not those who share my … life-style, if you will. But no true boy-lover would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picture. Not his name, his age, his little hobbies.… Commercial photographs are so … anonymous. Sex is only a component of love. One brick in a foundation. Do you understand this?”

  “I understand,” I told him. It was true that Satan could quote Scripture, as the Prof was always saying. “Would a person ever destroy his pictures … like if he was afraid there was a search warrant coming down or something?”

  “A true boy-lover would never do that, no matter what. I can assure you that if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace.”

  “But the pictures are evidence.…”

  “Yes. Evidence of love.”

  “People get convicted with evidence of love,” I told him.

  A smile played around his lips. “Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong.”

  “It’s worth going to prison for?” I asked him.

  “It is worth anything and everything,” he said, rapt in the purity of his love.

  “The people who … exchange … pictures of boys. You’d know how to get in touch with them?”

  “We have a network,” the man said. “A limited one, of course. You see the computer?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

  I nodded.

  “The device next to it, with the telephone? It’s called a modem. It’s really quite complicated,” the man said, “but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our identities. And photographs can be transmitted the same way.”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “As I said, it’s really quite complicated,” he said smugly.

  I could feel the Mole’s sneer clear across the room.

  “Could you show me?” I asked.

  “Very well.” He sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his wineglass with him, and seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it facedown into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard—his password, I guessed. “Greetings from Santa” came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background now.

  “Santa is one of us,” the man said, by way of explanation. He typed in: “Have you any new presents for us?” The man hit another key and his message disappeared.

  In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up.

  “Seven bags full,” said the screen.

  “His new boy is seven years old,” said the man. “Are you following this?”

  “Yes,” I told him. Santa Claus.

  The man went back to the screen. “This is Tutor. Do you think it’s too early in the year to think about exchanging gifts?”

  “Not gifts of love,” came back the answer.

  The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough.

  He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk, glanced at the Mole, then back to me. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “If the boy’s picture, the one I want, was taken for sale, not by a boy-lover—I couldn’t find it?”

  “The original? Not in a million years,” the man said. “The commercial producers will sell to anybody. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it wa
s in a private collection.”

  “Say I didn’t give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around, see if you could find the picture I’m looking for?”

  “No,” he said. “I would never betray the trust of my friends.” He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away.

  “And you don’t deal with any of the commercial outlets?”

  “Certainly not,” he sniffed.

  This freak couldn’t help me. “I understand,” I said, getting up to leave.

  The man looked at me levelly. “You may show yourselves out.”

  The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first.

  “One more thing,” the man said to me. “I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find some basis for agreement.”

  I didn’t move, willing my hands not to clench into fists.

  “I am a believer,” the man said, “and I am ready to die for my beliefs.”

  There’s our basis for agreement, I thought, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the stairs.

  It all came back, in thick blocks of memory, exploding silently, like mortar rounds hitting near you when your ears are already so clogged with fear-blood that you’re deaf. And when I replayed the tapes in my head, I understood why it had to be him. Because I’d gone back to see him years later. Not to kill him, to try and play him into doing something. And he’d gone for the bait.

  “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.”