That's How I Roll

by Andrew Vachss

  I never underestimate people. What one man can build, another man can bypass. I didn’t need to stop enemies, I just needed to slow them down. They might get past everything I’d put in their way, but they couldn’t do that quickly enough to ever separate me and Tory-boy, or to stop us from getting down to our mine.

  verybody around here knows something about mining. It’s part of our life, in our heritage forever, even though the only nearby mine had dried up years ago.

  So when I told Tory-boy we were going to have our own mine—our secret mine—he got all excited and real quiet at the same time.

  If I say it myself, I’ve got a microsurgeon’s hands. And my eyesight is so fine it’d put 20/20 to shame—I’d never needed glasses, even when I built some of my most tiny little devices.

  I’d disliked working while lying out on the floor—I don’t feel completely safe unless I’m in my chair, I guess—but this time it was something that just had to be done.

  And I had Tory-boy to protect me while I was doing it.

  I’d have him lift me out of the chair and put me on the floor, facedown. Then I’d pull myself over to wherever I needed, so I could do the close-up work on the wood floor of our house.

  You’ll find some kind of carpet or rugs in just about any house around here, but not in ours. We’d had Mr. Shane come over and lay in genuine wide pine flooring. He’s an old man now, retired on that little government check, but his hands still know what to do, and he was as glad for the cash as I expected he would be.

  Or maybe what made him glad was me telling him he was the only one I’d even consider for the work I needed done. If he couldn’t oblige me, I’d understand, but it would be a deep disappointment, I didn’t mind saying.

  I knew he’d tell people about the work he’d done on our house, but that didn’t matter. After all, I was a cripple, wasn’t I? Imprisoned in that wheelchair for life. It only made sense that I wouldn’t want to be sliding a wheelchair over rugs all the time.

  My work was to undo some of Mr. Shane’s work. I was very slow and very careful about it. When I finally finished, you couldn’t see where three of the boards had been removed and then put back unless you got down there with a magnifying glass.

  Tory-boy loved helping me with my work. And, this time, I wasn’t making up a task just to build up his confidence. I could never have moved those heavy boards myself without scratching them up bad, so I truly needed him.

  But where I needed him most was when we dug our own mine. It was slow work. We couldn’t take out more than a few dozen bucketfuls a night. I made sure Tory-boy knew to scatter that dirt around different trees. The next rain would mix it up perfect, and rain’s one of those things you can count on coming, sooner or later.

  It took almost two years, working like that, but we built our own little mine.

  If I were ever to roll my chair over a certain spot, the boards would come loose, and I could pry them the rest of the way up with the hook at the end of my stick.

  A side-railed ramp would take me down to the bottom. Then all I’d have to do is pull the boards back into place with the loops we have fastened underneath. To look at it, you’d never know anyone was under that floor.

  Down below, there was room enough for me and Tory-boy. And enough bricks of plastique to excavate a mine shaft.

  That was the final exit for us both. If things ever got so bad outside that I couldn’t fix it, our private mine is where we’d go.

  We’d wait until the house was full of the people who’d be hunting us—we’d be able to hear them right above—and then Tory-boy and me, we’d leave this dirty world behind us.

  We’d leave together, but we wouldn’t go out alone.

  I promised Tory-boy I’d never let anyone hurt him. And I’d keep that promise, no matter what it cost anyone else. A debt is a debt, and an honorable man settles his debts. But my promise to Tory-boy is beyond any debt—it’s a sacred duty.

  There’s no way I can ever get to our mine now. But I can still honor my promises and pay my debts.

  And keep my Tory-boy safe. Once he pushed that button, nobody could ever torment him again.

  Our mine would be used only if everything else failed. I didn’t expect that, but I had to have everything in place so my mind could be at ease.

  either Judakowski nor Lansdale cared how any problem in their territories got solved. When they wanted a problem out of the way, they didn’t care if it left in a limousine or a pine box. I didn’t have any special taste for killing, so I always tried the softer way.

  Tried it first, I mean. When I took a job to move someone, they got moved. My word was a contract, and I never failed to live up to my end, even when that required the end of someone else.

  Sometimes, you can get the exact effect you’re after without any bloodshed at all. What I learned was that achieving such an effect depended on a lot of different things. Not just how smart the target was, but how much he had already invested, be it in his racket or his image.

  Lansdale or Judakowski would give me the name of a man who was causing a problem. Rarely would anyone be causing them both a problem, but even that happened every so often.

  Besides the name, I’d also need the right place to have a package delivered—the target’s home was always best—and a copy of a return address he’d trust on sight. I can print up an exact duplicate of any label you show me, right down to the bar codes. The next step is for the man to open that package. Then a big puff! of talcum powder would float out in a gentle cloud. The only thing inside the box would be a piece of paper, with a typed-out message:

  THIS COULD HAVE BEEN ANTHRAX

  If the man was smart enough, that would do it.

  But maybe the man had himself committed so deep that he’d already built himself some stronger walls. Maybe he’d never get mail at his home, so any package delivered there would just sit unopened until he had someone come by and pick it up for him.

  For a man that cautious, a better move would be if his electricity went out late one night. No warning, everything just snaps! off.

  Now, that does happen around here. Which is why so many folks outside of town keep backup generators. But this man would look out his window and see all the other close-by houses still showing lights.

  Before he can ponder that mystery, his phone rings. The house phone, not his cell. The house phone with the number kept in someone else’s name, and unlisted to boot.

  A mechanical voice says: “It would be just as easy to turn off your lights.”

  Then the phone goes dead in the target’s hand. And the electricity in his house suddenly pops back to life.

  It wouldn’t take that kind of man too long to think over all the different electrical things he uses every day. All the things he has to touch.

  That’s when he understands that there’s people out there somewhere who can touch him.

  t’s a formula: the higher the target’s intelligence, the more subtle you can be about sending him a message.

  Some people are just plain mulish. Science can do a lot of things, but there’s no cure for a man’s personality.

  That threw me at first, and it shouldn’t have done so. I’d seen too many times how a man’s ego can take over everything else inside him—make a usually accommodating man as stubborn as a tree stump.

  That’s why I always delivered my messages direct into the hands of the man I got paid to fix. I learned the force of ego not so much by reading as by watching. I’d learned that if a man gets warned off in front of his crew, he’s never going to act reasonably. It’s almost as if he can’t do that.

  I could always get the job done. No matter what it took, I knew where to find it. Or how to build it. All I ever needed was certain knowledge I couldn’t get on my own. Knowledge of the target, I mean.

  My preference was always for precision. There’s no reason to blow up a whole schoolhouse just to kill the principal. That’s why I needed the best possible knowledge of the target … so I cou
ld decide on the best method to make him go away.

  I turned myself into a persistence hunter. The fastest animal on earth is a cheetah, but there’s a tribe that kills them for food. They can’t outrun a cheetah, but they can keep running long after the cheetah can’t draw another breath. Takes them hours and hours each time, but they know, if they stay at it, the outcome is always the same.

  When I took a job, it was known I’d stay on it until it was done. How could I charge the prices I did—how was I supposed to keep earning the money I needed—unless my word carried its own worth?

  Here’s an example of that. I didn’t know why Judakowski needed that new preacher gone, but I was assured the Reverend Elias never went to sleep in his own bed without spending some time with his Presentation Bible—the one they give you when you graduate from divinity school.

  That Bible was precious to him. It never left his house, even when he traveled. But he had others—whoever heard of a preacher who went around without at least a pocket-sized one? And he was leaving on a two-week circuit soon.

  I’m no burglar—that’s understood, and such a service is never expected from me—so Judakowski’s men had to bring that Bible over to his place for me to pick up.

  When I told them they had to take digital photos of that Bible from several angles, including tight close-ups, before they so much as touched it, they gave me a funny look. When I told them I would need the camera they used, too, so I could check to see if they’d done their job right before I started on mine, I felt them getting ready to buck.

  “Do what the man tells you,” Judakowski said. He didn’t have to say any more.

  His men were expert thieves, but they didn’t know anything about putting stuff back.

  It was almost three days before I was satisfied with the wire-thin string of microchips I built. But it took me only a couple of hours to drill a tiny hole through the binding between the pages of paper and the spine. Then I threaded the string of microchips through that hole and touched each end with a tiny droplet of nail polish to hold it in place.

  When I handed that Bible back to Judakowski, it was open to the same page it had been when it was stolen. I told him his men had to use the blown-up digital shots I’d made to guide them through putting the Bible back exactly where they’d found it. I even drew a diagram for them, with all the measurements in inches.

  I also told him they had to handle that Bible like it was made of spun glass. Most important of all, they had to be absolutely sure not to close it.

  hen I say “fix,” that’s just what I mean—solve a problem. That’s why Judakowski never hired me for one of those blood feuds he was always getting into—that’s not the kind of job you can outsource.

  Lansdale never seemed to have those kinds of feuds. Whenever he hired me, it was to move someone aside who was standing in his way. Business. Nothing personal.

  That’s why I was so taken aback when he called over to the barmaid one night, “Bring Esau his usual, will you, Nancy? Uh … better make it a double, okay? We’ve got a lot to talk over.”

  Everyone who worked in Lansdale’s joint knew I only drank apple juice—not even cider, pure juice. They always kept some on hand for me. Fresh, too.

  I didn’t show it, but that meant a lot to me. Not the juice itself, the way they respected the decisions I made about my own body.

  The first time I’d ever come alone to his bar, Lansdale had asked me what I’d have. Didn’t bat an eye at what I told him. Ever since then, I could count on a big mug of apple juice being brought over to the table whenever I visited.

  What had taken me aback was that Lansdale asked the barmaid to bring me that drink after we were done talking business. That made it clear that he didn’t want anyone else hearing whatever it was we were about to talk over.

  Neither of those things had ever happened before.

  “Thank you,” I told the barmaid when she brought my drink.

  “You might be the only man who ever brings his church manners into a bar, Esau,” she said, flashing me a grin. “But don’t be leaving me any more of your tips. I warned you about that, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” I admitted. “But I can’t just—”

  “What, call me Nancy? Trust me, I’ve been called a whole lot worse than my own name.”

  “It’s not that,” I told her. “It’s just that … well, you being a young girl, it seems like I’d be taking liberties, doing that.”

  She put her hands on her hips and stood there, her eyes searching my face.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone called me a young girl, Esau. You know why I choose to work here? It’s the one bar in this whole lousy town where they don’t allow drunks. Mean drunks, I’m talking about. And nobody’s ever crazy enough to start a fight in here. But the best thing of all is that every man who walks through the door knows buying a drink doesn’t give him leave to paw the help.

  “Most of the men in places I worked before? Far as they’re concerned, when they buy a drink, pinching the serving girl’s ass is included in the price.”

  “I didn’t know that” is all I could think to say.

  “No,” she said. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re too smart for that, aren’t you?”

  “Smart?”

  “Oh, come on! A man’s been around as much as you, he knows a rich silver tongue works better than a cheap gold bracelet. On a real woman, that is.”

  Right about then, I was grateful for the soft lighting in the bar. And for the even darker pool of shadow where Lansdale kept his personal table.

  “The way I see it,” Lansdale said, “you ain’t got but two choices, Esau. And little Miss Nancy here, she’s famous for her stubbornness.”

  “With your permission, then,” I said to her.

  “With your permission, Nancy,” she corrected me.

  “Nancy,” I surrendered.

  “You’re missing the show,” Lansdale said to me as Nancy walked away. “That girl can flat-out bring it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Roll on over to the side, next to me. And empty that drink, Esau. That way, you’ll see exactly what I mean when Nancy brings you a refill.”

  ansdale was right on that score. In fact, I downed a whole lot of apple juice that night.

  Just as well I did—Lansdale had a story to tell, and it wasn’t a short one.

  “You’ve heard of Casey Myrtleson, I take it? To hear folks talk him up, you’d bet that young man is going to set NASCAR on fire one day. Sure, he’s kind of wild, but nothing wrong with raising a little hell when you’re still in your twenties. It was our own people who really got NASCAR started, and you know how they learned their driving skills—by now, it’s in our blood.

  “But a young buck like Casey Myrtleson, he doesn’t just drive fast, he does everything fast. Stirs up a whole lot of rumors in his wake.”

  “I suppose he might,” I said, not having even a clue as to where all this was going.

  Not that I cared. I would have been content to sit there all night.

  “You and me, we’re the same,” Lansdale said. Not like asking a question, stating a fact. Before I could ask him how he could possibly think such a thing, he told me.

  “A man can put up with a lot of things. Some more than others. But there’s a bottom to every well, and a man who won’t protect his own, that’s not a man.”

  “I’d never argue that.”

  “Just think of the lengths you’d go to to protect your little brother, Esau.”

  “You can’t have lengths for that.”

  “Why do you say?”

  “Lengths means there’s a limit.”

  “And you’re saying, when it comes to protecting your own, there is no limit.”

  “That is what I’m saying,” I told Lansdale, fear of some threat to Tory-boy already darkening my mind.

  But then he went off in another direction entirely. I knew he had two children, a boy and a girl. And I knew hi
s boy was a real terror in his own way—a newspaperman who got the Klan mad enough to burn a cross in front of his house over some articles he wrote when he was first starting out. The paper he wrote for now, it was the biggest one in the state, published in the capital. That was a long way from here, so I didn’t imagine his father could protect him much.

  Anyway, Lansdale was peacock-proud of his son, but I could see he thought of him as a grown man. Old enough to pick his own road, and already walking it.

  Not so his daughter—she was still in high school. One of those special-blessed beauties. Folks could legitimately argue over which was more lovely, her church-choir voice or her movie-star face.

  “I do admit I worry myself about her,” Lansdale said. “A girl her age, she’s likely to be impressed by the wrong things, you know what I mean?”

  I just nodded, so I wouldn’t be stopping him from talking.

  “Judgment, that’s something you have to learn,” he said. “Some never do. Take that Casey Myrtleson we were just talking about. Now, he can burn up a racetrack, for sure. Thing is, he’s full-grown, but not yet grown up. Keeps on taking chances, just to be doing it.

  “There’s chances a man shouldn’t ever take. You can bounce your life off the rev limiter one too many times—there’s a reason why they paint red lines on tachometers.”

  “A warning.”

  “Now, that is exactly what it is!” Lansdale slapped his hand on the table hard enough to break it. “But there’s always going to be men like Casey Myrtleson. They see a ‘No Trespassing’ sign, they figure they just found themselves a fine place to go deer hunting.”

  That’s when I finally understood what Lansdale was really talking about. “Man like that, he’d probably take a doe out of season, even if he had to jacklight her,” I said, just to make sure.

  Lansdale looked me full in the face, like he was trying to read something written in a language he knew a little bit, but not to where he’d be called fluent.