Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

  Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.

  Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.

  "That's a real warrior," Frankie said to me.

  "Carry He's nothing but a —"

  "Not him," Frankie said. "The Spanish guy."

  That's when I knew for sure that Frankie was a fighter.

  White Alligator

  The alligators were tiny, perfectly–fanned predators. They shone a ghostly white in the swampy darkness of the big tank.

  "You never saw white ones before, did you?" The curator was a plump young woman, thick glossy hair piled carelessly on top of her head, soft tendrils curling on her cheeks. Wearing a white smock, no rings on her fingers, nails square–cut. A pretty, bouncy woman, full of life, in love with her work.

  I shook my head, waiting. I hate this part of the business. They always have a reason for what they want done—I don't need to hear it.

  "Actually, white alligators aren't all that rare. It's just that when they're born in the wild, they don't have much chance of survival. A grown alligator is a fearsome thing—it really has no natural enemies. But the mother alligators don't protect the babies once the eggs hatch. One old legend sap that a baby alligator who actually manages to survive all its enemies and grow to full size spends the rest of its life getting even. That's why they're so dangerous to man."

  I nodded again.

  "You don't talk much, do you?"

  "That's part of the service," I said. Catching her dark eyes, letting her feel the edges of the chill.

  We walked past the bear pit. Grizzlies, Kodiaks, brown bears, black bears, all kinds. But the polar bear was in a separate area just around a sharp corner in the path. Prowling in circles, watching.

  "How come the polar bear can't be with the others? He needs colder water or something?"

  "She. That's a mama bear. Polar bears are solid animals. They don't mix well. And when they have cubs, they attack anything that approaches."

  "Show me where it's been happening."

  We strolled over to the African Plains enclosure. Somebody had been sneaking into the zoo at night. It started with stoning a herd of deer. Then they shot one of the impalas with a crossbow. The animals didn't die. Whoever did it came back again. And a cape buffalo lost an eye.

  "It's just a matter of time before he kills one of our animals," the curator said.

  "He doesn't want to kill them. He wants them to hurt. Wants to hear them scream."

  White dots blossomed on her cheeks. "How do you know?"

  "I know them."

  "Them?"

  "Humans who do this."

  Her hands were shaking.

  "Nature can be hard, but it's never cruel. Survival of the fittest—that's how a species grows and protects itself. But animals never kill for fun."

  "Neither do I," I said. Reminding her.

  She reached in her pocketbook and handed me a thick envelope. "This is my own money. I couldn't go to the Board for help. They tried hiring security guards, but it kept happening. I can't have the animals tortured like this."

  "I'll take care of it."

  She fumbled in her purse. "You'll need a key. To get in after dark."

  I waved it away. "Whoever's doing this didn't need a key."

  The curator took a deep breath. Making up her mind, getting it under control. "I believe there have to be laws. Nature has its laws, we're supposed to have ours, too. But I don't want—I mean, you promised."

  "I told you the truth," I said….

  He didn't come until the fourth night. I was waiting in the shadows cast by the Reptile House. The African Plains enclosure was to my left, the bear pits just past that. He was wearing sneakers, but the animals let me know he was coming. Restless stirring. A nightbird screamed.

  I circled behind him to the bear pit. As soon as he walked past, I took the five cans of industrial–strength Teflon spray out of my pack and went to work. It wouldn't last more than a half hour—the concrete absorbs it real fast.

  When I caught up with him again, he was standing at the fence, watching the herd of antelope, picking a target. Wearing some store–bought ninja outfit. Stalking, he thought.

  I stepped out of the dark, the pistol in my hand. He didn't turn around.

  "Drop the toy, punk," I whispered, giving him a choice.

  It fell from his hands.

  "Hands up," I said, calm and quiet, moving closer.

  "Wha—what do you want?"

  "What do I want? I want you. I've been waiting for you, maggot. We're going to take a little ride. To a nice hospital. Where they'll talk to you, boy. Maybe find out what else you've been doing when it gets dark. Understand?"

  Standing maybe fifteen feet away. Giving him another choice.

  "No!" he screamed, tuning and running from me, sneakers slapping hard on the concrete.

  I chased after him, letting him feel me coming. He was doing fine until he got to the curve just before the pit where the polar bear guarded her cubs.

  Maybe he screamed.

  Witch Hunt

  1

  The first time I heard a message, I couldn't obey. I could hear it, but I was distant from it, the way I am from people talking. They think I can't hear them, but I can–I just can't get close enough to say anything.

  The messages don't come from inside my head, no matter what the doctors say.

  I was small when I first heard them. I couldn't do anything to stop them. Any of them. The people, I mean, not the messages. I can stop people, sometimes, but I would never stop the messages.

  2

  No matter how much I screamed, my parents would still leave me with her. They acted like they didn't understand, because I couldn't talk then.

  By the time I could

  3

  Ellen burned me. Just to show me she could do it. My babysitter. She was in charge when my parents would go out. Sometimes she would beat me. Spanking, she called it. She would do it real hard until I would cry. Then she would tell me I was a good boy.

  She showed me how to do what she wanted. If I didn't do it, she would hurt me. Sometimes she hurt me anyway. She liked to do it. She would get all sweaty and close her eyes. Later she would laugh.

  4

  My parents liked her. My mother told my father he only liked her because she wore her blue jeans so tight you could see her panties right through them. My father got all red in the face and said how reliable she was. My mother said how hard it was to get anyone to watch me.

  Ellen made me lick her. And she put things inside me too. When I got older, she took pictures of me.

  She said if I ever told, they wouldn't believe me. And then she'd get me good the next time.

  Cut out my heart and eat it.

  Sometimes Ellen wore a mask. Sometimes she burned things that smelled funny.

  Her eyes could cut me and make me bleed.

  She had a tattoo inside her leg. On the high, fat part where her legs came together. A red tattoo of a cross, like in church. The cross was upside down. Where it would go into the ground, it went inside of her.

  5

  I told on her. One night, just before my parents were going to go out. I was five years old and I could talk. I was so scared I wet all over myself, but I told.

  They looked at each other–I've seen them do that a lot, ever since I started watching them. But when Ellen came over, they told her they weren't going out that night and she could go back to her house.

  Ellen looked right at them. Right in the eye. "Is Mark telling his crazy stories again?"

  "What stories?" my mother asked her.

  "His Devil stories, I call them. He told me his kindergarten teacher was a monster. How she wore this mask and carried fire in her hand. It must be that cable TV. My Dad won't let me watch it."

  I could see it happening. I screamed so loud something broke in my eyes. Then I couldn't see anything.

  6

  They put me in a hospital. A lad
y came to see me. She was very nice. She smelled nice too. She came a lot of times. Every day.

  After a while, I could see again;

  I wouldn't talk to the nice lady at first, but she promised me Ellen could never get me. I was safe.

  So I told her. I told her everything. She said she would fix it. Everything would be all right.

  When they came back a couple of weeks later, they had the nice lady with them. She sat down on the bed next to me and held my hand. She said they looked at Ellen. Without her clothes on. And there was no red tattoo like I said. It must be my imagination, the lady said. She had a sad face when she said it.

  I knew it then. She was with Ellen.

  I was already screaming when they showed me that first needle.

  7

  I was in the hospital a long time. Sometimes my parents would come in there with the lady I thought was nice. After I took my pills I would get dreamy. But I wouldn't sleep, not really. Just lie there with my eyes closed and listen to them.

  "We could get sued," my father said. "Ellen's father hired a lawyer. He said false allegations happen all the time. A witch hunt, he called it."

  It scared me, the way he said it. I didn't look.

  8

  They tested me, to see if I was stupid. When they found out I wasn't, then they said I was crazy. I had to talk to a doctor. I told him about the messages. He was the first one. He said they came from inside my head. I told him "No!" and he pushed a button and some big men in white coats came in.

  Later, they started the drugs. Haldol. Thorazine. All kinds of things. I learned to take the pills. Otherwise, it was the needle.

  Some of the attendants, they gave you the needle anyway, even if you were good. They liked to do it. But it was the nurse who gave the orders. She was with Ellen.

  9

  They let me go home sometimes. My mother would make me take the medication. I got older and older, but it didn't make any difference. I still had to do what they said.

  I cost a lot of money. I heard them talking. A lot of money.

  "Paranoid schizophrenic," my mother would say. What the doctors told her, like a religion.

  Ellen's picture was in the paper. Her father was arrested for having sex with his daughter. A little girl. Nine years old. I was eleven then, and I could read good. Ellen's picture was in the paper because she told on her father.

  In the paper, they said Ellen was a hero. For saving her sister.

  When I asked my mother about Ellen, she slapped me. Then she started crying. She said it wasn't my fault–I was born this way. I knew she meant the messages. Then she called the hospital and they came and took me away.

  10

  The medication has side effects. I know what they call it. Tardive dyskinesia. My face jumps around. My whole body twitches. My mouth is so dry and it's like it is stuffed with cotton. My hands shake. I'm dizzy. My stomach is upset. I hate it.

  When I stop taking the pills, they give me the needles.

  They never catch me not taking the pills. It's just that I act different without them. And they can tell.

  Act. That was a message I got all the time. Act!

  11

  I'm an out-patient now. I live in a room. My parents moved away. I don't know where. I'm an adult now. Twenty-three years old.

  I get a check. From the Government. Every month. It comes to where I stay. I pay my room rent. I eat in restaurants, but I don't eat that much. I'm not hungry much.

  There is a television set in my room. I always leave it on. Messages come through it for me.

  I don't take the medication very often, but I act like I am. Nobody looks that close.

  12

  They send you cues. That's the message, to watch for the cues. I go out, looking. The subways are the best. There's all kinds of crazy people in the subways. People never look at me that way. I look right. I'm careful.

  I look carefully. At everything, I look. There's a third rail. It's death to touch it. If you look down, down into the pit, you can see the other tracks. Water runs between the tracks, like a river. You can see the things people throw there. Sometimes you can see a rat, watching up at the people.

  The messages are everywhere, but they are never spoken. Not out loud. They come through things.

  You have to watch them from behind because their eyes can burn you.

  The first time, in the subway, the train came through the tunnel. Shoving through, too tight for the tunnel, like Ellen did to me. When the train screamed, I knew I was in the right place.

  From behind, they look alike unless you look close. If you can see their panties, the outline of their panties, under their skirts or their slacks, then that's them. That's how you know them.

  The first time I saw that, the train was screaming in. I was jammed in behind her in the crowd. When I pushed her, she went right under the wheels. Then everybody screamed like the train.

  Nobody ever said anything to me.

  13

  The message comes to me anytime. Especially in my room, where the medication doesn't block the signals. When I hear the message clear, I go out. To do my work.

  I'm on a witch hunt.

  Working Roots

  Shawn knelt at the door to his tiny closet, worshipfully regarding a red shoebox. He slowly removed the lid and carefully removed his prize. Air Jordans, Nike's very best. The Rolls–Royce of sneakers, gleaming in pristine white with artful black accents. He turned one gently in his hands, admiring the intricate pattern of the soles, the huge padded tongue, the plastic window in the heel through which he could see the air cushions. No matter how closely he looked, Shawn could not find a single blemish to mar their perfection.

  Almost two hundred dollars for a pair of sneakers. Granny would never understand. All they had to live on was her miserable little Disability check. If Granny wasn't able to make a little extra selling potions and charms to other people in the Projects, they wouldn't make it at all. It got harder and harder to sell her spells every year, Granny told him–younger people just didn't believe in the old ways.

  Granny might not understand, Shawn knew, but she would never get mad at him. Old people were supposed to be mean, but Granny never was. She never punished him, even when he deserved it. Other kids got a whipping for nothing at all, sometimes. He'd heard them talk about it, at school.

  Yeah, Granny was old, and she was kind of strange. And, sure, there was that back room, where he was never allowed to go. But she was always home, always had food for him. Always eared for him when he was sick or hurt. So maybe they didn't have a color TV like everyone else. Maybe he couldn't play Nintendo, couldn't have his friends over either. He had complained about the old lady's ways to his running partner Rufus one day.

  "Shut up, fool!" Rufus replied.

  Shawn saw the pain in his best friend's eyes–he felt ashamed again. Granny never got drunk, didn't take drugs, didn't have strange men living with her, different ones all the time. Rufus was right.

  Shawn had worked for his special sneakers. Worked hard. There was easy money to be made around the Projects, inside and out. The drug dealers were always looking for new runners, the numbers man could always use a smart kid who could keep records in his head. Stealing and hustling were a way of life…sometimes a way of death, too. Shawn didn't touch any of that. All summer long, he had worked…hauling the monster bundles of newspapers the trucks dropped on the streets at dawn to the individual newsstands. Afternoons, he helped out in a car wash. He didn't spend his money, although the temptations were great….Shawn was fifteen.

  Now it was September, and school was starting. Shawn bought his own clothes this year, with the money he'd earned, Granny was proud of him for that, but she didn't know about the sneakers.

  When he'd gotten his first money from the newspaper driver, he bought Granny a gold necklace. Twenty dollars, the young man in the long black coat told him…for gen–u–ine eighteen–karat gold. Shawn thought how pretty it would look on Granny. He showed i
t to Rufus, but his friend said it wasn't gold at all.

  "You been hustled, chump. That ain't nothin' but brass…turn green right around your neck."

  Shawn gave the necklace to Granny anyway. But because he had been taught not to lie, he told her what Rufus had said.

  "Sometimes, people believe thinkin' the worst means they smart. It ain't always so, son," Granny told him. And she told him the necklace was real gold too. Gave him one of her dry kisses.

  She always wore the necklace. And it never turned green.

  Shawn couldn't really remember a time when he hadn't been with Granny. He knew his mother was dead, killed in a drive–by shooting while she was standing on the corner, just talking with a friend. They never caught the night riders who so casually blew her away. The police told Granny the shooters were really trying for a dope dealer standing on the same corner, like that would comfort her.

  There was an "Unk" written in the space for his father's name on his birth certificate. Rufus explained that to him.

  "Jus' means yo' momma didn't tell them yo' daddy's name at the hospital, that's all."

  "Why wouldn't she tell them?"

  "'Cause the Welfare go after him for the support money, see?"