False Allegations b-9

by Andrew Vachss

  "Whoever he is, he went to a lot of trouble. Spent a lot of cash too," I said. Sitting in my booth at Mama's with my family, looking for a battle plan.

  "Harry was telling the truth," Michelle said. "I know him a long time. He doesn't have what it takes to look at a gun and lie. Especially when a man who looks like you is holding it."

  "That Bondi broad is strictly gash–for–cash," the Prof put in. "And there's the apartment, that whole setup. Plus he bought up all that fool's markers. And it wasn't to middle you either—he knew you was gonna go see this Harry boy."

  "And even before that," I said, "he knew where I was going to be, right? Once I got inside that Bondi's apartment, there was a hundred ways for her to get a signal out. I had no cover—nothing close. He wanted to take me out, nothing to it."

  Max nodded, reading my lips and following my hand signals as good as listening. He wouldn't have said anything if he could. Figuring things out wasn't his thing—he needed a target to do his work.

  "We got three pieces," I went on. "We got Harry, we got Bondi, and we got this guy's card."

  "Harry's dry," Michelle said. "He's Tap City. You could make him talk some more, but he's got nothing more to say. I'm sure of it."

  "Nobody die on telephone," Mama said. Meaning why not just call this Kite, whoever he is, see what he wants?

  "Bondi's probably in the wind already," I said. "Harry must've called the man, told him he gave me the word."

  "Whatever the man wants, it ain't about no chump–change score. Before you book, let's all take a look," the Prof answered, putting it on hold.

  Four days later, the cellular phone in my jacket purred. I flipped it open, said "What?" and waited.

  "It's all like it was," the Prof's voice came. "The spot's still hot…and the geek's still on the peek." The connection went dead.

  Bondi was still living in that high–rise with the blue leather performance–platform. And the watcher was still across the street, a few floors up, ready to look down on what he paid for.

  So far, we'd already been through her apartment. Clarence kept watch until she went out, stayed with her until she got a good distance away, and used the cell to signal the team. Michelle drew the doorman outside to look at her pretty little blue BMW coupe—and her prettier little white dress. Maybe the nice man knew who owned the fat Mercedes that had put all those scrape–marks on the BMW's front fender when he pulled out without looking? The nice man didn't know, but he spent a few minutes looking around anyway. More than enough for the Mole to slip into the basement wearing his NYNEX uniform. And for the Prof to get past the apartment locks and go to work, while Max stood by the door just in case.

  Me, I made a couple of phone calls. One to a reporter named Hauser, the other to a cop named Morales.

  Morales owed me one and he came through. He found Bondi's girlfriend. Sybil. And she lived in the Village, just like Bondi told me. If this was a scam, there was a ton of truth in it. The mark of a pro.

  Just past midnight the next Tuesday, we got together at Mama's. The joint wasn't closed, but Mama rarely got late customers—she worked at keeping the place looking about as inviting as a TB ward.

  "Ante up," I told the crew.

  "The Mole says there's three separate phone lines," Michelle said, "I gave you the numbers before. Probably one for her, one for the modem, and the one the watcher uses."

  "Good guess," I answered her. "Morales pulled the records. One of the numbers hasn't made a single outgoing call in the past three months. On the other line, she calls this girlfriend of hers, Sybil, every day. Sometimes a few times."

  "This Sybil a ho too?" the Prof asked.

  "Dancer," I said. "Works the Playpen in Long Island City. Same place Bondi used to work, Morales said."

  "They got sheets?" the Prof wanted to know.

  "No. Not a single fall between them. Only reason Morales had her name, some freak jumped her in the parking lot a couple of years ago, tried to carve her a new face."

  "Trick thought he got picked, right?"

  "Right," I said. Happens all the time in those joints. Lap–dancers, they're not as honest as whores. They make their money off repeaters, let the suckers think they got something going between them besides the cash. A relationship, right? Sooner or later, some psycho goes for it, decides he's not a customer, he's the boyfriend. And they hold the wedding in a body bag.

  "She get hurt bad?" Clarence asked.

  "Nah. Just banged up. She was just sitting on her car, smoking a joint, waiting for Bondi to finish her shift. Bondi rolled up just when the guy made his move. They fought him to a standstill. Made so much noise somebody finally called the cops."

  "There is a bouncer in those clubs, isn't there, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know. "To protect the girls, yes?"

  Michelle's musical laugh was wrapped around a thick vein of contempt. "They're not there to protect the girls, sweetie," she told the young West Indian gunman who had taken the Prof for his father one ugly night—the night I had cleaned out a house of beasts with a gun while the Prof and Clarence waited outside for anyone who tried to leave. "They're there to protect the pimp…the guy who owns the joint. You have a problem, you take it outside, that's the end of it."

  Clarence shook his head in disgust. He wasn't from the same place as the rest of us. Raised by a mother he still adored from across death's chasm, he couldn't understand how any man could fail to protect a woman. Any woman. Even when he went to work for a Brooklyn gunrunner named Jacques, he did it to get the money to bring his mother some of the peace she never had working three jobs to provide for her only son. A savage–hearted young man, cobra–quick with his pistol, Clarence would take a life before he would disrespect a woman. He was one of us, part of our family, but he was the only one of us who wasn't raised by beasts. He could know what we knew, but he could never feel it as deep. Michelle reached over and patted his hand. "Stay sweet, honey," she said sadly.

  "Hauser came up empty," I said. "Whoever this Kite guy is, nobody ever heard of him. Nothing on NEXIS, nothing in the street."

  "Not Hauser's street," the Prof said.

  "You got something?"

  "Not yet. But this guy's been walking too heavy not to leave footprints. He can slide, he can glide, but he can't hide."

  "Her credit's just like she said," Michelle added. "I had Abe run a TRW for me. American Express and Visa, paid every month, right on the dot. Got a few locals too—she runs a tab with the dry cleaner, beauty parlor, couple of restaurants that deliver, like that."

  "Abe look at the banks for you too?"

  "Of course, darling," Michelle smiled. "Six large a month. Deposited every month. Like clockwork. The watcher never misses."

  "She move it out?"

  "No. She's got one of those 'private banking' deals. He probably set it up for her. T–Bills, a couple of mutual funds, jumbo CD. Nothing risky. I think she knows this isn't going on forever—it scans like she's building a stash, maybe going back to Australia, like she told you…"

  "How'd you make out?" I asked the Prof. There was nobody better at vacuuming a joint than the little man. I remember sitting on the floor of his cell Upstate with the other young thieves while he conducted his seminars. Find it, take it, and get gone quick. But the Master Class—the one where he taught how to phantom your way all through a house without leaving a trace of your passage—that was reserved for family.

  "Bitch got enough underwear to open her own boutique," he said.

  "What kind?" Michelle interrupted.

  "What kind? How I know what—"

  "The labels, Prof," Michelle said. "Was it Victoria's or Frederick's?"

  "I didn't look at no labels, okay?"

  The Prof's disclaimer was about as effective as the War on Drugs—when it came to the subject of lingerie, Michelle was not to be denied. "What colors? Pastel or harsh? Lots of bright–red and black…or pink and blue? Did it have lots of straps? Was it what you'd wear under a dress or only by itself? Did you see
—?"

  "Girl, I didn't see nothin', okay? I wasn't looking for no souvenirs, all right?"

  "What else?" I asked, trying to take him off the hook.

  "Cash money," he said, looking over at me gratefully. "Less than two large. Careless, not in a stash. Bunch of letters, wrapped in a ribbon. All from Australia, all from Amanda…some girlfriend, I guess. Gossip stuff: Sara married Sean, Isabelle just had a baby, you know. Joint was clean, like she had a maid come in every day. Beds made, dishes done. Bunch of pills in the medicine cabinet, but all over–the–counter stuff except for some Valium. Prescription too—had her name right on the bottle. Money stuff: Bank statements, checkbook. Fur coat. White fur."

  "What kind of fur?" Michelle asked.

  "Fucking polar bear, all I know about it," the Prof snapped at her. Turning to me, he continued: "Back of one of the drawers, a vial of crystal. Just the one vial—looked like someone gave it to her and she just threw it in there. Jewel box had a couple of sparklers, looked real to me. But I ain't Mama…" he shrugged.

  Mama nodded, acknowledging the respect for her expertise, but she didn't say anything.

  "Passport. Don't know if the picture's her, but it's got that name all right. Bondi. Big fat leather address book. Filofax, whatever the hell that is. Pretty full, too. Looked straight–up, nothing in code. Pussy doctor, dentist, hairdresser. Lots of addresses in Australia. Number at the club where this Sybil works."

  "You see the name Kite anywhere?"

  "Not a trace, Ace."

  "Bottom line?"

  "It's a hotel, bro, not her home. She may play there, but she ain't gonna stay there…and she knows it. Had some real nice luggage. Alligator, the real thing. Old–fashioned kind—none of those little wheels on it. I figure she could fill them suitcases, empty out the joint, be in the wind in a few hours."

  "You think it's worth me talking to her?"

  "She's a ho, bro. She sees the gelt, her heart'll melt," the Prof offered.

  Michelle took a deep drag on her long black cigarette. When she took it from her mouth, her cherry lipstick was all over the snow–white filter tip. "What you do for a living doesn't make you a whore," she said softly. "Sure, there's women so cold you'd need a CPA to find their G–spot. And maybe that's her, I don't know." She took another drag. "But there's another 'maybe,' Burke. Maybe she told you the truth. Maybe she was in love."

  The little round brunette's hair was cut shorter than the watchers like it in the wet–dream joints, but she'd spent enough on the implants to keep them paying attention. Her breasts were right at the tolerance limit for her frame, so stuffed she had cleavage even topless. They tumbled free as she tossed her black bikini bra into the audience; bounced deeply as she reached behind her to the fireman's pole; finally stabilized as she steadied herself. She ground the pole between her buttocks and humped hard to the music, her fingers patting herself between the legs, eyes closed. That last part was a smart move—the audience was ugly.

  She worked for the money, crawling along the runway, rewarding every bill stuck into the black garters around her chubby thighs with a lick of her lips or a shake from her elevated butt. The crowd was small, but they gave her a big hand along with the cash. The PA system interrupted the music loud enough to say her name was Desirée.

  "Hi, handsome," she said to me a few minutes later at my table in the back of the club, bending forward so her pendulous breasts were inches from my face.

  "You're a great dancer," I said, stuffing a twenty into each of her garters.

  "Ummm," she purred at me without looking at the bills—like her thighs could read. "Would you like me to dance some more? Just for you?"

  "Yeah, I'd like that," I told her, laying two more twenties on top of the little table.

  Then she was on my lap, facing away, straddling my cock like she had the fireman's pole, humping just as hard. I kept my hands on her waist, away from those flopping breasts, whispered into her ear: "You're a really good dancer, Sybil."

  I felt her stiffen against me, heard the harsh intake of breath. "Tell Bondi I'd like to see her again," I whispered. "Tell her Burke wants to buy her lunch. I'll call her, okay?"

  She deflated on my lap like someone stuck a pin in one of those rubber sex–dolls. "I don't—"

  "Just tell her," I said, shifting my weight. She stood up. Walked away without looking back, heading right for the shaved–head bouncer standing with his arms crossed over in the far corner. She was so shook she even forgot the wiggle.

  "Hullo?" She answered the phone on the first ring the next morning, more a question than a greeting.

  "It's me," I said, my voice shaded just past neutral toward friendly. In case she wasn't the only one listening. "I thought, if you weren't busy, maybe we could have dinner or something."

  "Something?"

  "If you'd rather do something else, I mean. A movie, maybe a—"

  "Could we go to a club?" she asked in a little girl's voice. A little girl expecting to be disappointed, but taking a shot anyway.

  "A nightclub?"

  "No, one of those comedy clubs," she said, switching to her normal voice. "I've always wanted to go, but I never did. You ever have something like that? Something you always wanted to do?"

  "Yeah," I told her. "But I did some things I didn't want to do too. I guess maybe it balances out."

  "I know what you mean. At least, I think I do—I don't know you that well."

  "That's the part I'm trying to fix," I said.

  "Why?"

  "I like you," I told her. "I just like you. And I thought, if you knew me better, you might like me too."

  "Maybe I know you better than you think," she said softly. "Would you rather just skip the date, come on up here instead?"

  "No. I mean, I would like to come up there. But I thought I'd let you make up your mind first."

  "That's sweet. You know, if I hadn't been expecting your call, it would have been a…surprise."

  "I know. That's why I—"

  "Is tonight too soon?" she interrupted.

  "Just right," I replied. "Eight o'clock?"

  "Do you mind if I…meet you someplace? I'm going to be out—getting my hair done. I don't want to break the appointment. How about Seventy–seventh and Central Park West, on the park side?"

  "See you then," I said.

  "Where'd you get this?" I asked Clarence. I was in the back of a black Jaguar Mark VII sedan—an old one, but it looked and smelled showroom.

  "It's my mate's, mahn," Clarence said over his shoulder. "I let him hold my Rover for the night. Heathcliff knows I love my ride like he loves this one. We trust each other with our babies. No problem."

  "It's a beauty," I said, patting the oxblood leather seat.

  "It is a good one, mahn, that I know. Not as fine as mine, it is true, but very cherry anyway. I know the woman will like it. And mine, you know, it is really too small to play limousine. This one has real privacy," he said. "Try the button."

  I pushed the button he pointed at and a thick pane of frosted glass slid up from behind the front seat. "Can you still hear me?" I asked him in a normal voice. When he didn't answer, I hit the button and asked the question again as the glass slid down.

  "It depends on how loud you speak, mahn. Cliff would not want wires running through his pride and joy, now."

  "That's okay—it's not about that tonight."

  "But this is the woman, yes, my brother?" Clarence asked in his honey Island voice. "The one whose apartment my father—?"

  "Yeah, it's her. But we haven't got her mapped yet. After tonight, we should know."

  "Very good, sir," Clarence said, crossing Columbus Circle, a smile in his voice.

  She was sitting on one of those drab green sidewalk benches, waiting. Back straight, legs crossed. Wearing a pair of blue jeans over red ankle–height boots with spike heels, topped by a plain white jersey top, a black leather motorcycle jacket over her lap. Her long chestnut hair was pulled into a ponytail—didn't look like a
hairdresser's work.

  The Jag glided to the curb. Clarence stepped out, his usual rainbow outfit replaced with a somber chauffeur's uniform, right down to the black cap. He walked over to where Bondi was sitting, said something to her. She got up, followed him to the car. Clarence held the door open for her.

  "Hi!" she said, climbing in to sit next to me. "Wow! I didn't expect all this."

  "Because we're just going to a club?"

  "Because it's just me, honey. This must have set you back a bit."

  "You like it?" I asked her.

  "Oh, I love it!" she said, patting the upholstery. "It's so elegant."

  "Then it's worth it," I told her.

  Her smile flashed brighter than her rhinestone choker.

  "You look very pretty," I told her.

  "Red, white, and blue," she said, pointing at her shoes, then touching her chest and her thigh. "Our colors too, you know. The bloody Brits had them first, but we made the best of them."

  Clarence piloted the Jag like it had a crate of Fabergé eggs in the trunk. But we weren't in a hurry, small talk smoothing the way. Once he hit the FDR heading south, I hit the button and the privacy shield slid up. I lit a smoke—I'd cleared it with Clarence in front—and leaned back against the soft cushions.

  "Well, give us a puff too," Bondi said.

  I handed the cigarette to her with my right hand but she took my wrist and looped it over her shoulders, moving against me. "Give us a snuggle first," she said, a merry tone in her voice.

  I slipped my arm around her, held the cigarette so she could take a drag from my hand. Her perfume was light, just this side of the too–sweet edge. Spring flowers after a rain.

  "I haven't had a date since—"

  "Ssssh," I said softly. "This is now."

  The club was on the East–West Village border, the ground floor of what had once been a small factory. Ten bucks at the door, two–drink minimum, open microphone. We sat through maybe a dozen numbers. Mostly women, mostly talking about relationships. One did a funny riff about working as a temp. Most of them bombed. The best was a girl who imitated an answering machine, doing the voice mail of a stalking victim: "It doesn't matter whether I'm home or not, I'm not answering my phone. If you're calling to promise never to do it again, press One—then go fuck yourself. If you're in therapy and have some insight into your own behavior, press Two—and then go fuck yourself. If this is a death threat, press your carotid artery…tight. And leave it there until I call you back." One guy went on and on about Bosnia. Mostly, they were weak, and the people in the audience ignored them, working on their self–images. But no hecklers—it wasn't that kind of a joint.