False Allegations b-9

by Andrew Vachss

  Bondi loved it, clapping loudly for each one, asking me "Isn't this great, then?" over and over. I watched the people watching the people, See–and–Be–Seen in full swing at every table. The only ones sitting alone were there for one of the performers—who joined them after their sets and watched their competition.

  I looked at Bondi's face for the first time then, really seeing it. A crackle of red in her dark brown hair, a light bruise of freckles across the bridge of her flat little nose, her wide mouth turning down just a little at the ends, hazel eyes set wide and direct. It wasn't that the parts were so pretty, it was the mix. And when she smiled, it made you want to taste it.

  It was past eleven when she wanted to go. I tapped a number into the cell phone, waited for her to finish her drink. When we stepped outside, the Jag was in place.

  "You want to come up?" she asked on the drive back.

  "Yes," I said. "I sure do."

  "Honey, would you mind…I mean, I know it's tacky and all but…could you drop me off and put me in a cab? And just hang out for a half hour or so? Then I'll buzz you in, okay?"

  "Sure."

  "It's just that…there's no other entrance. And if he sees me come in with…"

  "Nothing to it," I told her.

  We found a cab stand in the Fifties, just off Fifth. I put her inside, gave the driver the address. She reached a hand behind my neck, pulled my face down. "Here's a down payment," she whispered against my mouth. "See you soon."

  When she let me in, she was wearing a midthigh black spandex sheath and black spikes. Her hair was down and her makeup was fresh, red lipstick glistening in the reflected light from one of the baby spots. The rest of the living room was dark. "Sit down, honey," she said, pushing me toward the two–person chair.

  "You want a smoke?" she asked, bringing over the glass ashtray without waiting for an answer.

  She turned her back and walked over to a cabinet that held a stereo and a stack of CDs. The black sheath had a zipper all the way down the back, anchored at the top with a big brass pull–ring. Stripper's gown. The sheer stockings had thin black seams, a faint metallic glitter pattern in the mesh. She slipped in a CD. Heavy, pulsating music throbbed out of the speakers—all bass, baritone sax, and low–register piano—nothing I recognized. She played with the volume control until it was so muted I could feel it more than hear it.

  She turned and walked back over to me. Stopped when she was still a few feet away. "Did Sybil dance for you?" she asked softly.

  "She danced for the money," I told her.

  "Was she good?"

  "Good enough, I guess. Good as a lie can be."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You said it yourself—did she dance for me? That's the lie. She's not—in that club, anyway, she's not—a woman, she's a jukebox. You shove the money in, she wiggles and jiggles. The money runs out, the music stops."

  "But the men all know—"

  "I didn't say she was a crook, Bondi. A lie's what they're paying for. They're not getting cheated."

  "Did you think she was pretty?"

  "Pretty enough."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing spectacular."

  "Her bloody boobs are spectacular, right?"

  "Not in a place like that, they're not. You just dial the size you want, right?"

  "What did you want?" she asked, bending forward like the answer was really important.

  "Just to have her tell you I'd be calling. So you wouldn't spook."

  "Why would I spook?"

  "Because it wasn't about that…job you wanted."

  "What was it all about, then?"

  "What I told you. A date."

  "You wanted to go to bed with me again?"

  "Yes. But I wanted to…be with you too."

  "Because you like me?" a film of sarcasm over her soft voice. "And you thought if I knew you better, I'd like you too?"

  "That's right," I said, my voice soft but strong against her mockery.

  She turned her back on me, standing quiet for a minute. "And that's not a lie?" she asked, looking over one shoulder. "What you just said?"

  "No. That's not a lie at all, Bondi."

  She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.

  She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan's neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model's body with a stripper's curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.

  It was a real dance—she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.

  The first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.

  I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn't under very deep.

  A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. "You don't…start things much, do you, honey?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, we've…done it, a few times, right? Tonight and…before. When you first came here. And I still don't know what you like."

  "I told you—I like you."

  "I don't mean that, luv. I want you to like what we do, too."

  "I do."

  "But what do you like best, honey? I've got…toys and stuff. For fun. Stay here."

  She got off the bed and walked out of the room, swaying slightly. Not putting on a show—like she was getting her bearings. When she came back, she was wearing a white domino mask, a white leather riding crop in her hand.

  "You want to try this?" she whispered, standing next to the bed. "The Brits say they invented it, but some of us Aussie birds like a little touch–up too…sometimes."

  I reached over, took the riding crop from her hand. Tossed it over my body to the floor on the other side of the bed. "Take off the mask," I said, tugging her down beside me.

  When she came around, her face was puffy. Slightly double–chinned, soft and round, with little jowls showing. Her lipstick was gone. Her eyes were slitted. She made a growling sound, like she didn't want me to wake her up. I took one of her tiny tight little nipples between my teeth, just holding it there. She locked her hands behind my head, holding it in place, made sweet noises.

  Later, she cat–stretched from where she was lying on her back next to me in the big bed in her room. She leaned all the way forward and touched her toes, then turned herself over so she was on her stomach. "Give us a rub, will you?" she purred.

  She leaned into the back rub so hard I could feel every vertebrae on her spine. Then she nestled into me, arms around my lower legs. I thought she was going to sleep, but she slithered toward the front of the bed, then hooked a smooth hard thigh over me and sat up, straddling me. "See? It pays to be nice to me," she giggled over her shoulder, bouncing into another dance.

  Still later, her head on my chest. I thought she was asleep until she said, "I could have done that too, you know?"

  "Done what?"

  "The implants. Sybil makes more money than I did, just because of those things. They're way too big, you know. She's gonna have to have them cut out in a couple of years."

  "You look perfect the way you are," I said. Thinking about Vyra, an old girlfriend of mine. Vyra with her thin, curveless body. And those enormous breasts that looked grafted on. The breasts were as real as Vyra's sadness about men only liking her for them. I wondered if Bondi would have liked no–implant, all–natural Vyra better than surgically enhanced Sybil. Somehow, I didn't think so.

  "No I don't," she said
, her voice hard and resigned. "Not for the club life. That's the first thing they look at, you know? 'Take off your top, girlie—let's have a look–see.' That's what they say. I can dance, you know. I mean, really dance."

  "I know."

  "But it doesn't matter, not a bit. They all want the giant boobs. The managers, I mean. Sometimes they strip us all down, like a bloody meat rack. And they'll tell you, right to your face: go get the work done. They all know doctors. Some of them, they'll even let you work it off, you know? Front the money for the implants."

  "And grease a little on the price."

  "Of course. All the dancers have to do it eventually…except the Oriental girls. They like them to be small, like little girls, even. I don't know what that's all about."

  "Yeah you do."

  "I guess I do. Maybe that's why Thailand's such hot stuff. Back home, they all take trips over there. I heard you can get real little girls in Bangkok."

  "Little boys too."

  "Ugh! I hate—"

  "Me too," I said, stroking the back of her neck with two fingers."

  She was quiet for a bit. Then: "Burke?"

  "What?"

  "You're right, you know. What you said. It is a lie. I hate lies. That's why I—"

  "I know."

  "You say that a lot, don't you, honey? 'I know.' But the way you say it, I almost believe you do."

  "I'm careful when I say it, Bondi. And it's true when I do."

  "Is Burke your first name? That's a Brit name, you know. Or maybe it's Irish…Is it your first name or your last?"

  "It's both, actually."

  "Oh God, I heard about stuff like that. Your mother must have had some sense of humor."

  "Yeah, Mom loved her jokes all right," I said. Thinking about the indifferently typed letters on my birth certificate, the one I'd had to commit a crime to see. In the institution they sent me to when I was a kid. I'd used a screwdriver on the file cabinets in back of the social worker's office. Looking for my father's name—one of the older kids said it would be there. My father's name turned out to be UNK. My mother hadn't even bothered to give me a name. The fucking State had done that: Baby Boy Burke.

  Maybe it was something in my voice—she stayed quiet for a while after that. I listened to her breathing. It smoothed out and settled down, but she never flirted with REM.

  "Burke?"

  "What?"

  "Can we tell each other the truth?"

  "I can," I lied, holding her closer.

  "It's true," she said softly. "He's there. Across the street. Watching. At least, I think he is."

  "But…?"

  "But it wasn't my girlfriend who told me. That he lets other people watch me, I mean."

  "Who was it?"

  "A woman. A big, hard woman. Not fat, really. Just…muscular. Pushy, too. Like a bloody man, she was."

  "A lesbian, you mean?"

  "No, silly. They're women too. This one wasn't like that. She came right to my door. Rang the bell. She said her name was Heather. Heather, huh! Some name for a creature like that, I tell you! She had orange eyes. Orange! Can you imagine? Contact lenses, for sure. They looked so…I don't know…aggressive. She…scared me, like."

  "Did you ask her how she knew? About what was going on?"

  "It didn't matter, honey. She knew. She told me all about it—what I…do for him. She must have seen it. Or he told her about it—that's just as bad."

  "What else did she say?"

  "She just said, if I wanted to…do something about it, she knew a guy who could get it done."

  "Did she say my name?"

  "Your name? No, baby. She told me about this guy Harry. I called him. Went to his office. He asked me what did I want to do about it. He was playing like maybe I wanted to get him done. My…boyfriend, I mean. Bash him up, maybe. Or even worse. I told him I didn't want that. I just wanted him to pay."

  "Whose idea was it about the safe?"

  "That was Harry's. He said he knew some guys who could handle it. That's what he said: 'handle it.' I should just wait, and he'd give me a call."

  "And you didn't hear from him again?"

  "Just from you, luv. That one time."

  I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on keeping my voice gentle. "You knew it was a wrong number, Bondi. You thought some man was going to come around, you were going to tell him that story, he was gonna go in there, take care of business…and mail you your share?"

  "No," she said quietly. "I never thought that. I thought something was gonna…happen. To him. I didn't much care what. I told you the truth about that part. I'm going home. And I'm not looking back."

  "Tell me the rest," I said.

  "She came back. This Heather, she came back here. She said a man would come around. A quiet, hard man. You. She didn't say your name, but she described you perfect. She said, if you didn't ask any questions, just keep my mouth shut."

  "But if I did?"

  She got off the bed again, walked out of the room. When she came back, she had a card in her hand. I knew what it was. I couldn't see the lock, but I could hear the tumblers falling into place.

  "He's got to have a couple dozen grand in the setup," I told Mama, sitting in my booth in the restaurant. "He spent all that money, he's got to know where to find me. He knows the connect to Michelle, that's for sure. All this dancing around just to leave me his business card. What's the point?"

  "You know my place on Mott Street?" she asked, like she hadn't heard me.

  "Sure," I told her. Behind an orange steel door, a series of immaculate rooms, all furnished in duplicates: twin chairs, twin lamps, twin ashtrays. Inlaid mosaic tile tables, teak floors, pristine white walls dotted with framed hand–drawn haiku and old tapestries. Recessed lighting. Heavy dark plum floor–to–ceiling curtains blocking all outside light. Central air–conditioning whispering within cork–lined walls, vacuuming humidity away. A marble slab covered with black velvet, twin stalks of fiber–optic adjustable lights for examining jewelry.

  "Showroom," Mama said. "Understand?"

  "To show the goods?" I answered tentatively, not sure where she was going. Mama dealt in product. Transportable product. Diamonds, bearer bonds, engraved currency plates. Guns were too bulky, narcotics too shaky–flaky. When I first met her, I realized we were in the same business. Only Mama stayed at the high end.

  "Goods not change," she said. "Emerald on velvet is same as emerald on wood, yes? Mott Street not to show the gems, to show the dealer. Face. Very important. Serious business, take serious, okay?"

  "You think this Kite guy, he went through all this just to show me he was a serious player?"

  "Sure," Mama said, shrugging her shoulders to show it was no big deal. "Good investment, maybe."

  "I'm small–time, Mama. Nobody needs all that to try and sell me a job."

  "Must be big job," is all she said.

  Calling Kite was a no–risk—if there was a way to kill someone over the phone, nobody'd work for the Motor Vehicle Bureau. And I always use the phone like it's a party line anyway—with the cops on the other end. But the way this was coming down, even all that didn't make me feel safe enough.

  So, just before daybreak, I drove up to Hunts Point. The City's supposedly been fixing the FDR for years, but under its lousy overhead lighting, it was even more of a killing ground for cars than usual—busted chunks of pavement cleverly camouflaged the cavernous potholes, broken glass glittered everywhere. Buying a new car in this cesspool of a city is like wearing a tuxedo to a gang fight.

  The streets were still slick from a midnight rain, so I picked my way carefully over the Triborough. Rolling north on the Bruckner, I drove by an underpass and spotted a tow truck lurking, shielded from sight, its red taillights the glowing eyes of a carrion–eater, waiting for the next car to die.

  I pushed the button for the all–news station. Big bulletin: Seventeen overdose deaths directly attributable to a new brand of heroin on the street called China Doll. That's the kind of crap they
call a "public service announcement." Sure. Truth is, they're not scaring the junkies off with that kind of crap—they're running a promotion for the new stuff. Every dope fiend in town is going to want a piece of that fresh dynamite; if it's killing people, it's the real thing, not some cut–sugar lemonade.

  The radio said the year–end survey showed subway crime was down. In all areas except homicide—the only crime that self–reports. I wonder why they call it "news."

  There's an all–sports station too. They had an interview with the guy who owns the Yankees, Steinbrenner. He was saying how nobody wants to go to the Bronx to see the Yankees because the neighborhood around the stadium is too dangerous. Not suitable for families. Except for the ones who live there, I guess. Steinbrenner charges a hundred bucks for a pair of tickets and a couple of beers and he says the reason the attendance is so lousy is because of crime. Maybe he means highway robbery.

  The rest of the AM dial was all halfass advice: money, love, real estate, food. And the usual hate talk. New York's all black and white now, a sharp blood–red line between the colors. The black radio stations still don't get it—when O.J. Simpson was acquitted, every Klansman in America cheered.

  I switched over to FM, looking for some music, but BGO was playing jazz, not blues. And the CBS oldies station was playing disco.

  I went back to the news: Some freak took real good care of his girlfriend. Paid for everything, including her implants. When she said she was leaving, he tried to repossess them. With a knife.

  A drunk driver's car hit a child so hard they found his license plate inside the kid when they did the autopsy. Happened in Queens—the driver'll probably get probation. Doesn't matter—last guy to run for D.A. there did it on the Democratic, Republican, Liberal, and Conservative tickets. Even if sheep could talk, they'd never ask questions.