Choice of Evil

by Andrew Vachss

  Once they took us to watch some Little League game. Out in the suburbs, all us State kids on a bus. Same kind of bus they used to take me to prison years later, only this one didn’t have that steel mesh over the windows. Anyway, it wasn’t like we were going to play or anything; we just got to watch.

  This one kid, he was a fat clumsy little goof. Every time they hit the ball to him, he flubbed it. And when he got up to bat, his swing was spastic. But his father was running around the stands cheering like the kid was the second coming of DiMaggio, shouting encouragement, applauding everything. I could see it embarrassed the fat kid, his father making such a fuss over him and all.

  I hated that kid.

  I wanted to kill him.

  And take his place.

  I wanted to. . .

  “Burke. Call for you.”

  Mama, tapping me on the shoulder, that look on her face telling me it wasn’t the first time she’d tried, but I hadn’t been there.

  I shook my head to clear it. Immaculata and Flower were gone. Max was sitting across from me. Cards still on the table. Score sheet to my right. But it was—damn!—half an hour since I’d been in the room.

  “Thanks, Mama,” I said, like nothing was going on. I saw her exchange looks with Max.

  “What?” I said into the phone.

  “Aw, you never did call, huh?” A woman’s voice. But not one I. . .

  “Nadine,” I said.

  “Sure. Who else? You have other girlfriends?”

  “What do you want?” I asked, flat-voiced, just this side of harsh.

  “Ah, what a list that is. But, for now, I’ll settle for this: We want to meet with you again.”

  “Lincoln—”

  “Yes, Lincoln. All of us.”

  “What’s the—?”

  “The point,” she interrupted again, “is that we’ve come to an agreement. And we want to propose it to you.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, and we listened, okay? You can have what you want. How many times a day do you hear that?” she mock-purred.

  “I hear it all the time,” I told her.

  “Well, you play your cards right, you’ll get to see it too,” she said, a play-sexy catch in her low voice.

  “You want entertainment, watch TV, bitch.”

  “You scared?” she challenged.

  “Sure,” I said indifferently.

  “Hmm. . . that works on most men,” she said, whispering now, breathy. “What works on you, Burke?”

  “Money,” I said, neutral-voiced.

  “Well, then, you got your wish, mister. Interested now?”

  I didn’t bother with the bouncer this time. Or backup either. If there was going to be trouble, it would have been last time. Anyway, my crew knew who everyone was, and where to find the place. If those people knew enough about me to offer me a job, they knew enough to figure out that double-crossing me was a sure ticket to Payback City. And that it wouldn’t be a round trip.

  The yellow door opened a split-second after I rapped. Nadine. In baggy pink jersey sweats, her thick dark hair tied behind her head.

  “You ever go anyplace without her?” she asked, nodding at Pansy.

  “Sometimes,” I replied, looking over her shoulder. The place was empty. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Oh, they’ll be along. Don’t worry. I just wanted to talk to you first. Alone.”

  “Talk,” I told her, walking past her and sitting down at the same table she’d been at the first time.

  She strolled slowly over, hauling the sweatshirt over her head with both hands as she moved. Underneath was a white jersey bra with heavy shoulder straps. She needed them. Pansy watched her, not moving. She doesn’t rely on smell like most dogs, never makes guesses. If I told her to, she’d let the strange woman pat her head and not make a sound. Or lock on to her like a crocodile with an antelope that ventured too near the water’s edge. All the same to Pansy—she’s a pro.

  Nadine sat down, rummaged in a small black nylon bag sitting on the table. The only light was somewhere in the back room. No noise. She came out with a hypo, hit herself on a fleshy part of her upper arm, and pushed the plunger. If she felt the spike go in, I couldn’t see it in her eyes.

  And if she expected a reaction from me, she didn’t see it either. “What is it you want?” I asked her.

  “To find out. . . something. They’re going to hire you, but I have a. . . proposition. Maybe. I need to find out. . . . Did you ever know a lesbian? I mean, really know one, not watch a couple do it in some movie?”

  “I live with one,” I told her.

  “Huh? You? Who is she?”

  “She’s right there,” I said, pointing at Pansy.

  “I guess I don’t like your sense of humor much,” she said, her voice sharp around the edges.

  “Pansy’s gay,” I said, telling her the truth. “Or whatever it is that means she wants nothing to do with male dogs. She’s a Neapolitan mastiff, from one of the finest lines. I could get an easy fifteen hundred bucks for one pup, and they usually have real big litters. So I paid a ridiculous stud fee for this famous brute Neo, over in Brooklyn. And even though Pansy was in heat, she wouldn’t get busy with him. No matter what he did, she wasn’t having any.”

  “Maybe she just didn’t like him?”

  “Like him? A bitch in heat? Sure. Anyway, I tried it again. Couple of times, in fact. No Sale.”

  “Didn’t they want you to tie her down so he could—?”

  “Yeah, they did. You think I’d let anyone rape my dog?”

  “Well. . . you were going to breed her, right?”

  “I was going to let her have sex, then let her have puppies. That’s it. I thought she wanted to. And I was wrong. Truth is, I thought she would—she loves puppies.”

  “You really think she’s gay?” she asked, leaning forward, moving her elbows in to display the cleavage.

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t think dogs could be—”

  “Why not? Some monkeys are. It’s just brain chemistry, right? Hormones trigger differently. I heard it from other guys too, about their dogs.”

  “How about male dogs?”

  “I. . . don’t know. I don’t see why not. Be harder to tell with them, though.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re pack animals. When the bitches go into season, the males fight. The winners get to mate. At least, mate first. Maybe their blood gets up even if they don’t want to have sex, and they fight anyway. I don’t know. Never paid much attention.”

  “But you seem to know a lot about them.”

  “Dogs? Sure. Pansy’s my. . . partner.”

  “Is she. . . trained, like?”

  “You mean, can she do tricks?”

  “Yes. I mean, I guess so. What else could—?”

  “They got food in that joint? The one around the side?”

  “Sure. What would—?”

  “Go get a nice piece of raw steak, no bone, I’ll show you a trick.”

  She gave me a quizzical look for a long second. Then got up and walked out the door. If running around in her bra bothered her, you couldn’t see any evidence of it.

  I lit a cigarette. “Ready to show off, girl?” I asked Pansy.

  She didn’t say anything.

  I was almost done with the smoke when Nadine came back in, a big slab of bloody steak in one hand. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Just give it to her,” I said.

  “She won’t. . . bite me?”

  “She won’t do anything unless I tell her to. Go ahead.”

  She handed the steak to Pansy. The big Neo sniffed it appreciatively and immediately started to slobber. With Pansy, that means quarts, not drops. But she didn’t move a muscle.

  “How come she won’t—?”

  “Drape it right over her snout,” I told her. “Go ahead—it’s perfectly safe.”

  She did what I told her. I got up, walked behind Nadine. Pansy’s eyes were only on m
e. “Tell her she’s beautiful,” I whispered into Nadine’s ear.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said, just as I made the hand signal for “Speak!” to Pansy. The beast expertly spun her huge head, dewlaps sending a spray of drool all across the room as the steak disappeared into her maw. It was gone in a few chomps. She sat up alertly, waiting for more.

  “That’s enough, you pig,” I told her, walking back to the table.

  “She only takes food when you tell her she’s beautiful?” Nadine asked, a tone of wonderment in her voice. Really curious now, not playing.

  “You know how some women are about their weight,” I said.

  “That’s. . . amazing. Does she do other stuff?”

  “Lots of stuff. But I couldn’t show you most of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s nobody here to show it on.”

  “Oh. She’s a. . . what do you call them. . . attack dog?”

  “She’s a protection dog,” I said. “Just about all her tricks have something to do with that.”

  “She doesn’t, like. . . I don’t know. . . roll over or play dead or anything?”

  “What good would any of that be?”

  “I don’t know. I see people with their dogs. . . in the park. . . . Does she play fetch? Or Frisbee?”

  “Pansy doesn’t play anything. She works. Just like me.”

  “Oh, you never play?” she asked, a wicked grin making her face look softer.

  “Not word games.”

  “Me either. No matter what you think of me.”

  “How do you know what I think of you?”

  “Oh, that’s not hard. I’m a cock-teasing queer cunt, right?”

  “ ‘Queer,’ that’s your word. I don’t know anything about the rest.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think you want something. And that you’re going to tell me what it is.”

  “Because. . .?”

  “Because, unless you’re lying, the others are going to show up, and you don’t want to ask me whatever it is in front of them.”

  “A lot of strippers are gay,” she said, as if that was an answer to a question.

  “Why tell me?”

  “To explain what I said before. I have girlfriends who strip. They have to. . . sit with the guys, it’s part of the job.”

  “You mean sit on them, right?”

  “Yes. But it’s not a whorehouse.”

  “You take off your pants for money, then you’re a. . . what? Actress?”

  “Men hate that,” she said, as if I hadn’t said a word. “They find out you’re gay, it’s like they’ve been. . . tricked or something.”

  “ ‘Tricked’ is exactly what they’ve been. You pay some broad to wiggle on your lap, what are you except a trick?”

  “You don’t understand. They wouldn’t care. . . . I mean, they wouldn’t get mad, if the girl was straight. I can’t explain it. They just—”

  “Yeah, whatever. You got a point to all this?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I do have a point. You already have one gay partner. You want another?”

  I watched her face, staying on her eyes, little chunks of cobalt, looking for. . . I don’t know what. But I came up empty.

  “What’s that mean?” I finally asked her.

  “If you’re really going to look for him, there’d be places you’d have to go. It would be a lot easier. . . easier for you. . . if you had someone with you, understand?”

  “You think I’m going to look for a serial killer in gay bars?”

  “No,” she said. Eyes alive, mouth tense. “That’s what they think. I mean the. . . others. Lincoln and all. Or maybe not. I don’t have any idea. But. . . neither do they. That’s the point. All they know about you is. . . what they heard. They don’t know what to do, but they want to do something, okay? It’s more. . . symbolic to them, I think. I mean, they can’t expect you to really find this guy. How could you? Every cop in the city is looking for him, and. . . Anyway, they just want to be able to tell themselves they tried . . . like they were being ‘supportive’ or whatever the hot word is this week. I mean, with that deal you wanted, how would they even know if you ever looked at all?”

  “Ah. So the idea is, you tag along, you make sure I’m earning the money?”

  “No. I think. . . I know about you too. And not from where they do.”

  “Which means. . .?”

  “You think the only gay cops on the force are in GOAL?”

  I knew what she meant—Gay Officers Action League. Like the Guardians, the organization for black cops. Every group inside the department has got some kind of organization of its own. It took major cojones to come out in the open like the cops at GOAL had, but it wasn’t news, not anymore. I just shrugged an answer at her.

  “They’re not,” she said, firmly. “I mean, they’re not all. . . out. Not because they’re afraid, but because they have. . . work to do. And it wouldn’t get done if the brass knew the truth, no matter what NYPD’s PR people say.”

  “So?”

  “So I have a friend. And I got to learn a little about you from. . . my friend.”

  “I’m giddy with anticipation,” I told her.

  Pansy grunted, convinced, finally, that she’d seen the last of the steak.

  “You’ve been arrested dozens of times,” she said. “And you’ve been in prison too.”

  “That’s your idea of a secret?”

  “No,” she said, leaning closer, dropping her voice. “This is: A cop was killed a couple of years ago. A woman cop. Belinda Rogers. She was bent. Bent bad. Killed some women to make it look like a rapist did it. Her boyfriend was in prison. In New Jersey. He was just finishing up there, for some other crimes, and then he was coming here for trial. It was copycat killing she was doing—like that crazy woman in California who tried to copy one of the Hillside Strangler’s crimes because she was in love with one of the guys who actually did it.”

  “What’s this got to do with—?”

  “The cop who killed her? It was a shootout. His name is Morales. He’s still on the job.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You had something to do with it,” she said flatly.

  “With killing a cop?” I asked, raising my eyebrows with the ridiculousness of the idea.

  “No. But the word is that you were the one who found her. Found her out, I mean. That you were the one who tracked her down.”

  “That’s some weird ‘word’ you got,” I said gently, just shy of mocking her.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m not going to argue with you. I’m not trying to get you to admit anything. I’m not wired,” she said, sticking her chest out as if that would prove she was telling the truth, “and this isn’t a game. What I’m telling you is. . . I know you could find this man. And you might get into places where you’d have to. . . convince people that you weren’t a bounty hunter, understand?”

  “No.”

  “Look. A lot of people are trying to find him. There’s some major reward money out there. And word is that there’s a mercenary team looking. That’s another thing I know about you too. You could hook him up. . . get him out of here if you wanted to.”

  “If your source for that is as good as—”

  “Never mind. You know whatever your truth is. All I can do is tell you mine. Bottom line: If you get in. . . contact with him, why should he trust you? But if I’m there, if I’m in it, then he’d know it was legit.”

  “So I’m gonna call him on the phone, tell him I’m really a nice guy, and prove it by bringing you to our next meeting?”

  “I know it won’t be like that,” she said, biting at her lip, trying for patience. “I don’t know how it would happen. But if it comes down to. . . credentials. . . if I was there, I could answer any questions. You see what I’m saying?”

  “I hear it. But I can’t see it,” I told her. “You got some ragtime story from some loony pal of yours on the force; you got some pssst-pss
st bullshit about mercenaries; you think it adds up to you partnering up with me? Not this year.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I still answered it for her. “No.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. You don’t know me. But I’m telling you the truth. Not about”—she waved her hands as if dismissing those stories about me she’d heard—&rlquo;that stuff. About this: I want to find him. And I want to help him get away before they bring him down. The others, they’re just role-playing. Even Lincoln. All that macho rap, it’s just for style points. That’s what it’ll come down to if he’s ever caught: courthouse vigils, talk shows, letters to the editor. . . not what they say they want.”

  “Why you?”

  “You know how gay people always wonder if some part of them isn’t straight? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Well, we do. I don’t mean we want it. . . although some pray for it. . . but we always. . . wonder. I don’t even know how it works. If you have sex with. . . you know what I mean, does that make you bi?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man.”

  “Meaning you never did. Or you just don’t know.”

  “Both.”

  “I didn’t come out right away. It was. . . years. Before I figured out. . . before I. . . Never mind. If I had sex with men once, and I have sex with women now, what am I?”

  “I’m the wrong man to ask.”

  “You’re the wrong man to ask a lot of things, seems like.”

  “True.”

  “I love him,” she said suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “The. . . executioner. I love him. I never met him. Or maybe I did. None of us could know that. Maybe he was right in one of the. . . places we go. But it doesn’t matter. I know I love him. And I want to be with him. Even if he’s. . . even if we could never have. . . I mean. . . It doesn’t matter. I love him and I want to be with him. So I’ll. . . do things. Whatever things, it doesn’t matter. Things that could help you find him. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. I always seem to have the same problem with you, Nadine. I understand what you’re saying. I just have problems with believing any of it.”