Everybody Pays

by Andrew Vachss

  “Yes,” the blonde said, a quick smile slashing across her full lips. “But the genius part was getting a real live little girl for the phones. I mean, it’s just amazing that those child-molester freaks can tell the difference.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, come on, Lester. You know as well as me that the rest of them can’t tell. You got blimps like Marcia cooing into the phone like she’s the hottest piece of stuff in town. You think if the marks could see that fat slob they’d still get turned on?”

  “Yeah, I guess maybe you’re right, Delva,” the man said, an undercurrent of sneer in his voice. “I mean, if any of the guys you phone-fuck knew you was a dyke, that’d sure—”

  “Oh, bullshit.” The blonde laughed. “Truth is, it’d be a big turn-on for them. They’d think they were so hot, they got me to go over, change sides, right? Besides, men love lesbians, don’t they? You can get guys to watch girl-girl stuff all day. Try to get a bunch of girls to watch two gay guys getting it on—they’d fall asleep.”

  “Maybe you’re—”

  “Oh, you know I’m right, don’t you, Lester? I mean, you know it.”

  “Look . . .” The man gulped. Sweat cracked under the hair-sprayed strands carefully combed to cover his bald spot, but the practiced sneer stayed in his voice. “. . . they’re all the same in the dark, Delva. Pussy is pussy—and yours ain’t gold.”

  The blonde leaned forward again, twisting her body even more radically, her face only inches from the gray man’s. Her red silk sheath rose to just past mid-thigh, displaying thick black bands around the tops of her fishnet stockings. “You sure . . . ?” she whispered.

  “Cut it out already!” he snapped. “You think I’m a trick?”

  “No,” the blonde said calmly. “I think you’re a genius, like I said. How’d you ever get a little girl to be such a good actress? I mean, I heard her on the phone a couple of times—you’d swear she was really into it.”

  “She is really into it. What can I tell you? That’s one grown-up little girl.”

  “Where’d you ever find her? One of the ads?” the blonde asked, pointing a long red-lacquered fingernail at a newspaper column circled in red: help wanted.

  “Not that way! Jeez, how you gonna put an ad like that in the paper? What we do, it’s all legit, top to bottom. You know that. There’s nothing illegal about any of this. Like I told you when you signed on, all you girls are independent contractors, right? There’s a First Amendment, too, maybe you don’t under—”

  “So how did you find her, Lester?”

  “I got an ad running. ‘Phone Hostess,’ you know. Anyway, this woman calls me, right? Regina, you remember her?”

  “Uh-uh,” the blonde said, a puzzled expression on her heavily made-up face.

  “She was only here a few weeks. Anyway, one day, she comes in to get paid—that’s the only reason any of them would come here. Hell, that’s why you’re here, right?”

  “Ah, you know me so well.” The blonde smiled. “So what happened next?”

  “Next? Oh, you mean with the . . . Okay, she comes in. And she’s got this little girl with her. She was, I dunno, eight, nine, ten . . . whatever—I can’t tell with kids. So this Regina, she says the kid wants to work, okay? I thought it was a gag, but I figured, what do I got to lose? So I give her a tryout. Right here. And let me tell you, Delva, this kid’s a pro. She was talking so hot to the marks that called, I couldn’t believe it. And once the word got out, we were smoking, I’m telling you. There’s nothing like the real thing.”

  “And then—”

  “Let me finish for once, all right? It’s true. What you said. The diddlers really can tell the difference. The word got around—now little Lolita’s the hottest thing in town. You know what her rate is? Four ninety-five! That’s a buck sweeter than we can get for anybody else, including you, Delva. And the beauty part is, it’s all legal. One hundred percent legit. The kid’s an actress, see? I don’t know how her mother got her trained so good, but—”

  The blonde got to her feet, stood facing the man, hands on hips. “You got my money?” she demanded.

  “Sure. I got it right here. What’d you think, I was gonna run out on you?”

  “No, Lester,” the blonde said. “I know you’re a man of honor.”

  The man flushed under his gray complexion. “You think you’re better than me? You’re a phone whore—I’m a phone pimp. I don’t make nobody do nothing. You don’t like the deal, you can just haul your fat ass out of here, go find a place where they’ll treat you better.”

  “I’m sorry, Lester,” the blonde said softly. “I was only playing.”

  “Don’t play like that, bitch!” the gray man said. “You don’t insult a man’s honor in his own place. You know better than that.”

  “I said I was sorry, Lester,” the blonde replied. She took a step forward, leaning one hip against the front of the desk. “You running a new ad?”

  “That’s right,” the man said, only slightly mollified. “And this ain’t for no sex stuff either. You know what’s hot now? Psychics. Astrologists. Tarot cards. All that stuff.”

  “But you can get all that on the street,” the blonde said, a puzzled tone in her voice. “Why would they want—?”

  “Look, everybody knows, the Gypsies, they’re just gonna rip you off. Besides, what if you want to talk to someone, say, two in the morning? Who’s open then?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “We got this all on computer now, would you believe that, Delva? Square business: You tell your birthday, all they got to do is push some buttons and they got like a whole report on you. Computers, it’s like magic. They got everything on them. It’s amazing.”

  “Yeah. I guess so, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “You ever try it? For yourself, I mean?”

  “How could I—”

  “You know what I mean, Lester,” the blonde said. She stepped back from the desk, and began to walk in little circles, round and round, as if she were on a turnstile. The gray man’s eyes followed—his gaze never reached her eyes. “You give everyone a tryout, right?” she said. “The way you did with me? You get their home number, then you call them and you act like a trick. So you can see how they do.”

  “What’s that got to do with—?”

  “You try them all, right? Even this little girl—what’s her name again?—Lolita?”

  “That’s not her real name, for Chrissakes! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Me? Nothing. I was just thinking. You always have to test people, right? See how they do on the real thing?” The blonde stopped mid-stride, her back to the gray man, peering over one shoulder. “I just thought you could call one of those psychics,” she said, “find out what’s going to happen to you.”

  “Happen to me? What—?”

  “Like are you going to win the lottery; stuff like that.”

  “Oh. Yeah, well, why should I? It’s all bullshit, like you said.”

  “I meant, just to see how they come across. Look, forget I mentioned it—it’s probably a stupid idea. Give me my money and I’ll get out of here. What time is it anyway?”

  “Exactly two-sixteen a.m.,” the man said, pulling back a cuff to display a gold watch with diamonds circling the face. He started to paw through a metal box which held a number of index cards. “Let’s see. You were on Monday and Tuesday, then you—”

  “I sure hope this thing works,” the blonde said, fumbling in her purse.

  “What works?” he asked, looking up.

  “This,” the blonde said, pulling a semi-automatic pistol from her purse. “The silencer, I mean,” tapping the long tube that extended from the front of the barrel.

  “Delva, look . . .” The gray man’s voice spasmed.

  “Keep quiet, Lester. Keep real quiet. You keep quiet, you stay quiet, and I’m out of here in a minute, no harm done.”

  “It’s in the safe,” he said, a resigned tone in his voice. “If you needed ca
sh, you could’ve always—”

  “No, it’s not in the safe,” the blonde said. “It’s in your records. I want this ‘Lolita’s’ real name. I want her mother’s name. I want where they live. I want it all—everything you got, okay? And fast, Lester—this whole thing makes me nervous.”

  “Sure, Delva—whatever you want, okay? It’s right in here,” he said, holding up the metal box with the index cards. “Let me just . . . here! I got it.”

  “Put it on the desk,” Delva said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She moved quickly to the desk, swept the three index cards up in one hand, and glanced down to read the cards, holding the pistol steady all the while. “Okay,” the blonde said. “That’s it. You wouldn’t do something stupid, would you, Lester? Like calling them yourself and telling them what just happened here?”

  “No way, Delva,” the sickly-looking man promised. “They won’t hear nothing from me—you got my word.”

  “That’s good, Lester. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. This whole thing is all fake, right? Just like you said. It’s all an act. Me too. I’m acting, too. Don’t worry about the gun—it was just a joke. This pistol, it isn’t any more real than what you sell.”

  “Delva . . .”

  “That’s not my real name,” the blonde woman said. The pistol in her hand made a sound like an enormous champagne cork popping. A red dot blossomed on the gray man’s forehead.

  for Joel “Doc” Dvoskin

  SLOW MOTION

  I have to wait for the fear before I start my walk.

  There’s an Eastern man in town. Came by train. Dressed like a banker. A flashy banker. Says he’s a writer.

  Someone must have told him about me. Probably over at the Lucky Lady. One of the gamblers, one of the drunks—it don’t matter.

  He says he wants to write about me. Says people where he comes from, they’re all interested in gunfighters. Lot of money in it if I’d tell him my story.

  I asked him what a lot of money meant to him . . . what the words coming out of his mouth meant. I always do that when I’m striking a deal. I like to make sure.

  He said I could get five hundred dollars if I told him everything.

  I told him to give me the money.

  He said, no, he’d have to hear what I had to say first.

  We settled on half in advance, pretty much like I expected.

  That was a week ago. I’ve been lying to him every day since then.

  Now he’s waiting to see one happen. Said I’d told him enough—all he needed was to see one happen so he could write about it from his own eyes. Then I could get paid.

  That’s why I do it, he thinks.

  See, the way people talk, you’d think you could make a living being a gunfighter. You can make a living with a gun, all right, but not fighting.

  Killing, that’s what pays.

  People talk different where the Easterner comes from. But they’re just as wrong. They think gunfighters go around having duels just to see who’s the fastest.

  I didn’t even know what a duel was until he told me. He said they do it back East, too, only they do it different. Two men start back-to-back. Then they step off while another one counts out loud. When the counter gets to the right number, both men turn and fire.

  It’s a matter of honor, the Easterner told me. If someone does something against your honor, you challenge him to a duel.

  I never fought a man for honor.

  Some do. Some men, you call them a coward or a thief or even a liar, they’ll want to step out into the street and face you.

  I’ve been called a lot worse than that, but it never got me into a gunfight.

  A man in Kansas said things about my mother. I didn’t do nothing. He kept on. I told him if he was truthful about wanting to fight me he could prove it. And not by calling my mother no names.

  He couldn’t call the vicious whore enough names to measure up to the truth, anyway.

  But I didn’t tell him that. What I told him was, put up a stake and I’d match it. Then we’d go out into the street like he wanted. Winner takes the stake.

  He didn’t have no real money. So I used on him what he was using on me. I told him he was a coward. Everybody knows I only fight for money. So him challenging me when he didn’t have none—that showed his true color.

  He was a young one. Stupid. He came back in a couple of weeks and put fifty dollars gold on the table right in front of me. Right in front of everyone.

  I matched it. Then we stepped out. And it happened the way it always does.

  He got at one end of the street and me at the other. Then we started to walk to each other. My legs always tremble terrible when it starts. I have to walk real stiff, so it won’t show. When the real fear hits me, I go right back there. Where it first happened.

  I feel it inside me. A red wash comes over my eyes. I keep walking. I have to get very close. People don’t understand it, not at all. I have to wait for the fear to take over complete. One man has to draw first. They say it’s never me. Because I’m so fast. But I keep walking because I can’t do nothing else. I get stiffer and stiffer as I walk, like adobe hardening in the sun.

  It usually takes them a long time to draw. Everybody knows if you draw too soon you ain’t going to hit nothing. Cowards, they start shooting from a long ways away. It’s a big thing to keep walking, get close. I get credit for that. But they don’t know I can’t do nothing else.

  I keep walking until the other man draws. Then it all slows way down. Just like it used to before, when it happened to me. I can see every move the other man makes. Like he’s doing it underwater. Then the fear rips and jolts and blood fills up my ears and I can’t hear nothing and my gun comes out. Usually the other man shoots first. Not always. I’ve been shot a few times, but never one to finish me.

  I always finish them. When I shoot, I don’t miss.

  And I keep shooting. Every man I fight, he gets all six.

  Tomorrow, it will happen again. The Easterner can see it all. He can write it down. He’ll pay me my money then. People always pay me after I do the work.

  People fear me. And I know what they say about me. That I ain’t afraid of nothing.

  They don’t know my secret.

  For every man I kill, I feel less fear when I start my walk the next time.

  That’s the only thing I’m afraid of. One day, I won’t be afraid enough. Things won’t slow down.

  That’s the day all this stops.

  for Tony

  TRUE COLORS

  1

  After tonight, everything will be different. Nobody called for a fair one this time. Turk said that Panama has a pistol. A real one. His father was supposed to have brung it home from Korea, and Panama got it when his father took off. I don’t believe it. I mean, why would anyone leave a real pistol behind? His father probably never even lived there. With him and his mother, I mean.

  I don’t know nobody who’s got a father. In the same house, I mean. We all got fathers. Sugarcane, hell, he is a father. That baby Rhonda has, everyone knows that’s Sugarcane’s. Everybody but the Welfare. If they knowed about it, they’d do something to him. I don’t know exactly what they do, but everybody knows you can’t tell them nothing. They’re just like cops, only without the blue and the steel.

  It’s funny when you think about it. I mean, Rhonda don’t have no father, but her mother’s boyfriend, he lives there, so he’s kind of like her father. I know he tried to stop Sugarcane from coming around there. He was real vicious about it. I don’t know why he gives a damn. It ain’t like Rhonda’s his own kid or anything. But he don’t have no job or nothing, so he’s always around the house.

  Anyway, Rhonda lives on the block, so she has to be with one of us. That’s just the way it is.

  You can’t Jap nobody where we got the meet set for. I heard one time there was this big meet Uptown. They made it for under the El. And one club, they got a couple of men in first. Up top, I mean. They
just waited there. And when everyone got into it, they dropped stuff down on the enemy. Heavy stuff, like cinder blocks and all. Like concrete rain. So, anyway, ever since that, nobody makes meets except out in the open. This one’s for the vacant lot off Forsyth. It ain’t in our territory, and it ain’t in theirs, either. I mean, one of us could claim it, but it wouldn’t do no good, ’cause there ain’t nobody living there.

  It’s better this way. There’s something about walking to a meet with your boys. All together. You feel like nothing can hurt you. Some of the guys make a lot of noise. Some of them are real quiet. But the thing is, we be flying our colors. Everybody see us walking, they see us together, they know what’s coming down.

  It’s funny how everybody knows except the rollers. I mean, everybody knows it’s going to happen tonight. Even the teachers at school. But the rollers won’t show until we’re into it. I would never say this to anyone, but I think we all glad when they come, with their sirens and all. ’Cause if they didn’t come nobody could leave.

  Panama isn’t the one I’m thinking about, even if it’s true that he has a pistol. Mystic is the one. He’s the head man of the Enchanters. The one who gives them heart. I don’t think he’s their best fighter. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but he’s not the biggest one. Usually, it’s not the best fighter who’s the head man, anyway. Like with us: Ramón is the best fighter. He loves it, man. I think if he wasn’t in the club he’d be fighting all the time. With one of us, even. But Torp is leader, and Ramón never tried to take it from him. Ramón, he’s a good man in a rumble, but he can’t scheme. And if you can’t scheme, you can’t be leader, everybody knows that.

  Me, I’m nobody. I mean, nobody in the club. I’m somebody on the street. I’m not no coolie, no off-brand. I’m in the Latin Savages. I wear the jacket, and everybody can see my true colors. What I mean is, I don’t got no title. Not Warlord or Minister or nothing like that. So I never get to go first when we pull a train. And when I talk, they listen, but you know they waiting on some bigger man before they go one way or the other. And even the debs, they got their own . . . order, like. So I wouldn’t get one of the best ones.