Sacrifice b-6

by Andrew Vachss

  "What gonna happen to me?" the woman asked.

  "Nothing. You're okay."

  "I'm pregnant, mistah," she said as we stepped out the door.

  29

  We exited the hotel into a blanket of misty rain. Clarence started to cross the street. I patted his arm to halt him.

  "The car's over there, mahn."

  "Emerson didn't have a car."

  "So what we do?"

  "What he did. Come on."

  30

  We walked down the block, heading for the lights of La Guardia Airport to the north. Pitch dark now, but the block was choked with humans. Wheeling, dealing, stealing.

  "Too many eyes," I said to myself. We crossed the service road— stood on the other side. To our left, the bridge to the airport. A deep ravine underneath, cut down the middle by the Grand Central Parkway.

  "Let's try down there," I told Clarence.

  We stepped in carefully. The underbrush was so thick you couldn't see the ground. We worked our way downhill. I spotted a refrigerator crate lying on its side against a tree, motioned Clarence to be quiet. A man crawled out of the crate, shuffled off into the darkness. We followed a narrow dirt trail toward the highway. On both sides, humans. A whole colony of homeless, living in the jungle. I could feel the watching. No way Emerson buried a baby here without being seen.

  We reached the highway, turned left, in the direction of Manhattan. Cars shot by only a couple of dozen feet away— we were invisible.

  "How we gonna find anything out here, mahn?"

  "Keep quiet, Clarence. Let me work."

  The monster's work. Being him. He didn't have a car. He had a body. He didn't have time.

  Feeling my way.

  Moonlight glinted on tree branches. Taking me back to the jungle in Biafra a long time ago. This time, hunting. Then, I was the prey.

  Voices. Chanting sound from above us, high on the rise. We started up the hill. I looked back at Clarence— the pistol was in his hand, face set.

  We stepped into a clearing. The moonlight slanted, pulling my eyes to a gnarled tree growing on a sharp angle out of the sloping ground. Something…I looked closer. Suspended from a rope, a leather bag, maybe two feet long, banana-shaped. The seam was closed with heavy stitches, crosshatched with long pins, pearly red and white heads in an alternating pattern. The bag swung gently in the night, like a lynched man. I felt the fear imploding in my gut. My hands shook.

  Clarence saw it too. "Juju," he whispered. "Very bad, mahn. This is an evil place."

  We skirted the tree, climbing toward the top. The chanting came closer. Then we saw them. A phalanx of black males, standing in a wedge formation. Wearing long white shirts with little round collars, black pants. Looking out over the rise, the leather bag swinging down below them. Clarence raised the pistol, sighting in.

  I whispered, "No!" Tugged at his sleeve, pointing to our right. He shuddered, his whole body shaking.

  I took the lead. We worked our way about another quarter mile in the direction I'd pointed, climbed down to the highway.

  "He couldn't go that way," I said, pointing back to where the chanters worshiped the leather bag. "We've got to cross the road. Ready?"

  Clarence nodded. We waited for a break in traffic. Made a dash for it. Waited on the highway divider for another break, charged across to the other side.

  We skirted the airport, the giant planes fog-shrouded, only their lights visible, following the chain link fence. No place to hide a body. We came to a residential block running parallel to the airport. Turned right.

  "What you looking for now, mahn?"

  "Water," I told him. Thinking back to prison. Watching and learning. Studying the freaks. They're always magneted to water. I remember asking the Prof about it, one cold day on the yard, trying conversation to keep warm.

  "How come the skinners always work near water, Prof?"

  "It's astrology, schoolboy. The stars in the sky never tell a lie— you know what they say, you can find your way.

  "Astrology is bullshit."

  "No, bro', here's what I know. The true clue— the real deal. Inside, a man's not blood, he's water. That's what we are, mostly water. The moon pulls the water, the tide takes the ride. Same moon pulls on us."

  "So how come the freaks…?"

  "The moon's for seekers, schoolboy. Some it pulls strong, some it pulls wrong.

  I knew there was water out there. Rikers Island stands just to the west of the airport. Nice name for a jail. I remembered hearing the water from my cell window. Emerson must have done time, must have been there too. He'd know.

  The chain link fence made a ninety degree left turn. I looked up at the street sign. Nineteenth Avenue.

  Big white metal panel on the fence, red and black letters: NO TRESPASSING.

  "In there," I told Clarence, pointing.

  The bottom of the fence had been pulled loose. Clarence held it up like a blanket off the ground. I slid through on my belly. He lay on his back, bench-pressed the fence off his chest, used his legs to push him under.

  The jungle was thick on the other side. A clear path to the water, well worn.

  Dampness muffled the airport sounds. Behind us, lighted houses, parked cars. Ahead, black water. I knew its name from the maps I'd read in jail— Bowery Bay.

  The path disappeared. The undergrowth was belt high, cuppy ground below pulled at my feet. We pushed our way through, reached the edge. Thick wooden posts stood upright between cracked slabs of concrete. Scuffling noises, scratchy sounds. Rats.

  "I don't like it here, mahn."

  The Rock was straight ahead. To our left, the Hazen Street Bridge. The one that carried busloads of humanity every Visiting Day, some hearts full of pain, some mouths full of dope, to be exchanged with that first kiss, contraband-sweet.

  We walked to the edge. Looked down. I found a fist-sized stone. Tossed it in. Listened for the sound.

  "Deep water." Clarence.

  "Deep enough," I said, watching the softly lapping current. Remembering how cons used to study the tide tables like it was the Bible. Rikers Island wasn't Alcatraz— plenty of guys had made it outside the wire, gone into the water and lived to tell about it, usually Upstate.

  "This is it," I said to Clarence. "This is where he dumped the baby's body. Derrick's in there."

  Clarence looked out into the night. His young man's voice fluttered in the dark mist. "No, mahn. I don't think so. I think maybe the devil has him."

  31

  My Plymouth was waiting in the side yard of Jacques's joint.

  "You'll tell him?" I asked Clarence.

  "Don't you want…?"

  "Tell Jacques, I'll be around, give him a call."

  His mahogany face was set, eyes troubled.

  "It's okay," I said. "All over now. We found the truth— if the baby's not in the water, he's in the ground."

  "It wasn't the baby's body the old woman wanted, mahn."

  "It's all that's left."

  "No, my friend, there's one thing left."

  "Better ask Jacques about that first."

  "Do you know we love children, mahn? Our people?"

  "Yes."

  "My mother, she was handy with the switch, mahn. A strong woman." His pale tracker's eyes held mine. "And Mother, she had her men friends too. But never, never once, mahn, I tell you, would any of them ever raise a hand to me— it would be worth his life. I started this"— waving his hand panoramically in front of him, the hand so quick to hold an automatic or a straight razor— "for her, mahn. For the money. She is gone now. Every year, on the day of her birth, I honor her."

  I sat quietly in the car seat, waiting for the rest The bitch who raised me had no honor. But she had plenty of hotel rooms. Attica, Auburn, Dannemora…

  "What would make a woman do that, mahn? Let a man kill her baby in front of her eyes?"

  "The answers don't change things."

  "What would be justice, then, mahn? So the baby may sleep in peace?"

>   I shrugged. He was such a young man.

  32

  I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into my home country. A small truck rumbled ahead of me, the early sun orange against its quilted aluminum sides. When it parked, the sides would open into a portable coffee shop, serving the mass of humans who work the courthouse district. Morning brings citizens to the street, nervously plucking at the daylight like a protective coat, safe from the vampires for another day. Their city, they tell themselves. Night comes, and they give it back.

  I live under the darkness, where it's safe. Safe from things so secret that they have no name. Under the darkness— it's not territory you occupy— you take it with you. It goes where I go— where I've been. The orphanage. Reform school. Prison. Even now.

  There's others like me. Children of the Secret. Raised by so many different humans. Those who ignored us, those who tortured us. No place to run, so survival becomes all. For us, a religion. Nourished on lies so that we alone know the truth. An army of us. You can't see us, but we find each other. Like a special breed of damaged dog, responding only to the silent whistle.

  All things come to those who wait.

  Some of us wait in ambush.

  Burke isn't my name. It was my mother's, I think. Baby Boy Burke it said on my birth certificate. Weighed 7 pounds 9 ounces, born 3:03 a.m. Mother's age at birth: 16. Father: Unknown. Number of children born alive prior to this birth: None.

  I never looked for her, my mother. Never wondered if she believed she was doing the right thing by giving me up.

  I have plenty of birth certificates now— you need one to get a passport.

  Juan Rodriguez is the name on my driver's license. Juan's a citizen: pays his taxes, contributes to Social Security. He gets a parking ticket, he takes care of it.

  Juan owns property too, but nobody knows. A piece of a junkyard in the Bronx— not the Mole's joint, a little slab of dirt not far from Yankee Stadium. The deal is this: The guy who runs it pays me a salary. I endorse the checks and he turns them into cash. Keeps a piece of each check himself for his trouble. Kicks out a W-2 form for me every year, pays the Workmen's Comp, the Unemployment, all that. You can hide your sins, but the IRS will find the paper.

  Mama is my bank account. She doesn't pay interest, but she doesn't make bad loans to politically protected looters either, so my money is safe. Most of the cash gets converted into hard currency: gold, diamonds, like that.

  In case I have to use one of my passports someday.

  33

  Pansy's ice-water eyes flickered disappointment as I let myself in. She always looks like that when I'm alone— she was born to war.

  The phone on my desk never rings, at least not for me. It's not mine— the Mole wired it up from the loft downstairs. I can call out, as long as I do it early in the morning when the delicate souls who live below me are still sleeping off last night's chemicals. They can sleep easy, subsidized by their parents, immune to the NEA jihad.

  I made Pansy and me some breakfast from the scraps in the tiny refrigerator. Drank a little ginger ale to settle my stomach. Smoked a cigarette while Pansy went up to her roof.

  Slept through the day.

  34

  My sleep was full of refracted dreams. Like trying to read through a diamond.

  Belle's red Camaro flying at a wedge of police cars. Gunfire. The Camaro pulled to the side of the road. The big girl got out, hands held high. Prison wouldn't hold her.

  Flood bouncing a baby on her knee. A fat little baby. Japanese screen in one corner of the room, daylight pouring in. A hand on her shoulder. Not mine.

  Strega on my lap, wearing blue jeans and Elvira's Zzzzap! T-shirt. Crying. Me patting her, telling her it would be okay.

  The Prof's voice: "Nobody knows where he's going, but everybody knows where he's been."

  Candy: "Take the leash. Feel the power."

  Me standing over Mortay in the construction site, gun in my hand. Blood-lust shredding the fear in me. Asking the wounded death-dancer: "You still want Max?"

  Blossom's face close to mine, covering me with her body, moaning, her copper-estrogen smell filling the shark cage, machine-gun fire in the night.

  Lily and Immaculata, walking down the street, each holding one hand of the same little kid, swinging him between them.

  I woke up, shaking like the malaria was back.

  35

  I let Pansy back out to her roof while I took a shower. Dressed slowly, in no rush. Promised Pansy I'd bring her something back from Mama's.

  But first, another look. Time to collect a bargaining chip to put on Wolfe's table. I beat the late-afternoon rush-hour traffic out to Queens. Needed daylight to face what I had to do.

  The Plymouth rumbled to a stop on the shoulder of the Grand Central, right across from the highway mile marker I remembered from last night. I hit the emergency flashers, positioned the mini hydraulic jack under the frame, pumped the rear end of the big car off the ground, loosened the lug nuts with a T-handled wrench.

  I pretended to rummage through the trunk, checking the space around me. Nobody stopped to help— this isn't Iowa. Traffic droned on my left. The jungle waited to my right.

  I slipped on a pair of heavy leather gloves. Lined with a thin layer of chain-mail mesh, they'd handle fire or razors. The machete was Velcro'd to the back of the fuel cell, waiting. I took an army blanket-poncho from the trunk, pulled it over my head. One more 360 look around and I was into the jungle.

  The leather bag was swinging from the tree, bursting at its seams, the afternoon sun glistening on the hide. It seemed to squirm with life— like a cocoon ready to birth. I climbed the steep slope, reached up. I could just touch the lowest tip— no good. I climbed to higher ground, draped the nylon loop to the machete around my neck, and pulled myself onto the tree. Crawled out a thick limb until I was close enough. Grabbed the rope in one hand and hacked at the knot holding it to the branch. Three hard shots and it came free. I crawled backward off the tree limb, holding the bag in one hand like a fishing line with slimy bait at the end.

  I pulled the poncho over my head, wrapped it around the bag.

  Carried it in one hand back to the car. Everything went into the trunk. I merged with the traffic, U-turned at the overpass, headed back to Manhattan.

  36

  Driving home against the traffic, feeling the heat of the voodoo bag behind me.

  "When you're on the road, always look back cold." The Prof. Talking to me on the prison yard years ago. Reminding me how suckers think they have to travel to see what they left at home. Prison even makes you miss hell.

  Everything I'd had in Indiana— a short-term lease on belonging— it was gone now. I was home. Driving through the war zone, bombarded by imagery. I flicked on the all-news radio station. A human beat his baby to death, cut the kid up, fed the parts to his German shepherd. The authorities took charge. Killed the dog.

  They say when a dog tastes human flesh, it'll always seek more. A dog like that, you have to put it down. When humans get the same way, we give them therapy.

  Liberals always know what to name things. To them, graffiti vandals are ghetto expressionists. Probably think mugging is Performance Art too.

  The mayor was saying something about the city being a gorgeous mosaic— all the lovely colors. Trying to govern from the fetal position, wearing shades. It looks different from ground zero.

  A different rhythm too. Some Oriental kids haunt the libraries— others fondle their automatic weapons and visit the restaurants, asking for contributions. Hispanic hit-men, pretty in pastel, posture like blood-hungry peacocks in the discos while their brothers and sisters work double-shifts in the sweatshops to afford an education for their children that their ancestry will bar them from using. Some white kids plot their privileged futures in prep school while skinheads join the only club that will have them. Black doctors on their way to the hospital walk past children of their color spending their lives on concrete, going to the hoop, the crack-monster patien
tly waiting for their dreams to die. The baddest of the B-Boys form sidewalk posses, naming themselves after video-game killer-machines. They rat-pack citizens, taking them down like wild dogs, ripping, snatching. Gotta Get Paid. Rustling, they call it. Nitrous oxide and amyl nitrite have parties with never-connected kids who think devil-worship is something you can do part-time.

  Only the names change. Nothing deadly ever really dies. Crank makes a comeback at rock concerts— Jello-shots are invited to all the right parties. Fatal fashions.

  And the kids go down. Gunfire in the ghettos— cluster suicide in the suburbs.