Sacrifice b-6

by Andrew Vachss

  I walked up on Wolfe's left just as he approached from the right. Focused on his target, he didn't see me.

  Wolfe dragged deeply on her cigarette, eyes straight ahead.

  The man leaned over her table. "I wish I was that cigarette," he said, flashing a mouthful of caps, white against tan.

  Wolfe took the cigarette out of her mouth. Looked at it carefully. "So do I," she said, looking right into his face. Dropped the cigarette to the barroom floor, ground it out with the tip of one shoe.

  The man flushed red under his tan just as I pulled out a chair, sat down next to Wolfe.

  He muttered something as he walked away.

  Wolfe turned to me, smiled. "I think that man just called you a runt."

  I ordered a ginger ale from the Japanese waitress. Wolfe took a beer.

  "Nice job today," I said.

  She shrugged. "The real work is always before the trial. You train to go the distance, sometimes it ends early."

  "And sometimes, they add a few rounds at the end."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Two weeks… remember?"

  "Sure."

  "Things happen."

  "Yes. Like babies getting killed."

  "I know. I'm in the middle."

  "No, you're not, Mr. Burke. You're nowhere in this at all. What's between Lily and me…well, that's a lot of things. But one thing it isn't— it isn't you, understand?"

  "I didn't mean between you and Lily," I said. Mildly, to take the edge off her harsh tone. "I mean between two right things, okay?"

  "There aren't two right things. There never are.

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you be willing to take a look— make sure it's always that way?"

  "Take a look at what?"

  "At some things I found…" Rushing ahead as her eyebrows went up. "I'd have to take you there."

  "Just give me the address."

  "I can't do that."

  She lit another smoke, ghost of a smile curling around the filter in her mouth. "You want me to wear a blindfold?"

  "No. I'd trust you."

  Her eyes were a gray-green, set wide apart. "Let's do it with the blindfold," she said.

  "I'll let you know. Soon."

  87

  I was at Lily's a little past nine. The programs were winding down for the evening— the place was jammed with mothers and fathers picking up their kids. That's what they call whoever comes for the kids— parents. Biology doesn't count down here.

  Max spotted me. Put a finger to his lips, motioning for me to come with him. He led me to the one-way glass on the side wall of one of the treatment rooms. Inside, Immaculata, in the lotus position, dressed in a loose white cotton outfit. Facing her a couple of feet away, Luke. Her arms gently parted the air, like she was conducting an orchestra in slow motion. The kid followed along, copying every gesture. Max tapped my shoulder, pointed at his stomach. Inhaled deeply through his nose, expanding his stomach. He exhaled sharply, in a steady, powerful stream, his chest growing as the air poured out. Yoga breathing. He pointed back into the treatment room. Luke had a blissful look on his little face as Immaculata pressed both hands against her midsection, exhaling as Max had done. Luke was with her, locked in synch.

  Lily was in her office, talking at her daughter Noelle, the dark-eyed limit-tester. Noelle's around fifteen, couple years older than Terry. Lily snapped something at the kid, who responded by cocking her head the exact same way her mother does.

  I stepped inside, lighting a smoke. Mother and daughter both made a face. "Hi, Burke!" the kid said.

  "Hello, Noelle. How's school?"

  "It's summertime," she said, like I was brain-damaged.

  "Okay. Listen, I need to talk to Lily for a minute."

  "Where did you get that suit?" she asked, ignoring what I'd said.

  "Orchard Street."

  "What's it made of?" Stepping over to me, fingering the lapel.

  "I don't know."

  "It doesn't look like anything."

  "It's not supposed to, Noelle."

  "Oh, ugh!" She was wearing black leather high-top shoes, white anklets with little red hearts on the cuffs, black bicycle pants to her knees, a gauzy white skirt over the pants, cheerleader-length, a black silk tank top covered by a red bolero jacket. Two earrings in one ear, no makeup, her glossy black hair cut in a radical wedge, jaunty white beret on her head. I was her father, I'd start stockpiling weapons.

  "Noelle…" Warning note from Lily.

  "I'm going, Mother." She looked at me again. Turned to Lily: "Could I buy Burke a decent jacket…something nice, so he'd have a look?"

  A smile blossomed on Lily's face. "Sure, you want to waste your money.

  Noelle pivoted like a ballerina, held her hand out to me. "Give me some money, I'll get something for you."

  Lily chuckled. "How much money?" I asked.

  "Oh…three hundred dollars, okay?"

  "No."

  "You want me to buy junk?"

  "Look, I'm perfectly happy with what I got, okay?"

  "Oh, pul-eeze, Burke. Your gear is seriously heinous. How about two hundred?"

  "For two hundred, do I get something stuupid dope hype fresh?"

  "Oh, you're so down there," she giggled. "Okay, two hundred."

  "How about one hundred? And how about you leave your mom and me alone?"

  She held out her chubby child's hand again. I put a couple of fifties in it. "Thank you so much," she said, no sarcasm, just a trace of breathiness. Practicing, getting it right. Then she gave her mother a kiss and made a dignified exit.

  88

  "How's it going?" I asked Lily.

  "He's coming along. It's not something you can do in a week."

  "I know. Not in ten days, either."

  Lily put her elbows on the desk, nestling her chin in the V of her fists. "What are you saying?"

  "I got an idea. Or the beginning of one, anyway."

  "Before you play around with any ideas, you should look at this stuff," indicating a handful of paper covered with typing.

  I looked a question at her.

  "Treatment reports," she said. "From Teresa."

  89

  I let Pansy out to her roof, made us each some supper while she took her pre-dump stroll. Then I sat down to read the reports. Had to hold the pages almost at arm's length to make out the words. I'd need reading glasses soon.

  Hair fell into my eyes. I combed it back with my fingers. Seemed like they were sliding through easier than they used to these days.

  The report was a war-zone dispatch— no overheated adjectives, no proposal writer's lies…cold truth. They were at the stage where they could call up the individual personalities, speak to them like they were different people in the room. I used the stuff I learned from the library like a Rosetta Stone, read it through.

  Individualized Reactions to Psychotropics:

  The core personality (Luke) was administered a single dose (1 1/4mg) Valium, PO. Within 45 minutes, subject was almost comatose, language was fragmented, dream-state, startle-response almost nonexistent, pinprick produced no reaction.

  At session #6, subject hooked to IV, simple glucose solution administered. No reaction. Hypnosis brought "Satan's Child" to surface. Subject was in a rage, restrained by flex-straps. In this state, 10 mg Valium administered IV. No reaction: subject remained agitated, angry. When "Satan's Child" personality departed, "Toby" emerged…and promptly fell asleep. IV immediately discontinued.

  Conclusion: The varying personalities are physiologically as well as psychologically distinct. The violent personality accesses significantly greater adrenaline flow, exceeding even limbic rage, producing phenomenal strength disproportionate to age and physical structure.

  The report went on. More about "core personality" and "fusion goals." But every word sang the same song.

  Inside Luke, different children.

  One a monster.

  90

  I
nosed the Plymouth east on Houston Street, covering the distance from the West Village to the Lower East Side in minutes. Turned right on Ludlow, right again on Delancey, back the way I'd come.

  The car wash is on the corner of Delancey and the Bowery, the supplies stored on the concrete island at the traffic light. I pulled over just past Chrystie Street, watching the action. Cars pulled up to the light, two black men detached themselves from the island, dipping their squeegees in a big white plastic bucket, swinging them briskly to throw off the excess water. They walked the line of cars, looking for customers. One tried persuasion— you could read his gestures from a block away. The other just went to work, ready to demand money when he finished. Some drivers turned on their windshield wipers, others waved their hands signaling "No!" Some just sat rigid behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.

  I watched for a while. Cabdrivers never went for the windshield wash. Not truckers either. The washers were lucky to score one paying job every four, five lights. A bad time to work, early in the morning, dealing with commuters. Nobody was where they wanted to be.

  Seven o'clock. I pushed off from the curb, watching for a gap in traffic. Rolled to a stop right at the light. The Prof was perched on an abandoned car seat, smoking a cigarette like he was on the deck of a cruise ship. He flicked the smoke aside, majestically got to his feet, moved to my car as one of the washers ceremoniously slapped a squeegee into his hand.

  "Watch how it's done, son," the Prof sang out.

  I hit the switch, sliding down the driver's window.

  "Good morning, my man. Here's the plan: pay a buck and change your luck. Do something right and you see the light."

  I handed him a bill. The Prof did the windshield in a half dozen expert swipes, bowed deeply, tossed the squeegee to one of the washers, and resumed his seat. I took off, straight ahead onto Kenmare, turned left at Crosby, and waited.

  Halfway through my second smoke, the Prof slid into the passenger seat.

  "Where to?" I asked.

  "Head over to Allen, find a place to park."

  91

  I found a spot just off Hester, pulled in behind a red Acura Legend sedan. A man in his thirties crossed the street, oiled muscles gleaming under a cut-down T-shirt, baggy shorts, baseball cap and sunglasses, zinc ointment covered his nose. Surf's up, somewhere. A battered pale green Cougar pulled to the curb. Two kids got out: teenagers, a boy and a girl, dressed alike in black, sporting matching asymmetrical haircuts. They wobbled down the street together as the Cougar roared off. Home from a night at the clubs? A dark sedan stopped at the light, overflowing with Vietnamese. The guy riding shotgun swiveled his head to look at me-I could feel homicidal eyes behind the sunglasses, measuring. Up close, he'd stink of cordite.

  "What's up?" I asked the Prof.

  "Queen Thana, schoolboy. Word is, you've been dancing with the devil."

  "What word?"

  "The drums hum, bro'. Stay close to the ground, you can hear the sound."

  "And…?"

  "And stay away, don't play, okay?"

  "I'm not playing."

  The little man's deep brown eyes turned to me. "I can't keep squaring your beefs, chief. You wanted to go play gunfighter games out in Hillbilly Harlem, I tried to make you see some sense, but I didn't press too hard, right?"

  I nodded.

  "This ain't the same, lame. The Queen is mean, Jack. She got people who want to die, that's no lie."

  "I'm not in anything with them— I don't even know who they are."

  "Don't be slick with the man who taught you the trick, schoolboy. Got to be, you holding something they want."

  I lit a smoke, thinking it through.

  "You talked to them," I said.

  "We rapped across the gap, exchanged some ideas, like the UN."

  "They lean on you?"

  "That's not the way they do— I thought you knew. Just asked me to talk to you."

  "Come on, Prof."

  "You took something of theirs. They say, maybe you didn't know whose it was, okay? They want it back. Said to bring it with you when you come."

  "Come where?"

  "Man said they'll tell the dealer. Jacques. But you got to have it with you, understand?"

  "Yeah." Thinking of Wolfe. How to get it back.

  "I'll call, every day. Once in the morning, once at night. You get it, leave word. I'll set up the meet. Better if it comes from us."

  "I'll try.

  "Try hard, homeboy."

  92

  It was still early. I rolled by Central Park, telling myself I was scanning Carlos. Practicing my lies. But the woman who said her name was Belinda didn't come by.

  93

  The white dragon was still on guard in the window. Always a dragon there— white for clear, blue for cops, red for danger. I drove around the back. The guys in the kitchen looked me over like they'd never seen me before.

  I found my booth, waited. Mama wasn't at her register. No waiter came by.

  A copy of the Daily News was in my booth. Five kids murdered so far this week. Separate incidents. Gunned down— cross-fire killings. The city's loaded with homicidal punks, and not a marksman among them.

  If you wrote a book about it, the critics would say it was full of gratuitous violence.

  Letter to the editor from some cop, arguing with a citizen who complained the police don't ticket off-duty cars parked near the precinct house. The cop said he put his life on the line every day— he was entitled to park on the house.

  That was true, they should give cabdrivers free rent.

  I turned to the race results.

  94

  "You not want soup?" Mama materialized at my elbow.

  "I was waiting for you."

  "Cook not come out?"

  "Nobody came out."

  "Cooks nervous— strangers in the basement."

  "Luke?"

  "Luke not a stranger. Woman…Teresa…come every day."

  "I know."

  "Alone with the boy. Every day," she said, eyes narrowing. Mama doesn't trust citizens."

  "I'll go talk with her."

  "Not now. She come up here, finished. Talk then, okay?"

  "Okay. Could I have some soup, then?"

  Mama smiled with a corner of her mouth, spewed out a torrent of Chinese with the other. One of the waiters came through the back door. Bowed, nodded, went away.

  "You bet horse?" Mama asked, pointing at the open newspaper.

  "Maybe. If I see something I like."

  The waiter came back with the soup. Also some hard noodles and a plate of dim sum floating in clear sauce with tiny flecks of green. Mama watched me eat, taking only token sips herself, tapping her long fingernails on the cheap Formica tabletop. I waited— she wouldn't say anything she didn't want to.

  The waiter came back. Said something to Mama. She nodded.

  "Woman coming up," she said to me.

  I stood up to greet her. Silver-streaked blonde straight hair parted in the middle, hanging down almost to her shoulders. Brown eyes, nose slightly off-center, small nostrils, tiny jaw at the bottom of an oval face. Dressed in a camel's-hair blazer over a silk turtleneck, wide dark blue skirt, sensible bone pumps.

  "Hello, I'm Dr…ah, Teresa. You must be Burke— Lily described you."

  "But I'm even better-looking than she said, right?"

  "No." She laughed gently. "You're not."

  I made a sweeping gesture and she sat down across from Mama, who showed no sign of moving. I slid in next to her.

  "What can you tell me?"

  "In a way, it's good news. Luke is very young to have gone full multiple. We can get to fusion a lot easier if the behavior isn't calcified over time— if the membrane between the personalities doesn't harden. For a child, there's no real investment in any of the alternates. So when the situation changes…Are you following me?"

  "The safer he is, the easier it is for him to come together."

  "Yes." She smiled. "That's a good way to
put it."

  "How long?"

  "I don't know. There's no schedule for these things. But I don't feel it will be that much longer."

  "What did Lily tell you about his…situation?"