Choice of Evil b-11

by Andrew Vachss

  “Yeah, I know. But it’s all. . . connected, right?”

  “How could this be connected, mahn?” Clarence, speaking for the first time.

  “Whoever killed Crystal Beth, they were killing queers, far as they knew, right?”

  “That’s what it say in the papers,” the young man replied, tone telling what he thought of that source.

  “The next thing happens,” I said, ignoring his tone, “is that this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy starts killing them . . . fag-bashers, right?”

  “That deal is real,” the Prof put in. “Man is taking heads, and dead is dead.”

  “Okay, so the cops, maybe they thought I was involved. Some of them, anyway. But they know better now. . . even though I still think I could get rousted if they need headlines bad enough. But, if he could kill all of them, he’d get the ones who killed Crystal Beth in the bargain, right?”

  “Bro, you too dense to make sense. He was gonna do all that, your move is: Get out the way, let him play.”

  “Sure. But the people who hired me to find him, they don’t want to turn him in, they want to help him get away.”

  “Maybe the boss plans a cross,” the Prof said.

  “You mean. . . play for the reward? Nah. He’s already out a hundred G’s—Davidson got half.”

  “Not for money. Who knows, bro? Everybody got game, but it ain’t all the same.”

  Nadine flashed in my mind. I just nodded.

  “I’m gonna meet someone,” I told them all. “Meet her right here. I think I got a way now.” Then I showed them the picture of the little dinosaur thing.

  “What’s that?” Clarence asked.

  “I don’t know. Not exactly, anyway. But I know who will.”

  “Want to go for a ride, honey?” I spoke into the cellular.

  “You mean. . . work?” Michelle asked, clearly less than excited about the prospect.

  “I’m gonna visit an old pal. Thought you might like to tag along.”

  “Someone I know?”

  “No question about that, girl. I guess what everyone wonders is, how well you—”

  “That’s enough of your smart mouth, mister. I’ll be ready in forty-five minutes.”

  “Forty-five minutes? I’m just down the block. Come on. I’ll meet you out front in—”

  “Forty-five minutes, you gorilla. Not one second sooner. I am not going anywhere dressed like this. Go amuse yourself or something.”

  Then she hung up on me.

  Aargh. I slammed in a forty-five-minute cassette, lay back, slitted my eyes against the midday glare, and let the music take me to someplace else. The Brooklyn Blues. East Coast doo-wop. The Aquatones’ classic “You” set the scene. . . and the river was flowing deep into “Darling Lorraine” by the Knockouts when I came to. Checked my watch. . . perfect.

  I cranked up the Plymouth and motored over to Michelle’s. She was standing on the sidewalk in a burnt-orange parachute-silk coat, tapping the toe of one black spike heel impatiently.

  “It’s hot out here,” she bitched as she climbed into the front seat.

  “You keep me waiting forty-five minutes; I’m ten seconds late and you’re already running your—”

  “As much as you know about women, I’m surprised you’re not still a virgin,” she snapped, cutting me off.

  I surrendered without firing another useless shot, heading uptown toward the only place I could ever be sure Michelle would always want to go.

  But I was thinking about what she said, even as we crossed the bridge.

  “Michelle, could I ask you a question?”

  “Who better?” she wanted to know, still not mollified over the enormous wait I’d put her through.

  “About what you said. About women?” I stalled, thinking Michelle was the only person on the planet I ever asked about women. As if the vicious trick nature had played on her—she’d been born a transsexual, into a nest of maggots—had made her an authority. And how I’d never say that.

  “I am waiting,” she said, tapping her long, burnt-orange-tipped nails on the dashboard to show me how patient she wasn’t going to be with me for a while.

  “What is it with bisexuals?”

  “That means. . . what?”

  “I met this girl. . . .”

  “Go figure,” she sneered.

  “Michelle, come on. You’re this mad at me for being a few seconds late?”

  “How do I look?” she asked, opening her coat to display an ivory blouse over black pencil pants.

  “Fabulous,” I assured her. “But you always do, for chrissakes.”

  “And you don’t think it might be nice to. . . reassure a girl once in a while?”

  “I never thought—”

  “Because you are, in your heart, a pig,” she reassured me.

  “All right, already. I’m a pig. A late pig too, okay? I was going up to see the Mole, figured you’d like to ride along, and now I get all this?”

  “Sweetie,” she said softly, one hand on my right forearm, “I am trying to teach you something, all right? Little Sister’s not mad at you. But ever since that. . . ever since Crystal Beth died, you haven’t really been yourself. A new woman is exactly what you need. And, knowing you, what it’s going to bring you is more pain. Maybe if you knew how to act around a normal girl, you wouldn’t always be—”

  “How do you know I’m—?”

  “Baby, how long have I known you? A million years? This bisexual you asked me about, that wouldn’t be Crystal Beth, now would it?”

  “No.”

  “Huh!” she half-grunted in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “All right, Burke. What do you want to know?”

  “I guess. . . what I asked you.”

  “This is a bisexual woman, then? The one you met?”

  “Yeah. At least I think so.”

  “And Crystal Beth was—?”

  “You know what, Michelle? I never knew what she was. I mean, she said she was. And I knew she had. . . I knew her and Vyra—”

  “Vyra!” Michelle spat the name out. “The one with the shoes, right?”

  “Yes. But she’s gone now. Remember?”

  “No, I do not remember. I had no dealings with that one. Don’t you remember?”

  I didn’t know how to reel her in. Michelle was all tangents when she wasn’t working. But I tried another route anyway.

  “Forget Vyra, okay? And Crystal Beth, all I know is that she said she was bi, okay? That’s why she went to that rally, even though she said the others didn’t really want her there.”

  “The others?”

  “Gay people. She said bisexuals were, like, caught between the two worlds.”

  “I don’t think so,” Michelle said. “It’s not that. They’re caught between stereotypes, that’s all.”

  “What?”

  “Look, if a woman, a straight woman, if she has lots of lovers, she’s a slut, right?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Oh, never mind what you think,” she dismissed me. “I’m talking about. . . them,” she said, indicating the rest of the world with a sweep of her hand. “But straights, they think all gays are promiscuous, right? All they know about are the glory holes and the quick meets in the park—the anonymous stuff. You tell them a couple of gay men are together, really with each other, and they, like, can’t quite get it, see? Now, a bisexual man, what everyone assumes is he’s really gay, all right? Maybe he can close his eyes and make it with a woman, but how many times you ever hear of a gay male telling his lover it’s all over, he’s found out he’s straight and he wants to be with a woman?”

  “I never—”

  “Me either. But the reverse, that’s all the time, yes? Man’s been married twenty years, getting some on the side in the gay bars, but profiling straight. He tells his wife the truth, she’s busted up, sure. But the rest of the world, it just nods its head and says, ‘Sure,’ like it was going to happen sooner or later.”


  “Yeah, but. . .”

  “Bisexual women, it’s like there’s no such thing. Not to. . . them. So when a woman says she’s bi, the only thing they figure is she’s fucking everyone on the planet, right?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh, who cares? That’s what they think. Any married couple wants to jazz up their sex life, first thing they do is advertise for a bi girl, am I right? But what’s this got to do with anything, anyway?”

  “This girl? The one I met?”

  “Yessss. . .?”

  “Well, she’s bi. Or she was once. I don’t know. She says she’s a lesbian now. Heavy-duty top too, the way she fronts it.”

  “But she’s coming on to you?”

  “Yeah. At least. . . I think so.”

  “Because you’re dense? Or because. . .?”

  “Because she’s. . . ambiguous. She doesn’t say anything about herself. Just about me. How I supposedly want her so bad, and I’m not admitting it.”

  “Roles are. . . weird. Like it’s. . . I don’t know. . . safer, maybe, if you have a role. If you know what you’re supposed to do, you can’t make a mistake. But if she’s a top, maybe she’s just plugged into your testosterone, honey.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means every man wants to spank a dom. The ones who don’t want to take it themselves, that is. That’s what the scene-players believe—that everybody would be doing what they do if they had the guts. And if you play that way, sometimes you stay that way. You can get. . . stuck. And you never think there’s a middle. So if she does men too. . .”

  “I don’t know. She only said—”

  “Doesn’t matter. If she’s a top, she knows other tops. And some of them do men. Big money in it. Even over the phone. Little Sister knows that part by heart, honey.”

  “So I—?”

  “So you. . . what? You like her?”

  “No. She’s not real. . . likable, I don’t think. But. . .”

  “You want to fuck her?”

  “Not even that. Michelle, look, she wants to work with me. On this. . . thing I’m doing. What I’m going to see the Mole about. Says she’s in love with this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy.”

  “The one who’s killing all those—”

  “Yeah.”

  “In love with. . . what he’s doing, maybe. Or the. . . power thing. But she’s pushing you too?”

  “It. . . feels like all she wants me to do is bite, so she can pull the apple away and laugh.”

  “There’s those,” Michelle conceded. “But it wouldn’t have anything to do with her being bi.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, honey. That’s just a label. Even gays don’t really want people like her in the club. I mean, they say they want everyone, right?”

  “No. Crystal Beth said they didn’t—”

  “What they say, baby. Even when I was. . . Back then. Before I had the operation. There was room for people like me too. ‘Transgenders.’ Isn’t that special? Like they want us all, but they only mean the roles. And if you don’t fit one of those, they all think you got a piece missing.”

  “So there’s no—”

  “Baby, the only thing for sure is, this girl, whatever she wants, it’s not as simple as how she likes to play.”

  Hunts Point never changes. It continues its celebration of quick violence and slow decay no matter how many times some star-gazer tries to turn the Urban Renewal trick. The development money always vanishes, swag cut up by elected thieves. And the blight stays—a permanent resident, building its strength, awaiting the next impotent assault.

  Michelle went quiet as soon as we turned off the boulevard and moved deep into the prairie. She’s seen the same route a thousand times, but it never fails to make her sad. All hope has been vampired out of this place, cut down past the bone, into the desolate marrow.

  But she perked up as soon as I nosed the Plymouth into the V made up of rusting cyclone-fence gates wrapped in concertina wire. The dog pack moved in even before I shut off the engine. They were more curious than dangerous—so confident they could take down any intruder that they didn’t need to put on a show. Besides, none of them would make a move until Simba showed. That beast had a lot of miles on his odometer, but he still was the pack leader, and none of the young studs had so much as tried him yet, far as I knew.

  The chopped-down Jeep the Mole uses for a shuttle rolled up on the other side of the gate, its unmuffled growl blending with that of the pack. Terry was at the wheel. He took one look through the Plymouth’s windshield and jumped off his seat so fast he almost stomped on a couple of the dogs.

  “Mom!” he called out, running toward us.

  Simba was there by then, but he didn’t challenge, just stepped back and watched mother and son embrace. I couldn’t tell anything from his wolfish grin, but he looked safer than he usually does. I stepped out while I waited for Terry to open the gate so I could stash the car inside.

  “Go ahead, Burke,” the kid called over to me. “Take the Jeep. Mom and I’ll walk over, okay?”

  The kid wanted to spend some time with her alone, I guessed. I took off quick. Let Terry deal with Michelle trying to walk a quarter-mile of junkyard in four-inch heels.

  Simba trotted alongside the Jeep, easily keeping pace—anything over ten miles an hour was a life-risking move on that terrain, and the trail was marked so faintly I had to steer mostly with my eyes anyway. When I got to the clearing near the Mole’s bunker, I saw the cut-down oil drum he uses as a lounge chair was empty, so I sat down on it myself and lit a smoke.

  “Mole?” I asked Simba.

  The beast knew the word. But he gave me another close look, not moving. I got it then. He wasn’t a sight hound, couldn’t be sure it was me. Only thing to do was let him hear my voice some more.

  “Simba,” I called out softly. “Mighty Simba-witz, Lion of Zion. You remember me, boy? I sure remember you. Such a valiant warrior you are. Come on, Simba. Go get the Mole for me, okay?”

  The big dog nodded his head, accepting me, aural memory kicking in. Then he took off, a rust-colored shadow in a city the same color. I wasn’t even done with my smoke by the time the Mole appeared. Like he always does, without a word.

  “Mole!” I greeted him.

  And he returned the greeting the same way he answers the phone—silently, waiting to hear whatever you have to say.

  “Can you take a look at something for me?” I asked him.

  Again, he was silent. But he moved close enough for me to show him what I’d brought: a blow-up of the little icon from the top of the handle of the killer’s ninja spike. “You know what this is?” I asked him.

  “Terry. . .” he started to say, just as the kid himself walked up, Michelle on his arm.

  “Look, it’s Mom!” the kid practically shouted. The Mole’s only reaction was to blink rapidly behind those Coke-bottle lenses of his, standing rooted to his spot. Michelle closed the ground between them, wavering a bit on the spike heels, but making progress. The Mole didn’t move, just watched her, his mouth open in the same amazement he always shows every time he sees her.

  Michelle planted a chaste kiss on the Mole’s cheek and he turned a dozen shades of red. “Well?” Michelle demanded, doing a spin in front of him to show off her outfit.

  “You look. . . beautiful, Michelle,” he finally said.

  “Yes, I do. And you can tell me all about it later,” she said, her head nodding toward the opening to the Mole’s underground bunker. That about finished the poor bastard, and I knew I had to move fast if I was going to get mine before he got his, so I said, “Mole, what about this?” and practically shoved the photocopy under his nose.

  “Terry knows about that,” the Mole said.

  Which, of course, got Michelle interested. “What is that? Some kind of dinosaur?”

  “It’s a velociraptor,” Terry said confidently, looking over her shoulder.

  “A what?” I asked him.

  “Wait, I’v
e got a whole book about them,” the kid said, taking off like a shot.

  “He’s a genius,” Michelle gushed. “Just like his father.”

  The Mole looked everywhere but at Michelle, back to total silence.

  “Terry’s interested in stuff like that, Mole?” I asked. “Dinosaurs and all.”

  “He is interested in everything,” the Mole replied, unable to keep the love-pride from clogging his voice. “His CD-ROM library is. . . extensive. And I. . . help too.”

  Sure. Terry was probably the only kid in America home-schooled in a junkyard, but his tutor was light-years ahead of anything walking around a university. Terry wouldn’t be there much longer. College was coming. And when they weren’t fighting about where he’d go—Michelle wanted him close—they were caught up in that proud sadness when your child turns a major corner. And moves another step away.

  But now the Mole and Michelle weren’t moving, they were waiting. Another couple of minutes and the kid came bounding out the opening to the bunker, his arms full of books. “It’s better on the computer,” he said, “but I thought. . .”

  He didn’t have to finish—Michelle and the Mole were already on their way downstairs, and spectators weren’t what they were going to need for a while. The kid slapped together a desk from wooden milk crates and assorted planks, then he laid out his stuff for me.

  “Mongolia’s got the best fossil beds,” Terry told me. Not a trace of officiousness in his voice, just the facts. Like his old man. “In the Gobi Desert. Near the Flaming Cliffs. That’s where they found the first one. About seventy years ago.”

  “The first. . .?”

  “Velociraptor,” the kid said. “It means ‘swift plunderer.’ It was maybe about the size of a turkey, but it really packed a wallop.”

  “I thought raptors could fly,” I said.

  “They can now,” the kid said patiently. “There’s a system—it’s called cladistics—to identify extinct animals and group them according to the characteristics they share. Scientists usually only have skeletons to look at, so they concentrate on stuff like a certain bone in the wrist, a hole in the hip joint. . . even the number of toes on a foot.”

  “And this. . . velociraptor was like a bird that way?”

  “Sure. They both have three primary toes on their hind feet. And necks that curve into an S shape. And, see here,” he said, pointing, “velociraptor has long arms, and a wrist bone like a bird’s wing. There’s other common characteristics too: like how nerves travel from the brain, the air spaces in the skull, and the construction of the hips and thighs. It may even have built nests like birds and tended its eggs and all.”