Sacrifice

by Andrew Vachss

  13

  I nosed the Plymouth into the one–stall garage at the corner of the old factory. The landlord converted it to living lofts years ago. Made himself a nice bundle from sensitive artists with rich parents. I live on the top floor. You look at the building plans, all you'll see is storage space up there. The landlord owed me for something I didn't do—my office is the price.

  He could always start charging rent—make me homeless. I could always make a phone call, whisper an address—and the people his coke–loving son sold to the federales would make the little rat room temperature.

  Pansy wasn't at her post when I let myself in the door. The beast was lazing on the couch, one massive paw draped over the edge, 140 pounds of brick–brained muscle, her light gray eyes flickering with just a trace of contempt.

  "You glad to see me, girl?" I asked the Neapolitan mastiff.

  She made a sniffing noise, like she smelled something bad on me. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the bitch copped an attitude because I'd worked with another woman.

  "You want to go out?" I asked her, opening the back door to the office. Outside, a small iron fire escape, rusty and gnarled with age and neglect. From there, a shaky set of stairs to the roof. She ambled over and climbed up to her yard, ignoring me.

  When she came back inside, I reached in my jacket pocket. Took out four orders of shish kebob in pita bread, individually wrapped in foil. They sell them on the street here. Along with watches, jeans, radios, necklaces, logo'd sweatshirts, street maps, handguns, videotapes, books, hot dogs, cocaine, flesh, and artwork. Pansy immediately whipped into a sitting position, slobber erupting from both sides of her gaping maw, watching me toss away the foil, squeeze the whole thing into a giant smelly, greasy ball.

  "Still mad at me?" I asked her, holding the prize right in front of her snout.

  She didn't move, rigid as a fundamentalist.

  "Speak!" I told her, tossing it in her direction. Her first snap sent pieces flying all over the room. Her tail wagged madly as she chased down and devoured every last scrap.

  I sat at the desk and watched her. When she was finished, she came over to me, put her bowling–ball–sized head in my lap, making gentle noises as I scratched behind her ears, blissed out.

  They're all alike.

  Sure.

  14

  I leafed through my mail. It's not delivered here—I keep PO boxes all over the city, open new ones all the time. I'd never go back to the latest group once this collection of scores was done.

  A dozen or so responses to my latest ad in the freak sheets. Darla's only ten years old, but she's real pretty. She loves to have her picture taken, and her daddy's real good at it. You tell Daddy how you want to see Darla posed, and he'll send along some really delicious Polaroids. Five hundred bucks gets you a set of four—custom work is expensive. No checks.

  The first loving correspondent wanted Darla in pink ribbons—and nothing else. Another wanted to see Darla disciplined. I didn't read the rest, just carefully separated the money orders, put them in a neat stack to one side.

  I mail the original letters to a Customs agent I know in Chicago.

  He doesn't know me—I'm his mystery pal. A concerned citizen. The Customs people mail some porno they have lying around to the letter–writers. Then they bust them for possession. I keep the money orders for my trouble. Like a bounty.

  Another batch of letters responding to my mercenary recruitment service.

  More mail: applicants for membership in the Warriors of the White Night. One human handwrote a long letter along with his entry form. Told the Central Committee how eager he was to link up with real urban guerrillas who knew how to deal with the Nigger Menace. He sent cash—didn't want to wait the customary four weeks for processing.

  There's a check–cashing joint in the Bronx that converts the money orders for me. Somebody comes around, they'll describe me to perfection. Black, about six foot four, 230 pounds, shaved head, razor scar down one cheek. Driving a gold Cadillac with Florida plates.

  15

  Not all my mail comes to PO boxes. My personal drop is over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers picks it up for me every couple of weeks, brings it to her restaurant. Max takes it from there, stores it at his temple until I come around. It takes longer, but it's safer.

  That was the only address Flood had. For years after she left, I waited for a letter. I don't do that anymore.

  Michelle's last letter was still on the desk. Shell–pink stationery, a fragrance to the ink.

  It's not going to happen here, baby. You're the only one I can tell this to. I'll deal with Terry and the Mole when I make up my mind. Sorry if this sounds incoherent but it looks like your baby sister stayed too long at the fair, honey. I had the money. I still have it—they won't take it. All those years of scheming, risking…

  I got myself a lovely apartment, right near the hospital complex. At least it's lovely now, once I got through with it. The psychological screening wasn't much of anything. I mean, I didn't tell one single lie until it got to the part about how I've been living these past years, do I have significant family support for sex reassignment surgery?—you know how they do.

  I've been living as a woman. That's what they say they wanted, the hypocrites! But I've been a hustler all my life, ever since I escaped. And I didn't always work dry. I told a psychiatrist about my biological family once. I won't ever do that again.

  Anyway, it all looked good. What happened is I failed the medical. I've been on the hormones too long, and those bootleggers I dealt with, they must have mixed and matched too many times. I remember how much it hurt when I started, how I got cramps I wouldn't wish on any of my sisters.

  The doctor I asked back then, he said it was purely psychological, the pain—all in my head. Of course, he was a male.

  Anyway, estrogens can contribute to clotting, they said, and I'd have to come off them before surgery. But if I stop now, stop the hormones, they said I could crash. I've been on them too long, with too heavy doses.

  And when they asked me who did my breasts, I wouldn't tell them. The silicon's still holding up…I'm as beautiful as ever. But I was crazy once. Before you knew me. When I was so young and headstrong. I played around with some other hormones then. I wanted these poor boobs of mine to lactate, and I had to have more surgery.

  Bottom line, baby: they won't do it! Too high a risk, they said. I'm all a mess inside.

  God, like I needed some fool in a white coat to tell me that.

  So here's my choices. I can come back, like I am. Keep taking the hormones. Even get psychotherapy if I want it. Above the table. That's one thing they gave me, I'm official now, the diagnosis is on paper. Pre–op transsexual.

  But I learned some things from this. And there's one thing I know, baby, I can never go to jail. Not ever. I'd die first. So how do I live?

  I'm trapped, and they won't fix me here. I can go overseas.

  One of my shadow–sisters gave me a name of a hospital in Brussels, and I know it can get done in Morocco too. Casablanca. Only there's no Bogart for me.

  I went through the hormones, the electrolysis, everything. All I wanted from these people was the final chop and some reconstruction. I don't need their simpleminded therapy. In my heart and my soul, I'm a woman. Your sister. Terry's mother.

  I need some time. To see what's important to me. I'll let you know.

  Watch out over my boy.

  I love you.

  16

  The next morning, I took a short walk. Brought back the newspapers and a bag full of bakery for Pansy. Took my time, stretched things out. I read the paper the way I used to in prison, sucking every ounce of juice from the pages. It didn't bother Pansy—she has a dog's sense of time. Only two limits for her: never and forever.

  It was almost ten by the time I entered the garage from the back stairs. A piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad floated under the windshield wiper. Two broad slashes with a heavy black felt–tip p
en, running parallel to a small circle at their base. The number 7 to one side.

  Max. Telling me I should come see him right away. Telling me where. Not a sign of forced entrance to the garage. I'd offered him a key once—he thought that was funny. Max the Silent doesn't speak. Doesn't make any noise at all.

  I found a parking place in Chinatown, just off the Bowery. Made my way to one of the movie houses standing under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Narrow alley along the side. Back door, dull green paint streaked with rust. I turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. Metal stairs to my left, winding up in a Z pattern. I put a hand on the bannister and two Orientals materialized. They didn't say anything. They worked it together: one watched my hands, the other my eyes.

  "Max?" I offered.

  They were as silent as he is.

  "Burke," I said, pointing at myself.

  One moved to me, ran his hands over my body, a light, spider's touch. He wasn't looking for a knife…anything less than a machine gun wouldn't do much good where I was going.

  They stepped aside. I climbed to the landing, found another door, entered. Followed more stairs, this time up.

  Another door. I opened it to a long, narrow room with a high ceiling, lit by suspended fluorescent fixtures. I was facing a row of windows, pebble–glassed, caked with a hundred years' worth of yellowing cigarette smoke. The floor was broken into sections with neatly painted areas: a square, a rectangle, a circle. One wall was lined with weapons: Japanese katanas, Thai fighting sticks, Korean numchuks, throwing stars, kongos. It wasn't for show—in this joint, you checked your carry–weapons at the door. The other wall was mostly Orientals with a light sprinkling of roundeyes, black, brown, and white. Men and women, young and old. No mirrors, no mats, no stretching bars. A combat dojo—bring your own style.

  Max moved in next to me, his hand on my forearm. I followed his lead to an empty space along the wall. A short, fat man stood in the center of the rectangle, bent at the waist, the back of his right hand at his hip, the other extended, wrist limp, fingers softly playing as if in response to air currents, almost a parody of effeminacy. He looked like a soft dumpling—nobody'd step aside for him on the street.

  A slightly built young man stepped onto the floor. Bowed to the fat man. Moved in small, delicate circles, his body folding into a cat stance, front leg slightly off the floor, pawing. Testing the water.

  The fat man stood rooted, only his extended fingers in motion, as though connected to the younger man by invisible wires. All balance centered deep within his abdomen, keeping his point.

  The young man faked a sweep with his leading foot, flashed it to a plant, firing off a back kick with the other leg. The fat man made a whisking motion and the kick went off the mark—a motion–block too fast for me to see.

  The fat man was back inside himself before his opponent recovered. He waited—the sapling facing the wind.

  The young man tried again…drew blanks. He threw kicks from every angle, went airborne once…but the fat man deflected every attack with the extended hand, never moving from his spot.

  The younger man bowed. Stepped off the floor.

  An ancient man in a blue embroidered robe stepped to the border of the rectangle. Barked out something in a language I'd never heard before. I didn't need a translator: "Who's next?"

  I glanced at Max. He put three fingers against my forearm. The young man hadn't been the first to try and penetrate the fat man's crane–style defense.

  I held my left hand at an angle, parallel to my shoulders, in the middle of my chest. Moved my right hand into a fist, swept the left hand aside, smacked the fist against my chest off the carom. Opened my hands in a "why not?" gesture.

  The warrior's mouth twitched a fraction, quick flash of teeth behind the thin lips. Pointed toward the floor.

  A behemoth stepped into the rectangle, his glossy black hair woven into the elaborate set of the sumo wrestler. Looked like an old oak tree, sawed off halfway up. He bowed to the fat man, dwarfing his opponent. The knife hadn't worked—they were going to the club.

  The sumo crouched, snorted a deep breath through his nose, trumpeted his battle cry, and charged. The fat man flicked his extended wrist, spun in place with the rush, and lashed the back of the sumo's head with an elbow as he went past, driving him into the far wall.

  The wall survived the impact.

  The sumo rolled his shoulders, waiting for the battle music in his head to reach crescendo. His eyes turned inward and he charged again. The fat man's left hand fluttered, a butterfly against an onrushing truck, extended fingers darting at the sumo's eyes. The sumo's fists shot up toward the fat man's face just as the fat man's right hand came off his hip, a jet stream striking the sumo's sternum. The bigger man stopped like he'd hit the wall again. The fat man fired two side kicks into the same spot, snapped back into the circle stance before the sumo could react.

  The sumo bowed to the fat man. All around the room, everyone was doing the same.

  A dozen languages bubbled in a rich broth. I couldn't understand any of them. Max couldn't hear them. But we both got the message. The ancient man stepped forward again. Said something, pointing to Max.

  The Mongolian folded his arms, eyes sweeping the room, measuring. He nodded his head a bare fraction. It was enough. The room went quiet as Max walked into the rectangle.

  He was wearing loose, flowing dark cotton pants and a black T–shirt. He bent at the waist, pulled off the thin–soled shoes he always wore, no socks. Bowed to the fat man.

  Max stood rigid as steel, vectoring in. The fat man was a master of some form of aikido. He would not attack. Balanced in harmony, he would only complete the circle.

  Max bowed again. Extended his own hand, fingertips out. Ki to Ki.

  The hair on my forearms stood straight up from the fallout.

  Max slid forward into a slight open crouch, rolling his head on the column of his neck. The fat man waggled his fingers, still into his stance, waiting. Max stepped forward as if walking on rice paper, working his way into the zone. He moved to his left, testing. The fat man's hips were ball bearings—he tracked Max, locked on to the target.

  In the space between two heartbeats, Max dove at the fat man's feet, twisting into a perfect forward roll even as the fat man flowed backward—too late. Max was on his back, both feet piston–driving in a bracket at the fat man's body. One missed, the other was a direct hit to the belly. The fat man staggered as Max rolled to his feet, the Mongolian's right fist hooking inside the fat man's extended hand, driving through, spinning, his back against the fat man's chest as he turned, launching the left, chopping down into the exposed neck.

  It was over. The fat man held his hand against the strike–point, rubbing the feeling back into his neck. It wasn't broken—Max had pulled the shot.

  They bowed to each other. Barks of approval from the crowd. Max pointed to the fat man. Held up his hand, fingers splayed. Touched his thumb, pointed to the fat man. Then his index finger. Same thing. He did each finger in turn, until he came to the little finger. Pointed at himself. Held his chest, panted heavily. Pointed at himself again—held up the thumb. Pointed at the fat man. Held his opponent's hand in the air. Telling the crowd that the fat man had fought four men before Max had his chance—if Max had gone first, the fat man would have won.

  I was proud of the lie—so proud to be his brother.

  17

  Nobody clapped Max on the back on the way out of the dojo. It wasn't that kind of joint.

  The warrior touched the face of my wristwatch, moved his hand in a "come on" gesture. Wherever we were going, we were running close.

  In the car, Max made the sign for SAFE. Lily's joint on the edge of the Village.

  I made a "what's going on?" sign. He held up one finger. Patience.

  We motored through Chatham Square. A flock of gray pigeons clustered around the monument set in a tiny triangle of concrete at the intersection of East Broadway and the Bowery. A white pigeon land
ed in their midst, bulling his way through to the best scavenging. A hard bird, honed by the stress of survival in a world where his color marked him.

  18

  I stashed the Plymouth in back of Lily's place, followed Max inside. Her office is at the far end of the joint. The door was open. Lily was at her desk, her Madonna's face framed by the long black hair. Another woman was with her, a young woman with dirty–blonde hair, big eyes, a sarcastic mouth. Sitting straight in her chair with an athlete's posture. Maybe eight months pregnant. They were deep in conversation. Max clapped his hands—they looked up.

  Max bowed to the women, they returned his greeting. He held up my wrist so they could see the watch.

  "Thank you, Max," Lily said. "Right on time."

  "What is this?" I asked Lily.

  She ignored my question. "You know Storm, right, Burke?"

  "Sure." Storm was the head of the Rape Crisis Unit at the downtown hospital. Another of the warrior women who made up Lily's tribe. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They're all some kind of sweet, and they can all draw blood.

  "You really want to know?" Lily asked Storm. "You're absolutely sure? Burke's never wrong…about this."

  Storm nodded.

  "Show him," Lily said. Storm extended her hand, palm up.

  I sat on the desk, held her palm in my hands. "This is the hand you write with?" I asked her.

  "Yes."

  I looked closely. Saw the clear triangles emerging from the lines. Like the gypsy woman told me a long time ago. Intersecting triangles for female, open spikes for male.

  "It'll be a girl," I told her.

  "Good!" Storm said. Then: "Thank you. I didn't want the amnio, but Lily just had to know. It was making her crazy."

  I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.

  "What's the rest of it?" I asked Lily.

  "How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?"