Sacrifice

by Andrew Vachss

  He lit a cigarette from my pack, letting the smoke bubble softly from his mouth, stroking his chin.

  "The bag plays like juju, but the sound don't tie it down; It's all got two sides…Mojo hand, Little John the Conqueroo, black cat bone, working roots…that's why fools call some of it black magic…not just 'cause my people started it, but 'cause there's another kind. Some of it's like a church, but there's things you can't ask the Lord for, see?"

  "You don't think it's connected?"

  "No way to know, bro'. How big is the bag?" I showed him with my hands.

  "Big enough," he said.

  40

  I found a pay phone on the Upper West Side, called Wolfe on her private line.

  "Yes?"

  "It's me…you recognize my voice?"

  "No. You must have the wrong number."

  The phone slammed down.

  41

  I threw in another quarter, dialed Storm's number.

  "Rape Crisis Unit."

  I asked for her.

  "Hello?"

  "How's your little girl coming along?"

  "My…Oh! Hi, Burke!"

  Citizens don't think about security. "I just called Wolfe. She hung up on me."

  "Now why would she…?"

  "That's what I want to know."

  "You didn't call on the private line, did you?"

  "Yeah, I did."

  "Oh. Well, Wolfe's been acting strange lately, like we told you. She told Lily she thinks that line is tapped."

  "So how do you talk to her? Only in person?"

  "No, we call the switchboard. Wolfe says they can't run a tap on all the incoming calls without a live operator in place."

  "Thanks."

  42

  "Special Victims Bureau."

  "May I speak to Ms. Wolfe, please?"

  "Who shall I tell her is calling?"

  "Juan Rodriguez. I'm a federal parole agent."

  "Please hold."

  A flat, uninflected voice came on the line. "This is Wolfe."

  "It's me again."

  "How can I help you?" Same tone.

  "I have something I'd like to show you. Something that may relate to a pending investigation."

  "Bring it in."

  "It's not that easy."

  "You know the Four Flags diner on Queens Boulevard? Right next to the motel on the south side?"

  "Yes."

  "I eat lunch there around one–fifteen most days."

  "Today?"

  "That's my plan. In this bureau, you never know…emergencies and all .

  43

  Wolfe's battered Audi pulled into the diner's parking lot, jouncing over the speed bumps. The car looked like it had been painted with rust, the windows streaked, front license plate dangling from the one remaining bolt. Lola next to her on the front seat, a dark mass moving in the back. The Rottweiler.

  They left the dog in the car—didn't lock the doors.

  I lit a smoke, waiting.

  A midnight–blue Firebird pulled in behind Wolfe's car. Rocco and Floyd got out, scanned the lot. They seemed to be arguing about something.

  I finished my smoke, went inside.

  The place was jammed with a lunchtime crowd. The hostess stopped me at the door.

  "Smoking or Non–Smoking?"

  "I'm meeting some people…they're already here."

  "Smoking or Non–Smoking?"

  "Wherever they're already sitting, okay?" I walked away from her before the tape could recycle. Spotted Wolfe in a far corner, her back against the wall, Lola across from her.

  "Mind if I join you ladies?"

  "Sure," she said. "Have a seat. We haven't ordered yet."

  The waitress came by. They ordered chef's salad. I did too. Listened to them talk until the food came…the waitress would be too busy to stop back after that.

  "Sorry about the call earlier."

  "The private line is tapped," Wolfe said, no expression in her voice. Like she was giving me a weather report.

  "The only one who could do that is…"

  "Yes. It's not your affair. What do you want to show me?"

  "You're looking for a baby. Derrick is his name, right? Disappeared from the Welfare hotel over by La Guardia?"

  Wolfe looked at Lola, nodded.

  "Somebody asked me to look for him too."

  "And?"

  "I think I know where he is."

  "Alive?"

  "No."

  "You've seen the body?"

  "No."

  "Is there anything to connect this to…?"

  "Emerson?"

  She nodded again.

  "Emerson beat the baby to death. In that room. Right in front of the mother. Then he went out to get rid of the body."

  "How do you know this?"

  "Just a guess. But if you found the body, it would be enough?"

  "Depending on what shape it was in…"

  "You got wants out for Emerson?"

  "No."

  "How come? Don't you even want to talk to him about this?"

  Wolfe lit a smoke. I felt Lola's body shift next to me. "He's locked up," Wolfe said. "On another charge. In the Bronx."

  "So you can't question him?"

  "His lawyer says no."

  "Or her?"

  "She hasn't been arrested." Meaning she could talk to her, but she didn't have enough ammo to do it yet.

  "Let's say, just to be talking about it, that you knew he left the hotel room with the baby's body…came back in an hour or two, what would that tell you?"

  "Nothing much. You can cover a lot of ground in a couple of hours."

  "And if he didn't have a car…or access to one?"

  "Okay. You going to give us a nice sworn–to–under–oath affidavit about this? Be a confidential informant?"

  "I can't do that…I don't know anything, see? I'm just talking about a theory."

  "We can't get a search warrant on a theory," Lola tossed in, trace of a Brooklyn accent coming through for the first time.

  "You don't need a warrant to search some places."

  Wolfe's eyebrows rose.

  "Public places," I said.

  Wolfe leaned forward. "What do you have to show us?"

  "It's in my car."

  We finished our meal. They spent the time talking about Lola's new boyfriend. Sounded like he wouldn't be around long.

  They picked up my check.

  44

  "I'm parked against the back fence. An old Plymouth. Pull your car next to mine, open your trunk."

  I caught Rocco and Floyd in the edge of my vision. Wolfe's Audi pulled in. Lola went around the back to open the trunk. Wolfe snapped a lead on the Rottweiler, walked him over to my car.

  "Bruiser, stay!" The beast dropped into a sitting position the way a sprinter settles into the starting blocks, eyes only for me.

  I opened the duffel bag in the trunk, pulled out the blanket inside. Uncovered the leather bag.

  "You know what this is?" I asked.

  Neither of them said anything.

  "I traced Emerson's path from the hotel. Found this along the way."

  "The way to where?"

  I told them about the dark water surrounding Rikers Island. Step by step.

  "You think the baby's in that bag?" Wolfe.

  "Maybe some pieces of him, but I doubt it. I think he's in the water. You can get divers without a warrant, right?"

  "Yes. But it's a long shot. Unless he weighted it down, it could be anywhere."

  "Worth a try."

  "Sure."

  "I'll put the bag in your trunk. The coroner will tell you the rest."

  "And how did we come by the bag?"

  "I figure, maybe Rocco and Floyd were doing some investigating, ran across it, cut it down. Tagged it in an evidence sack, all the right stuff."

  "When would they have done this?"

  "Why don't you ask them," I said, flicking a glance to my left.

  Wolfe spotted them. "Get over h
ere!" she shouted. Lola giggled. They walked over, looking everyplace but at Wolfe.

  "One of you two clowns put this in my trunk," Wolfe said, pointing at the bag.

  "What is it?" Rocco.

  "We don't know yet. You and Floyd found it last night."

  "Huh?"

  "Shut up and do it. I'll talk to you two when we get back to the office."

  "We just thought we'd…" Floyd.

  He caught a warning look from Lola, cut it short.

  Rocco took the bag in his hands. An ugly low snarl came from Bruiser.

  "No!" Wolfe barked back at him.

  "I'll call you," I said to Wolfe.

  She stepped close to me. The breeze ruffled her hair. Orchid perfume. "Give me a number. I'll call you."

  I gave her Mama's number. She didn't write it down.

  "I'm not there much. Leave a message.

  "I know," she said.

  They were all still standing in the parking lot as I pulled out.

  45

  I made my rounds the next few days. Patternless, like always, in case anybody was interested. Somebody left a message for me at the poolroom. Wanted to buy guns. A lot of guns, full–auto only. Probably the ATF, checking to see if I was still in business.

  Dropped by the clinic in Brooklyn where they buy blood. I buy in small lots, but I outbid the Red Cross every time. The blood goes into small clear plastic packets. The way it works is this: The team hits a bank. One guy vaults the counter to grab the money while the others hold everyone down at gunpoint. The counter–vaulter cuts his hand going over, curses real loud, like it hurt. When the cops come, they send the lab for the spot where the blood spilled. DNA fingerprinting. They ever catch the robbers, the blood sample won't match. That's why rapists are the only humans you can count on to wear condoms in this town.

  I collect matchbooks too. From restaurants I've never visited. They make good souvenirs to leave behind at a crime scene.

  I never supply ideas, just equipment. Not a middleman, never in the middle.

  There's also good money in body parts. Any part. I once saw an ad for a kidney. One hundred grand cash, jump right over that long waiting list. Sometimes, people are poor enough and cold enough to pop out a kid's eye, make him a more pitiful sight. A better beggar. Predatory anthropologists figured it out—offered the same service but with full hospitalization for the kid. Even threw in a few bucks. And they sell the eyes over here. Everybody wins. Fetal tissue is the perfect transplant material—it'll bond to anything and the body won't reject it. I wonder if the "pro–life" mob knows an abortion could save more lives than the mother's.

  46

  Some women have beautiful eyes. Their girlfriends tell them it's their best feature. So they wear a ton of eyeliner, mascara…like that.

  Bonita bent over a lot.

  She works in a joint that serves food and wine, little stage in the back, performances every night. Stand–up comics, singers, short dramatic pieces.

  Bonita's an actress. Between jobs just now.

  I found a table against the side wall. Smoking section. I wonder if they have them in prison now.

  "Hello, stranger."

  "Hi, Bonita." She was all in black: a tube skirt over a body stocking, spike heels.

  "I called you a couple of times. Didn't that Chinese woman give you the message?"

  "Here I am."

  "Why didn't you call?"

  "I did. Got your answering machine."

  "So why didn't you leave a message?"

  "What's the point? You already have my number."

  "But then I'd know you called, honey."

  The girl couldn't act but she could read an audience. Just as I was asking myself why I came, she switched away to get me some ice water, shaking it hard enough to blow out the candles on the tables.

  "I'm on my break soon," she said when she came back. "We can watch the show together."

  "What show?" I asked her, barely controlling my enthusiasm.

  "Oh, it's so good. It's like a play, or something. Just wait. That's why it's so full tonight."

  I crunched a flaky croissant between my teeth, sipped the ice water. She left the little glass bottle on the table. I wondered if trendoid B–girls drank tap water when they hustled salad–bar customers for drinks.

  Bonita came back. Sat down just as the lights dimmed. I could see a couple of men setting up the stage. The lights came up. Tall, big–shouldered man was facing the audience, a Doberman lying at his feet. Looked like one of those Pacific Northwest lumberjacks, long brown hair, ropy muscle all along his forearms. He had a power drill in his hands.

  "I know how things work," he told the audience, mouth a thin line. "When they get broke, I fix them."

  The big man had a straight–ahead stare. Empty and flat, not challenging, not backing off either. Talking like it was coming from inside his head.

  He lived in the basement, he told the audience. Janitor. Lived in a lot of places, some of them not so nice. And he did some things in those places, not nice things. Now he just wants to live in his basement, fix whatever's broke. The crowd was quiet, listening to his story.

  The dog didn't bark, he told us. Some freak had carved him up when he was a puppy, cut into his throat. "But he still works," the man said. His voice had life in it, but subdued, an undertone of Wesley's dead–robot sound.

  There was a kid who lived in his building. Slow in the head, but a sweet boy. He was scared of monsters coming for him in the night, so the man made him a machine. Just a bunch of flashing lights on a box with a toggle switch. The kid liked the machine. Slept good for the first time.

  The kid went to a special school. His teacher, Dr. English, told the mother that the machine was a placebo. A fake, but one the kid believed in.

  One night, the kid started screaming and he didn't stop. An ambulance took him away. The man visited him in the hospital. The kid told him the machine wasn't any good anymore.

  The man said he was sorry—he'd build him a better one.

  The man said he knew how things worked. Did some checking. Seems this Dr. English used to work at another school up North. The school had been closed behind some sex abuse scandal. Some teachers indicted, Dr. English resigned. The man called the kid's school. Dr. English was out. Broke his arm in a ski accident. Funny, the lady on the phone said, Dr. English only came to their school from his old job because he hated the cold weather.

  The boy lived on the second floor. There was a fire escape leading to the ground.

  We watched, listened as the man put it all together. Watched as he painstakingly drilled holes through the center of two hard rubber balls, strung a loop of piano wire between them. Tested it by snapping it in his hands.

  The man was getting dressed. Dark jacket, pair of gloves, a black watch cap on his head. When he pulled it down, it turned into a ski mask. "Tonight, when it gets dark, I'm going to show this Dr. English a machine that works."

  The stage went dark. Somebody gasped in the audience. Then the applause started. Built to a peak. Stayed there.

  The man came back out. The announcer took the mike, called his name. David Joe Wirth, A pretty girl at a front table stood up, waved a fist at him, her dark ponytail bouncing. He smiled. They left the front together.

  I watched the crowd. Wondered how many of them shared the Secret.

  47

  Later, in Bonita's studio apartment on the fringe of the Village.

  "My roommate will be back soon," she whispered, sliding the tube skirt down over her hips.

  Later, at her kitchen table. "Did you get it?" she asked me.

  "Get what?"

  "The play. The one we saw tonight. I didn't, the first time he did it. See, the teacher at the school, he was molesting that little boy. And the boy's mother, she trusted him. That's why the machine didn't work…the one the janitor made for him…the monsters weren't all in his head like they thought."

  "Yeah, I got it."

  "Isn't it disgusting…what
some people do?"

  "Yeah."

  "I wonder where she is, Tawny. I thought she'd be home by now."

  "It's okay, I gotta take off myself."

  "She's going away next weekend. You could spend the night…"

  "If I don't have to work, I'll call you."

  "You better," sitting in my lap now, squirming.

  "Bonita, I feel pretty stupid about this, but…"

  "What?"

  "Well, I wanted to buy you a present…just to show you how much I care and all. A charm for your bracelet…I saw one I really liked…a little gold heart…"

  "Un–huh…"

  "Yeah, but by the time I got to the store, tonight, it was closed. So, I was wondering…I don't mean to be crude or anything…you know the crazy hours I work…Could I give you the money, let you pick it up for yourself?…I mean…"

  "Oh, you're so sweet, honey. I don't mind at all."

  I handed her five fifty–dollar bills, folded in half. She put them on the table without looking.

  "You have to go right now?" she purred, squirming some more. Maybe she wasn't such a lousy actress.

  48

  I cut myself shaving the next morning. Took a plump leaf from the aloe plant on the windowsill, punctured it with my thumbnail, smeared it on, watching Pansy sneer at my clumsiness. Thinking of Blossom and her goddamned health advice.

  Ate slowly. A rosette of michetta roll, hard crust, hollow inside. Only place you can get them in New York is this Milanese bakery in Brooklyn, on the Bushwick border. Real Italians. I'd been going there for years—never heard them say Mamma Mia once. I smeared cream cheese on each piece as I snapped it off. Drank my ice water, swallowed the beta carotene and vitamin C.

  Blossom again.

  If I ever went over her back fence one night, I wouldn't need cash. Or lies.

  I snapped out of it, looked over to the couch. "Want to go for a ride, girl?"

  Pansy's tail thumped happily.

  Saturday morning, bright and clear. We took the Willis Avenue Bridge to the Hutch, headed north. All the way to the wilds of Dutchess County, almost a two–hour drive.

  Teenage girl hitching by the side of the road. I thought of a maggot who picked up a girl like that in California. Raped her, chopped her hands off so there wouldn't be fingerprints, and dumped her in a culvert. The little girl lived, somehow. The maggot's already been paroled—it's not like he robbed a bank or anything. I read he got arrested again in Florida. For shoplifting. The paper said he stole a hat, but he'd paid for another item he had in a bag. A box of diapers.