Текст книги "Born Bad: Collected Stories"

Автор книги: Andrew Vachss

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Dumping Ground

Sodium lights burned islands of orange on the dark wet streets. Sunburst patches. Hard-bright centers tapering off to soft rays around the edges. Black splotches between the islands. Prowler's footprints.

A maroon sedan cruised the streets, a string of police lights across its roof. Safeguard Security Services between two broad white stripes on each side. The factory district was deserted after dark.

Two men in the front seat. Gray uniforms, police caps, gun belts. The radio on the console between them crackled. The man in the passenger seat picked up the microphone, thumbed it open.

"We're swinging past Ajax, then we're checking the freight yards."

"Dead zone," the dispatcher's voice chuckled.

"We're on the job," the guard said, a hurt tone in his voice.

"Ten-four."

The sedan's tires hissed on the greasy streets. The guard looked out his window.

"I don't like this part," he said.

The driver was a tall, slightly built man in his forties. Dark hair, long, hollow-cheeked face. His eyes had a yellowish cast in the streetlights. He glanced over at his partner. "You like the other part."

The passenger lit a cigarette. "You think maybe we should find another spot?"

The driver's lips moved, showing his teeth. "It's perfect. Everybody knows the wiseguys use the back end of that wrecking yard to dump toxic waste. Nobody's going to go poking around in there."

"You really think…you think the ground is poison and

all?"

"How could it be? The dogs are always there."

The passenger dragged on his cigarette, watching the empty factory buildings as the cruiser sliced through the night.

The car circled the dump at the edge of the district. On patrol.

"Quiet as a grave," the driver said.

"Tommy, the last time we were here…the dogs tore the bag open."

"So what? They're animals. They get a taste of something, they want more."

The passenger's face was sweat-sheened. He stubbed out his cigarette. His hands shook.

"Like us," he whispered.

The driver wheeled the patrol car onto a dirt road, running parallel to the pit. He killed the headlights. "Last stop," he said, turning off the ignition.

They climbed out. The driver opened the trunk. It was lined with green plastic garbage bags. Industrial strength. A heavy white canvas sack was inside, dark stains running across its surface like marbled fat. They each took an end of the canvas sack, wrapping the garbage bags around their hands. Pulled it free from the trunk. They made their way down the embankment in the dark, balancing the weight of the sack between them.

"She was the best one yet," the driver said.

At the bottom of the slope, they swung the bag back and forth. "One, two, three!" the driver grunted as they flung the bag into the pit.

Fire-dots of light shone from below. The passenger was breathing hard. "Fucking dogs. They always know we're here."

"They're the only ones who do," the driver said, starting back up the slope.

The patrol car waited for them as they climbed toward the dirt road.

"Tommy, maybe we shouldn't do it for a while. Maybe–"

"Shut up!"

"What?"

The soft wet ground around the car was a pool of shadows. The shadows moved. Low throaty sounds, gleaming eyes. A river of dogs, rushing.

Exit

The black Corvette glided into a waiting spot behind the smog-gray windowless building. Gene turned off the ignition. Sat listening to the quiet. He took a rectangular leather case from the compartment behind the seats, climbed out, flicking the door closed behind him. He didn't lock the car.

Gene walked slowly through the rat-maze corridors. The door at the end was unmarked. A heavyset man in an army jacket watched him approach, eyes never leaving Gene's hands.

"I want to see Monroe."

"Sorry, kid. He's backing a game now."

"I'm the one."

The heavyset man's eyes shifted to Gene's face. "He's been waiting over an hour for you."

Gene walked past the guard into a long, narrow room. One green felt pool table under a string of hanging lights. Men on benches lining the walls. He could see the sign on the far wall: the large arrow–EXIT–was just beyond Monroe. They were all there: Irish, nervously stroking balls around the green felt surface, waiting. And Monroe. A grossly corpulent thing, parasite-surrounded. Boneless. Only his eyes betrayed life. They glittered greedily from deep within the fleshy rolls of his face. His eight-hundred-dollar black suit fluttered against his body like it didn't want to touch his flesh. His thin hair was flat-black enameled patent-leather, plastered onto a low forehead with a veneer of sweat. His large head rested on the puddle of his neck. His hands were mounds of doughy pink flesh at the tips of his short arms. His smile was a scar and the fear-aura coming off him was jail-house-sharp.

"You were almost too late, kid."

"I'm here now."

"I'll let it go, Gene. You don't get a cut this time." The watchers grinned, taking their cue. "Three large when you win," Monroe said.

They, advanced to the low, clean table. Gene ran his hand gently over the tightly woven surface, feeling the calm come into him the way it always did. He opened his leather case, assembled his cue.

Irish won the lag. Gene carefully roughened the tip of his cue, applied the blue chalk. Stepped to the table, holding the white cue ball in his left hand, bouncing it softly, waiting.

"Don't even think about losing." Monroe's voice, strangely thin.

Gene broke perfectly, leaving nothing. Irish walked once around the table, seeing what wasn't there. He played safe. The room was still.

"Seven ball in the corner."

Gene broke with that shot and quickly ran off the remaining balls. He watched Monroe's face gleaming wetly in the dimness as the balls were racked. He slammed the break-ball home, shattering the rack. And he sent the rest of the balls into pockets gaping their eagerness to serve him. The brightly colored balls were his: he nursed some along the rail, sliced others laser-thin, finessed combinations. Brought them home.

Irish watched for a while. Then he sat down and looked at the floor. Lit a cigarette.

The room darkened. Gene smiled and missed his next shot. Irish sprang to the table. He worked slowly and too carefully for a long time. When he was finished, he was twelve balls ahead with twenty-five to go. But it was Gene's turn.

And Gene smiled again, deep into Monroe's face. Watched the man neatly place a cigarette into the precise center of his mouth, waving away a weasel-in-attendance who leaped to light it for him. And missed again…by a wider margin.

Irish blasted the balls off the table, waited impatiently for the rack. He smelled the pressure and didn't want to lose the wave. Irish broke correctly, ran the remaining balls and finished the game. EXIT was glowing in the background. As the last ball went down, he turned:

"You owe me money, Monroe."

His voice trembled. One of Monroe's men put money in his hand. The fat man spoke, soft and cold: "Would you like to play again"

"No, I won't play again. I must of been crazy. You would of gone through with it. Yes. You fat, dirty, evil sonofabitch…"

One of the calmly waiting men hit him sharply under the heart. Others stepped forward to drag him from the room.

"Let him keep the money," Monroe told them

Gene turned to gaze silently at the fat man. Almost home…

"You going to kill me, Monroe?"

"No, Gene. I don't want to kill you."

"Then I'm leaving."

A man grabbed Gene from each side and walked him toward the fat man's chair.

"You won't do anything like that. Ever again."

Monroe ground the hungry tip of his bright-red cigarette deep into the boy's face, directly beneath the eye. Just before he lost consciousness, Gene remembered that Monroe didn't smoke.

He awoke in a grassy plain, facedown. He started to rise and the earth stuck to his torn face.

His screams were triumph.

Family Resemblance

It's easy to find a parking place in the Garment District on a Sunday morning. I locked the Hertzmobile sedan, sweeping the street with my eyes. Empty. A cold, hard wind hawked in off the Hudson. I adjusted the black–wool watch cap until it rested against the bridge of my dark glasses, slipped my gloved hands into the side pockets of my gray arctic coat, and started my march.

The back alley was clogged with trash, already picked clean by the army of homeless looking for returnable bottles. A wino was sprawled half out of a packing crate, frozen fluid around his open mouth. Working on being biodegradable.

I found the rust–colored back door. Worked the numbered buttons in the right sequence, checked behind me, and slipped inside. Staircase to my right. One flight down to the basement, four up to the top floor, where they'd be.

My rubber–soled boots were soundless on the metal stairs. I tested each one before I moved up. No hurry.

I heard their voices behind the door. Just murmurs, couldn't make out the words.

I pulled off the watch cap, pocketed the dark glasses, fitted the dark nylon stocking over my face, the big knot at the top making me look taller. Like the lifts in my boots.

I unsnapped the coat. The Franchi LAW–12 semiautomatic shotgun hung against my stomach, suspended from a rawhide loop around my neck. The barrel was sawed off to fourteen inches, the stock chopped down to a pistol grip. Twelve–gauge magnum, double–0 buckshot–four in the clip, one in the chamber. The safety was off. I checked the heavy Velcro brace on my right wrist—the cut—down scattergun kicks hard.

The door wasn't locked. I stepped inside. The voices went silent.

I was in a small room, facing three men, one directly in front of me, one to each side, ledger books open on the small table between them. Their eyes locked on the shotgun like it was the answer to all their questions.

The far tip of the triangle was a fat man with a suety face. White shirt, black suspenders, half–glasses pushed down on his nose. The man on my right was barrel–chested, wearing a red sweatsuit zipped open to show a hairy chest and some gold chains. On my left was a younger guy dressed in one of those slouchy Italian jackets, a pastel T–shirt underneath.

"Put your hands on the table," I told them. The stocking mask pressed against my lips, changing my voice, but they heard me clear enough. Hands went on the table. The guy on my right sported a heavy diamond on his ring finger. The young guy had a wafer–thin watch on his wrist.

I let the scattergun drift in a soft are, covering them all, letting them feel the calm.

"There's no money here today," the fat guy said, just a slight tremor in his voice. It wasn't his first stickup.

"Shut up," I told him, not raising my voice.

'"What is this?" the heavyset one asked.

"I ask the questions, you answer them," I told him.

"And then?"

"And then I kill one of you."

"Why?" the young guy squeaked.

"That little girl, the one they found strangled in the basement a couple of months ago. They found her when this joint opened up on a Monday morning. You three meet here every Sunday. To cook the books, play games with the IRS, whatever. It doesn't matter. One of you killed her."

"The cops already checked that out," the fat man said.

"I'm not the cops."

"Look, pal—" the guy to my right said.

"I'm not your pal. Here's the deal. One of you killed her, period—I got no time to argue about it. I don't find out who did it, now, in this room, I blow you all away. Then I'm sure."

"That's not fair," the young guy whined.

"It'll be fair," I said. "If I wanted to kill you all, I wouldn't be wearing this mask. Now, who likes little girls?" I asked all three of them.

No answer.

"Last chance," I said, not moving.

The fat guy's eyes shifted to his left. Just a flicker. I pinned the guy with the gold chains. "You keep magazines in a desk drawers' I asked him.

His face went white. "It's not what you think. I'm straight—you ask anyone."

I watched his face shake, waiting.

"It's not me! Ask Markie–ask him about where he was a couple a years ago!"

"That wasn't for anything violent." the young guy yelled, sweat popping out on his face. "I just liked to look."

"In windows" I asked him.

"I was—sick. But I'm okay now. I see a therapist and everything. Right, Uncle Manna Tell him!"

Manny nodded. "Markie wouldn't hurt anyone." Veins of contempt in his fat voice.

"How about you?"

"Me! What do I want with little girls? I take a nice massage right here in the office twice a week, you know what I mean?"

"You tell the cops about that?"

"You think it's a big deal to them? They're all on the pad–they know how it goes."

I turned to the young guy. "You like to look, Markie. Did she scream when you wanted to look too close?"

"It wasn't me! I didn't see her until—"

"It's okay, Markie. Until when"

"Louie did it!" he shouted, pointing at the guy with the gold chains. "He showed me. He made me help him take her down to the basement–"

"You lying little punk!" Louie muttered, nodding at Manny. "He always wanted me outa here. Never wanted a partner." Then he turned to face me. "Yeah, okay. I took her downstairs. But after this freak finished with her. It wasn't me. The cops know. Manny pays them regular."

"He said she came here looking for a job," Markie said, indicating Louie. "I guess she needed some money and–"

The fat man smiled, watching my eyes under the mask. "Look, you're a professional, right? Somebody paid you to do a job. Okay, I understand. Business is business. Markie's a relative. A nephew, you know what that means? The kid's a peeper, but he never killed anyone. Louie's the one you want. You got paid for a body, do what you have to do. Everybody's happy."

"Markie don't look like a relative of yours," I told the fat man.

"You look real close, you can always see the family resemblance," he said, the smile leaving his face, knowing how it was going to end.

I tightened my finger on the trigger. Reached up and pulled the mask off my face.

Hostage

I've got a gun! Aimed right at her head. See? Take a look for yourselves. You make one move to come in here, I'll blow her away!"

The man was on the top story of a three–family frame building in a middle–class section of Brooklyn. Standing at the front window, looking down at us. He was visible from the waist up, the silver revolver clear in his hand. We could only see the old lady's head and chest, the small body framed by the handles of the wheelchair. I felt a crowd surging behind us, held back by the uniformed cops. A TV camera crew was setting up to my left.

"I guess this one's yours, Walker."

I nodded agreement at the big detective. I'd seen him around before, at scenes like this one. Never could remember his name.

"How long's he been like that?" I asked.

"We got a call about six this morning, just around daybreak. Prowler. Radio car took it, found the kid in an alley, peeking in windows. They chased him, he made it to the back door of that house there. They start up the stairs after him, that's when he flashed the piece. He's been up there for hours."

"That's his house?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"He was just running in panic, he wouldn't have gone all the way to the top floor. I'll bet the gun was in the house all the time, probably didn't have it with him when he was outside."

"Yeah. He's even got a permit for it, all registered, nice and legal."

"What else you got?"

"His name's Mark Weston. Age twenty–three. Got two priors, indecent exposure and attempted B&E. Got probation both times. Sees a psychiatrist. Lives off his mother's Social Security check–that's her up there in the wheelchair."

"You think he'd blast his mother?"

The detective shrugged. "You're the expert," he said, just the trace of contempt in his voice.

I'd been a cop a long time. Ever since I came home from the killing floor in Southeast Asia. It seemed like the natural thing to do. My first assignment was vice, but I got kicked back into uniform when some dirtbag pimp complained I'd roughed him up during a bust. Then I worked narcotics. The first week on the job I killed a dealer in a gunfight. He was shot in the back. The Review Team cleared me–he'd shot first and I nailed him going for the window.

I got a commendation, but they put me back on the beat. That was okay for a while. The people in the community knew me, we got along. I caught two guys coming out of a bodega, stocking masks over their heads, one had a shotgun. I cut them both down. Turned out one was thirteen years old. How was I supposed to know?

They sent me to the department shrink. Nice guy. Gave me a lot of tests, asked a lot of questions. Never said much.

The shrink's office was in Manhattan. The locks were a joke. I went back there one night and pulled my file. It made interesting reading. Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder, fundamental lack of empathy, blunted affect, addicted risk–taker.

I'd been a sniper in Nam, so they tried me on the SWAT Team. When I did what they hired me to do, they pulled me off the job. Took away my gun.

Then they gave me a choice. I could take early retirement, go out on disability. Emotionally unsuited to law enforcement, that kind of thing. Or I could learn hostage negotiation work. Go to this special school they have. The boss said I'd be real good at it–I always stayed calm, and I could talk pretty sweet when I wanted to.

But I couldn't carry a gun. My job was to talk. The boss said if I proved myself, I could go back on a regular job someday.

Okay.

I lit a cigarette, thinking it through. "You got a telephone link?" I asked.

"There's a number listed. We haven't tried it yet. Waiting on you. You can try it from the truck."

I walked over to the blue–and–white truck, introduced myself. Sat down at the console and dialed the number.

It rang a half–dozen times before he picked it up.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Walker, Mark. I want to talk to you. About this situation, see if we can't work something out, okay?"

"Are you a cop?"

"No," I said, my voice soft, starting the lies. "I'm a psychologist. The police figured you'd rather talk to me. Is that okay?"

"Make them go away!"

"Okay, Mark. Take it easy, son. There's nothing to get upset about. You didn't do anything."

"Make them go away, I said. I'll kill her, I swear I will."

"Sure, I understand. Give me a few minutes, okay? You'll do that, won't you Mark. I can't just snap my fingers, make them disappear. I have to talk to them. Like I'm talking to you, okay?"

"I…"

"I'll call you back. In a few minutes, okay? Just relax, I'm going to fix everything."

I stepped out of the truck, feeling his eyes on me. The big detective was rooted to the same spot.

"Can we move everyone backs Just out of the sight–line from his window?"

"Procedure…"

"Procedure is we don't let him walk away, we don't give him weapons, and we don't set him off, right? Just pull back, okay? What's the big dealer You can keep the perimeter tight. Anyway, it's a good idea to clear the area…what if he starts firing out the window?"

The big detective gave me a steady gaze, not giving anything away. "It's your show, pal," he said.

In five minutes, the street was empty. I went back to the truck, made my call.

"Okay, Mark? Just like I promised. Nobody's going to hurt you."

"I'm sorry for what I did. Can't I…"

"Mark, I did something for you, right? Now it's time for you to do something for me. Like good faith, okay?"

"Wha…what do you want?"

"What I want is to talk to you, Mark. Face–to–face."

"I'm not coming out!"

"Of course not, Mark. I wouldn't want you to do that. I'll come in, okay? And we'll talk."

"If this is a trick…"

"It's no trick, Mark. Why would I trick you? I'm on your side. We're working together on this. Tell you what: I'll take off my shirt, so you can see I'm not carrying a gun, okay' I'll walk up the stairs, you can watch every step. And you can keep your gun on me all the time. Fair enough?"

"I'll think about it."

"There isn't much time, Mark. The cops, you know how they are. I got them to listen to me because I told them we had a relationship. That we could get along, you and me. If they think we can't talk, you know what they'll do."

"I'll kill her!"

"Why would they care, Mark? You know how the cops are. Another old lady gets killed in New York, so what? Besides, if I come up there, you'd have two hostages, right? Even more insurance."

"How come…"

"Mark, I'm coming up now. I want you to watch me, okay. Watch what I do. You'll see I'm on your side, son."

I hung up the phone, stepped out of the truck. I saw him at the window, watching. I waved. Took off my jacket, laid it on the ground like a blanket. I dropped my shirt on top. Took of my undershirt and added it to the pile. I unlaced my shoes, took them off, peeled off my socks and put them inside. Rolled up the cuffs of my pants to mid–calf. Turned one complete spin, my hands high in the air.

Then I started for the stairs. On the second flight, I heard a door open.

"It's me, Mark," I called out.

The door was open at the top of the stairs. I stepped inside. He was standing next to his mother, the gun leveled at my chest.

"Hello, Mark," I said, reaching out to shake hands.

He didn't go for it, the pistol trembling in his hands.

"Okay if I sit down?" I asked, not waiting for an answer.

He stood silent, watching me. The old lady's eyes were ugly and evil, measuring me. She didn't look afraid.

"Mark, do you smoke?"

"Why?"

"I didn't want to bring my cigarettes with me. Didn't want you to be suspicious. But I'd sure like one now."

"She doesn't let me smoke in the house," he said.

The old lady's expression didn't change, but her eyes flickered triumph. The pistol wasn't cocked.

"Okay, no big deal. Let's talk now, you and me."

"About what?"

"About how you're going to get out of this, okay?"

"The probation officer, she said if I messed up again, I was going to jail. I can't go to jail."

"You're not going to jail, Mark. Why should you go to jails Your mother, she's not going to press charges against you, right?"

He looked down at her. She nodded agreement.

"See?" I told him. "What we have to do, now, is bargain with them. Make a deal, you know?"

"What kind of deal?"

"The only trouble you're in, near as I can see, is maybe running away from the cops this morning. That's nothing, that's not even a crime. But you know how judges are…so we have to give them something, make you look good. Like a hero, okay?"

"A hero?"

"Sure! What we do is, we let your mother go. We let her go outside. You still have me as a hostage. But first, I call the cops. And I make them promise, if you let her go, then they'll drop the charges. Then, you and me, we walk out of here together. Okay?"

"What if…?"

"How does your mother get around, Marks I mean, how does that wheelchair get outsider'

"She can walk. If she had some help. I used to…"

"Okay, here's how we'll do it. I'll help your mother downstairs, right to the door, okay' That wheelchair, it folds up, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll help her downstairs. You're right behind me, with the gun. Then you and me, we'll go back upstairs and talk. After a while, we walk out. And that's it."

"You promise?"

"Just watch me," I said, reaching for the phone. I dialed the truck. "This is Walker," I told them. "Mark and I have had a discussion about this situation and here's what we have to offer. He's going to let his mother come out, okay' In exchange, we want you to drop the charges against him. You do that, and he and I will come out together. But remember, the deal has to be no jail for Mark, you understand?"

Mark stood next to me, the pistol inches from my face. I held the receiver so he could hear the cop in the truck tell me they agreed to my terms, no problem. So long as he sent the old lady out first.

It took a long time to wrestle the old lady down the stairs, her gnarled hands on my arm. I wasn't surprised at the strength of her grip. I snapped the wheelchair open and she sat down. I gently pushed her out into the sunlight. Climbed back the stairs, Mark right behind me.

We both sat down. "You can smoke now," I told him. "She's gone."

His smile was tentative, but he produced a pack. Handed it to me. We lit up, smoked in silence.

Then he told me his story. They all have a story. He was a change–of–life baby. His father left soon after his birth, and the old lady raised him alone. Hard. He showed me the discolored skin on his right hand where she'd burned him when she caught him with dirty magazines. The whip marks on his back. From an electrical cord. He dropped out of school when he was a teenager. Never had a friend. Lonely, scared, sad. Scarred.

In another hour he was crying

I got up, went to him. Put my arms around him. Took the gun gently from his hand. Patted his back, talking softly to him. Telling him he was gong to a better place. Where nobody could ever hurt him again.

I stepped away from him. Turned and brought up the pistol. His face froze. I put two rounds into his chest. Footsteps pounded on the stairs.

Self–defense.

Maybe now they'll give me my gun back.