Текст книги "Born Bad: Collected Stories"

Автор книги: Andrew Vachss

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Date Rape

There is a wire twirled in my head. A coil of razor wire. I can feel it. I have to be very quiet or it will tear my brain.

I have to decide. Even though my sister is older than me, I am the man. Ever since I was a little kid, my father explained this to me. He knows everything about the way to do things. The right way.

He's a policeman. He was a patrolman, back in the days when you had to be a man just to put on the badge. He walked around by himself in neighborhoods where they patrol in two-man cars today. He was shot twice, on the job. After the last time, he was made a detective.

Everybody lies, my father says. He explained it to me. Everybody lies if lying makes it better for them. You have to get the facts. You have to get things straight before you act.

There's ways to tell, my father told me. If a nigger is lying, you can tell by the way he breathes…his stomach kind of shakes. And a Jew, when a Jew lies, he always rubs his hands together. Like he's washing them, but with no soap.

You can't always tell who's a Jew, though, because they look white.

He caught me when I lied to him. Down the street, one of our neighbors, a big blonde woman, she told my father she caught me peeking in her window. At night, when she was getting ready for bed. He punched me in the stomach, very hard. I didn't cry. I told him it wasn't me. He smiled then, told me he was proud of me. You couldn't tell if a real man was lying by beating on him, he said. He made me feel good. He told me about women. How they trick you, lead you on, tease you. Like that blonde woman, parading around in her bra and panties with the shades up, just asking for it. I told him it was worse than that–she didn't even have a bra on…and then I realized what I said. He just smiled. He told me, there's always a way to tell if a man's lying.

I can't make a mistake now. Or the wire will rip through my head and make my brain scream and bleed.

My sister says she was raped. She came right over here and told me. It was a date, just the two of them. They had dinner together. Afterwards, he drove her to this spot outside of town. It's a restricted area. No Trespassing. So they could have a private talk. He kissed her. But when the kiss got hard, she pushed him away. He slapped her and made her cry. She felt bad, like she wasn't being fair. But then he came at her again, pulling up her skirt. She yelled, but nobody heard her. He dragged her out of the car and ripped her clothes. He raped her in the woods. Then he drove her to where she lives.

I interrogated her. When she cried, I waited for her to stop. I made her tell me her story again and again. I made her tell me backwards, to see if I could catch her in a lie. I asked her if she liked it, once she got into it. She screamed at me and called me all kinds of filthy names, but she had to sit there and listen to me. I had her handcuffed to the chair.

My sister doesn't live at home anymore. I didn't think she'd come back here just to tell me what she did, about what happened, but I guess she knew I'd find her anyway. I was suspicious. I wished I had a lie detector, like in the police station.

"You're a freak, Junior," she told me.

A sorry little freak. I wish I'd never told you."

When I said she had to tell me again, she started cursing. She has a nasty mouth, my sister. She always did.

Finally it was done. It took a long time, and she didn't smell so good. But she still had a nasty mouth.

"Well, what are you going to do now?"

When I told her I was going to ask him the same questions I asked her, she started cursing so loud I had to put a gag in her mouth.

I captured him easily. It was no problem–he didn't expect it, I guess. I took him down to the basement. It's all soundproofed down there, so you could practice with guns and not disturb the people next door.

I made him sit in a straight chair and then I locked his hands behind him with the handcuffs. At first he didn't want to answer my questions, but I showed him that I had to know the answers. I had to know them.

He said it was a date. She had asked him to take her to dinner, so they could talk. But it was hard to talk in the restaurant, so he took her out to that place, where they would have privacy.

She kissed him. Wiggled against him. Let him know she was ready. Then, when he almost got there, she started putting on a show, like she changed her mind. He said he'd had her a lot of times–sometimes she asks for it, sometimes she acts like she doesn't want it at all. But it always ends the same way. She's a bitch. A cock-teasing bitch. Slap her in the mouth, she starts to tell the truth, that's what he said. He said he'd have her again. If she was so angry, how come she hadn't called the cops?

I left him in the basement. I walked back upstairs very careful, so the wire wouldn't tear in my head. I told her to tell me the truth. The whole damn truth. She started crying again. So I asked her, was it true, that she'd had sex with him before? Plenty of times? She didn't say anything, so I slapped her hard across the mouth.

Then she told me the truth.

She admitted it. He had her lots and lots of times. And she wanted to call it off. So the last time, she asked him to dinner to tell him. And it was true, they couldn't talk about it in the restaurant. So they drove out to that spot.

When she told him it was finally over, that's when he got nasty. Hard and nasty.

A date was a rape. A rape was a date. Date rape. Rape date. I couldn't make the words rhyme.

The wire is burning in my head. I know the truth. I know the right thing to do.

I got the pistol out of the drawer. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Police Special. Regulation.

My sister was screaming at me when I walked out of the door. I could hear her screaming all the way downstairs. It doesn't matter if anyone hears her now.

It's hard what I have to do.

Everybody told the truth.

The wire is burning like a fuse. I have to do this first.

I'm going down to the basement to kill the rapist.

He's waiting down there for me.

My father.

Dead Game

I'm no good until I get hit the first time.

Tony says I'm a slow starter.

But once I get going, nothing can stop me.

I never quit. Never.

I looked across the ring. I'm fighting a black guy tonight. Bosco, I think his name is.

It doesn't matter what his name is.

This is the first time I saw him. They don't let me face the other guy at the weigh-ins anymore. Sometimes, I go after them right there. I have to save it for the fight.

He's a little bigger than me, but he's still inside the weight limit.

He's younger than me, too.

But I've been around a lot longer. You can see it on my face. And all over my body. Experience counts for a lot in these fights. You can't tell if a fighter's any good until he gets nailed the first time, that's what Tony says. Then you find out about his heart.

They say it's in my blood, fighting.

But I really only do it for Tony.

I love him.

He's been with me since I was real little. He gives me everything.

I train the old way. Special food. No sex before a fight.

They say that's why we started fighting. For sex. To have our pick of the bitches.

But I could have sex even if I didn't fight. I fight for Tony.

I work out all the time. Tony even built a special treadmill for me, to build up my endurance.

If you get tired in these fights, you lose.

I never get tired.

I watched the black guy across from me, waiting for the signal to start. I watched his eyes. He wasn't afraid.

They never are.

Down here, the purse is nothing…all the money comes from betting.

Tony always bets on me.

I'd never let him down.

I'd die first.

I'm not afraid of dying. It's just sleep. And you don't wake up.

I faced the black guy. Tony rubbed the back of my neck, getting it loose.

The crowd screamed.

We bumped once and the black guy came at me.

He was quicker than me. I took his first shot right in the chest. The fire exploded in me and I tried to tear his head off.

He went down, but he got right back up.

The referee separated us a couple of times when we locked together, but they never stop these fights.

It was a long time before I took him out.

Tony carried me out of the ring.

I couldn't see Tony, my eyes were torn.

The other guy hurt me real deep.

I was going to sleep.

I heard Tony crying.

I felt his hand on my head.

Patting my bloody fur for the last time.

Dialogue

Don't be afraid–I promise I won't hurt you. I'm sorry about tying you up, but I wouldn't want you to go away. I want you to listen. Will you listen to me? Just nod your head yes if you will.

Thank you. That's very nice. I'm sorry about the gag too, but we're real close to people here. See, if you look up…over there…see the windows' It's a basement, this apartment. If you look, you can see people's feet when they walk past.

Don't worry–they can't see in here. I got this stuff out of a catalog. You kind of paint it on the windows and it makes them one-way, like those trick mirrors? We can look out, but they can't look in.

But they're still very close, see? If you were to scream, then maybe somebody would come. And I wouldn't get to finish talking to you.

I'm sorry about that. I know…I say that a lot. But only when it's appropriate–it's not a compulsive habit or anything. I just am a polite person.

I know what you think–you think I'm that Call Girl Killer, don't you? The one the newspapers are making all that fuss about. The newspapers lie, you know. They don't tell the truth. Most of those girls, they weren't real call girls at all. Just common prostitutes. Whores. But "call girl" sounds better in the press.

I can always tell when a woman's a whore. Those are the only ones I take. You can tell. Always. Some of them, they just stand out in the street and scream at you–they're not ashamed at all. Some of them are secret whores, though. Like undercover cops. In disguise.

Are you warm in here? Do you want me to…No? Okay, that's okay. Just relax. I won't do anything.

What was I…oh, yes, undercover cops. They have them out there. I saw them. One, I see her all the time now. But she's not a whore. Not a sex-whore, anyway. But she's still trying to trap me.

I'm too smart for them.

In fact, they were the ones who gave me the idea. The first ones, they were street trash. All I needed was a car. That's what they do, they get in your car. It's easy after that. But they said they were call girls. The papers said that. Or maybe it was the cops. So what I did, I called one myself. They have the numbers in the Yellow Pages. Escort services, some of them are called. Or in the personals…role playing, they call it. I just called them up and they sent one over. Every time. I have to move afterwards, but that's no big deal–I just put everything in my car.

I would never order one of the call girls to this place. My basement. I would never want to move from here.

I'm sorry about the ropes. And the tape. I know it's uncomfortable. I'm actually a very nice person. That's what people say about me…that I'm a nice person. And it's true–it's not a lie.

I'm really truly sorry. When I saw you, walking alone in that neighborhood, that time of night, I was sure you were one of them.

I'm really sorry, Colleen. That's your name, isn't it? Yes? I thought so. I knew you wouldn't be the type of girl to have a phony ID. You're a student, aren't you? At the University? That's what it says…I'm sorry about that, going through your purse and all. I didn't take anything. I'm not a thief.

I guess you work at that diner to pay for school, right? Yes, I thought so. That's very good, to make your own way in the world. That's what I do too. I don't have any family. Do you have a family? Yes? Brothers and sisters and all? No? You're an only child? That's too bad. I was an only child too. It would have been nice to have brothers and sisters.

I'm sorry about…looking. I mean, you were dressed in that little skirt and all….I didn't know it was a waitress outfit. I mean, it looked like it could be one, but some of the whores, they dress up different ways. That's why I had to look…under there. I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't touch you or anything. I wouldn't do that.

Please don't be afraid. It's all right. Look, I'll prove it to you. I take pictures of them. I'll always have the pictures. Even after they're gone. I always take pictures of them. Wait, just sit there…oh, I didn't mean anything. I wasn't being sarcastic. I hate it when people are sarcastic…they can really hurt you with their words. I'll be right back.

See? See the pictures? Polaroids. I couldn't send film out to be developed. See theme Look–she was the first one. But I never took a picture of you, even when you were…out. I know you're not like the others.

I'm really sorry. I know you're innocent. An innocent girl. Do you have a boyfriend? No? Gee, a pretty girl like you…you're too busy with school and work and all that, huh'

You don't have a boyfriend. Gee, do you think if I…? No, that's too stupid. I mean, if you met me…maybe in the restaurant, we could…?

Yes?

Oh, I know you don't mean it. I'm not mad. I know you're just trying to be nice. Nice to a stranger. That's very sweet. I'm not mad at all.

I'm really so sorry. If I knew, I never would have…do you understand?

Good. Once I found out what kind of girl you were, I wanted you to understand. I wanted to talk to you.

I know this wasn't your fault, Colleen. It wasn't my fault either, not really. If only I could explain it to you. But…

It doesn't matter. I know you're really a nice girl. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.

You taught me a lesson, Colleen. People aren't always what they seem. I guess I'm not either.

So I'm done with all this.

I'm really, really sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Maybe this won't help that much, but I wanted you to know.

I promise. I'm sorry and I promise.

You're the last one.

Drive-by

It was a diss what got me my shot.

I was on the corner in my new jacket, stylin' and profilin' for my homeboys. The jacket was a little big on me but it was a real bad boy–all soft, fine leather, maroon panel on front, white over the shoulders, with this big black 8 Ball in the middle of a triangle on the back. I got it a couple nights ago, when me and my crew went rustling on the subway. You gotta get paid in this life, make motherfuckers give up they gold. This young boy was wearing my jacket, on the J train, comin' home from a party with his girlfriend. The fuckin' coolie didn't even have a ride, takin' the train like a wage slave. Maurice yoked him while I put the box cutter right against his face, sliced a little piece of his cheek to let him know his life wasn't worth that jacket.

Peoples like that, they gotta expect a little vie comin' down on them, they go out on the street.

You don't got the right gear, you ain't shit out here. Motherfuckers be wearin' old raggedy hightops, yesterday's stuff, they don't get over. Bitches don't want a man who don't sport the gold.

My birthday's Saturday night–I'm gettin' too old to be foolin' with this rookie shit. I need to hook up, get somethin' sweet for me.

I'm ready. Man, I been ready. Last time I was busted, went down to the fuckin' Youth House, I carved a name for myself, you understand what I'm sayin?

I saw the posse car pull over across the street. An all-black Jeep. The windows was black too–a very def ride. Everybody knows whose ride that be.

The front window slides down. Big guy in the seat. "Yo! Tyrone!" he calls out.

I cruise over to the car, proud in front of my homeboys. Posse don't be callin' on you for nothin'. A big guy gets out, opens the back door for me. Like a star climbing in a limo. Everybody on the corner saw it.

The car slides off. I'm sitting next to Luther Beauchamp. The Man himself. He got houses all over the 'hood.

Luther don't say nothin' to me at first. The guy driving takes off slow. Smooth. Very chilly. Nice.

Luther, he got a Mercedes hood ornament on a chain around his neck. Solid fucking gold. Black leather gloves on his hands. Thin black gloves.

We go up Buffalo Avenue, turn down behind the Projects.

"Z'up?" I ask him, like I go in his ride all the time. I'm with it, whatever it is.

"You know the house I got over by the Flats?" Luther asks me.

"Sho," I tell him. It's over in East New York. The Badlands. Big house, all empty upstairs, got no windows. There's a steel door with a slot in it. You slide the cash through, the crack come back.

"I'm needin' another man, work the front. Been hearin' about some young dumb motherfuckers, thinkin' about takin' what's mine. I don't play that. Five bills a day, you watch the front. Dust any motherfucker acts stupid. I been hearin' about you. Hear you got a lotta heart. That you?"

"That's me, man."

"You got your shit with you?"

I go in my waistband, pull out my piece. Luther opens his palm–I hand it to him.

"You see this trash?" he says, handing it to the big guy in the passenger seat up front.

"Chinese, man. Probably blow up in your dumbass face, you pull the trigger. How much this cost you, youngblood…a half yard?"

"Seventy-five," I tell him.

The driver don't say nothin' just keeps rolling.

"Give my man Tyrone somethin' good," Luther says.

The big guy hands me a brand new piece. Bigger'n mine. He wearin' black gloves too. I got to get some.

"This here's a Glock, homeboy," Luther says. "Smoothest thing they make. You got sixteen rounds in there. Super Nine. Come out fast as you pull the trigger. You know how to work it?"

"Yeah, well, I…"

He takes the piece from me, pushes on a button. The clip comes out the butt. He slams it back in, jacks the slide forward. "There ain't no safety on this sucker. It's locked and loaded now…all you do is pull. Got it?"

"I got it."

"I got dissed the other night," he said. "Dissed bad. I park my ride over the other side of Atlantic, do one of the clubs. I come out and some foul little motherfucker scraped a key all along the side. Took the paint right off. You know what that mean, boy?"

"Mean somebody got to pay."

"Righteous. Nobody works one of my houses 'less he shows his heart. You ready to go the other half?"

I knew what he meant, the other half. I got a baby. By this girl Sarita. A little boy. He named for me. I can make a life. The Man wants to know…can I take a life?

"Fuck, yeah." I says to him. Icy, the way you suppose to say it. Be for real. That's me. Real. 24–7, real.

He gives me a long, cool look. Nods his head. "We goin' round the block, homeboy. Right past the corner where I got dissed, okay? We just go'n' drive by. They be standin' on the corner, doin' what they do. You push this switch here, the window goes down. Then you do some motherfuckers, understand? Take 'em out. Many as you can, got it?"

"I'm down," I tell him.

This is where it shows, the heart of a man.

The Jeep makes the turn, slows down, rolling near the curb.

There's a righteous rap on the speakers inside the ride. Chug-a-chug. Like a train.

"Hit the window, Tyrone," the man up front tells me.

I push the switch. I don't feel nothin'.

People all over the corner, sittin' on the stoops, couple a girls dancin' to the music from a big box sittin' on a car. Hot weather brings 'em out.

I stick the piece out the window, start pulling the trigger. Blam! Blam! People screamin', runnin'. I keep pullin' till I hear a click in my head. No more.

The Jeep turns the corner, rollin' fast now. I hand the piece back to Luther.

We make it back to the block. Luther, he dukes five yards on me, all in hundreds. New bills. Clean and green.

"You my man, Tyrone. You did the thing. The piece is yours now–be waitin' for you at the house tomorrow. You musta dropped half a dozen of those fuckin' Jakes…teach those Rasta motherfuckers they don't be downin' me–it don't fuckin' pay. Come by the house tomorrow, ask for Dice, he run the joint. He'll show you where you work. You in the crew now."

I slap him five, hit the pavement.

I'm out there a long time that night. Tellin' my homeboys the score. Tyrone's movin' up. Movin' out. Go'n' be somebody. I flashed the cash. No more rustlin' for me–I'm a shooter now.

Women come over, give me the eye. Bitches, they always the first to know who's the man.

We did some smoke, did some wine. Went down to the basement, did me a bitch too. Fine little young bitch. I give her one of the new bills, tell her, next time I see her, she be wearing somethin' nice. For me. Her eyes get big behind that. They all ho' in they heart anyway.

Like my momma, and that's the truth.

Almost light when I roll back to my crib. Climb the stairs, smell them nasty smells. Elevator don't ever fuckin' work in this place. Even the Welfare don't come around no more. Soon's I get the bread, I get me a place. Giant color TV, white shag carpet.

Maybe I get me a ride like Luther's too.

I get to my floor, open the staircase door. Two Jakes standin' there, dreadlocks down to they shoulders–got sawed-off shotguns in they hands.

I guess I never get to be sixteen.