Andrew Vachss - Only Child

“I mean exactly what I say,” Lottie said. “That husband of hers built her a ramp and a little runway. Right up to my back door, he did, without even asking. So, when I saw what he was doing, it was me who asked him, what did he think he was up to? And he says, well, Flo, that’s the wife, he says Flo said she’d talked it over with me and that’s what we both wanted. He was all ready to build another ramp so she could just roll right into my house.”

“And you stopped him?”

“No,” she chuckled, “I sure didn’t. I took pity on the poor soul. I didn’t want him to have to go back and tell that harridan she wasn’t getting her little ‘access road.’ Ever since, whenever Flo’s got anything to report, you can be sure she does it in person.”

“She’s got the area under surveillance, huh?”

“That’s the right word,” she said, laughing. “Most of the time she comes over here, it’s to give me the lowdown on the rest of our neighbors. I suspect her of having binoculars, but I’ve never caught her at it.”

“Your own Neighborhood Watch.”

“Don’t think for a second she isn’t. And I won’t pretend it isn’t kind of a comfort, sometimes.”

“How old is your baby?”

“Baby? Oh, you mean my son. He’s no baby. But he’s not big enough to be left on his own. He’s only ten. And got himself some bad asthma, besides. So he wants watching.”

She stood up, went over to the cabinets, moved enough stuff around to let me know she wasn’t going to force me into a staredown when she said whatever was coming next. “The reason I need a babysitter so much is, I’ve got a boyfriend. His name’s Lewis, and he’s a wonderful, gentle man. But Hugh never took to him, because of his father, so I can’t really spend much time with Lewis here. And certainly not at night...”

“Did Hugh get along with Vonni?” I asked, before she went driving down her own road.

“Get along? He adored her. Told me a thousand times he was going to marry her when he got big enough. He’s got a real contrary streak in him—gets it from his mother—but he minded Vonni like she was an angel from heaven. Now I guess she is....”

I never know what to say to a woman who’s crying, even when it’s not me who made her cry. I reached over and took her hand, letting it run its course.

It took her less than a minute to get back in control. “That’s the Irish blood for you. If there’s one thing we know from the cradle, it’s how to grieve. Nobody really dies if they’re still being mourned.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“You know that for a fact, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“That tattoo on your right hand. A hollow heart. That’s for someone who’s gone? Someone you loved?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I’ll bet that’s a story.”

“Not one it comforts me to tell,” I said. “What do you think about me speaking with your son?”

“You might not be thanking me in a little while, but, sure,” she said. “He’s right out back.”

The yard was mostly dirt, with a few patches of burnt grass and one wiry little tree. I admired that tree. I don’t know anything about horticulture, but I know tough when I see it.

A little boy was sitting on a wooden milk crate, in the middle of a meager patch of shade the tree had wrestled from the sun. As we walked toward him, I saw he was talking earnestly to a short, blunt-bodied, mostly black dog.

“Hugh, this is my friend Burke,” his mother said. “He wants a word with you.”

The kid looked up at me, his left hand resting on the dog’s head. “What about?”

“About Vonni, son,” she said gently.

“I knew you’d come,” the kid said.

Isquatted down, held out my hand to shake. “I’m pleased to meet you,” I told him.

He shook, gravely, not speaking.

“That’s a great-looking animal you have.”

“He’s the best dog.”

“I can see he’s all class. What’s his name?”

“The Brains of the Outfit.”

“Uh, okay. What do you call him?”

“The Brains of the Outfit,” the boy said, the way you explain the obvious to the dull-witted.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Burke,” Lottie said. “Hugh loves those old gangster movies.”

“What did you mean before,” I asked him, “when you said you knew I’d come? Did Vonni’s mother—?”

“She was killed, right?” he said, his voice hard against the pain.

“Yes, she was.”

“And they never caught the guy.”

“The police—”

“Those coppers couldn’t find their—”

“Hugh! You watch your mouth,” his mother cautioned.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. But, Mom, I know who he is.”

“You know who Burke is, son? Is that what you mean?”

“I know who he really is,” the kid said, utterly certain, letting his eyes travel over my face. “You’ve been in the Big House, right?”

“A long time ago,” I said, trusting whatever kept me from a glib lie.

“Nah. Not so long ago. I know.”

“How would you know something like that?” I asked him.

“I told you. I know who you are.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who am I?”

“You’re Vonni’s father,” he said, stone-sure. “And you came for payback.”

“Vonni told me,” he said, later, seated at the kitchen table, having some cookies and milk. The Brains of the Outfit was getting a disproportionate share of the cookies, but if Lottie noticed, she kept it to herself.

“Told you what?” I asked, staying near the edges.

“She was the same as me,” the kid said proudly. “See, her dad was supposed to be dead. Like my dad. Only thing is, they weren’t, not really.”

Lottie got up, walked behind the boy, caught my eye, shook her head sadly.

“Her father was in prison. He probably could of gotten out by now, but he wouldn’t rat on his partners. Vonni, she wouldn’t care. But her mother,” he said vehemently, his pale-blue eyes challenging, “ she didn’t want anyone to know, so they had to tell everybody he was dead, see?”

“How do you know that?” I asked, keeping my voice soft and reasonable.

“Well...maybe I don’t know . Not for sure. About Vonni’s dad. But I know mine isn’t dead.” He turned his head, looked at Lottie. “Is he, Mom?”

“They say he is, honey. You know that.”

“But they don’t know for sure, right?”

“Sweetheart, if your father was alive, he would have made contact....”

“Nah. He can’t do that. He knows they’re watching. He’s too smart for them, that’s all.”

I put it together in my head, asked, “Your father, he escaped from prison?”

“Yeah!” the kid said triumphantly. “See, Mom? Burke knows the score.”

Later that night, alone in the rented house, I thought about the only score I really knew. Scores I’d made, scores I’d settled.

Fathers and daughters.

A long time ago, when I was just getting started, I had a father get word to me he’d pay serious cash if I turned up his daughter. He was a referral, from a guy I’d known Inside. Told me he didn’t just want me to find his kid; he wanted me to make sure nobody else ever did. He never actually said the words, but his meaning was clear enough.

I took his money, a lot more than a simple locate job would ever be worth. Found the girl, too. It was easy enough—she was still doing what Daddy taught her, only now she was getting paid for it. By the time I showed up, she knew The Life was a lot uglier than the pimp’s pretty pictures, and she came along with me willingly enough, once I convinced her that I wouldn’t bring her home.