Andrew Vachss - Only Child

The kid handed her the magnifying glass and held the cassette in both hands, steady as a dead man’s EKG. “It’s on the bottom,” he said. “Right near the erase-protect piece.”

Cyn stopped playing around. “Tilt it a little toward...Yes!” A few seconds later: “Rej, get over here! Take a look at this.”

The women switched places around Terry like he was a piece of furniture.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Cyn asked her.

“Uh-huh. Let me just...Sure, that’s it, Cyn.”

“What?” I asked them.

“It helps when you’ve seen one before,” Cyn said.

“Seen what?”

“A branding iron,” she said. “This little ‘NV’ thing here? That’s what made it.”

“¿ Habla español?”

“Poquito. Muy poquito.”

“¿Y que?”

“Bodega, botanica, bruja, plata, jefe...”

“¿Y que mas?...”

“Pistelola, gusano, violencia, puerco, ropa, compadre, mordida...”

“¿Maricón?”

“I’ve heard the word.”

“What does it mean?” Felix asked me. His voice was still sable-soft, but his eyes were freezer burns.

“It’s a word for—”

“No, hombre . Not what it is, what it means, comprende ?”

“I’m not follo—”

“Somebody calls you un maricón, that means you have to do something, yes?”

“Oh. Yeah, maybe. Depending on who’s saying it. Or where.”

“A man calls you ‘maricón’ in prison, he is saying—what?”

“Inside? Depends who’s doing the calling. Some cliques, that’s the conversation. Play the dozens all day, every day. But that’s only between them selves, see? If you mean to someone you don’t know—like for an insult?—never happen. Nobody challenges you to a fight in there. If you’re really after a guy, you don’t warn him. There’s none of this ‘I’ll see you after school’ stuff,” I said, wondering if he was asking, or testing.

He nodded. Not like he was agreeing, like he wanted me to keep talking.

“Not much fistfighting in there, either,” I told him. “Except for when a guy just loses his temper—it’s mostly the young ones who do that. Now, in the bing, solitary, guys call each other out all the time. You see a lot of cell gangsters, mouth-artists who get real brave when everybody’s locked down. It’s ‘You’re dead, nigger!’ this, and ‘My homeboys are going over to your house and fuck your daughter in her white ass!’ that. Around the clock. Never stops. But it’s just background noise.

“The only reason you might call names in there would be an intimidation thing. A test. You wouldn’t hear ‘maricón,’ though. You’d hear ‘pussy’ or ‘punk.’”

“And what must you do then?”

“Stick ’em or slice ’em,” I said, as no-option flat as when I’d first heard the rules explained to me a million years ago. “Maybe not right that minute, but you have to do it. And pretty soon. A man calls you something like that, he’s trying to break you with words. But behind the words, if you don’t give it up, there’s always a knife. His or yours.”

“But outside of prison? Then, for an insult...?”

“Sure. That’s right. Then it is a challenge. Or something you yell out your window at a guy who just cut you off.”

“A great insult,” he said. “It is calling someone a coward, yes? To most people, means the same thing. Maricón, it means you have no courage?”

“Like another word for ‘punk’?” I said. “Yeah, that’s right. I guess it all comes around in a circle, words like that. When I was a little kid, I thought ‘punk’ meant someone who wouldn’t fight—like when you ‘punk out,’ okay? But as soon as I got Inside, I found out ‘punk’ is what you are if some jocker owns your ass.”

Felix leaned forward, lit a cigarette. “In my...culture, in my world, you understand what it would mean, to be thought of...that way?”

“Yeah. I did enough time with Latinos to—”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think an Anglo could know. It’s different from prison. When you were there, did you know of maricónazo who could fight?”

“Sure. Hell, I knew some that loved to. I mean flat-out gay guys who were way too bad to fuck with. One guy, Sidney, he was a sensational boxer. Lightheavy. Take you out with either hand, and look pretty doing it. I knew some who were blade men, too. Everybody walked soft around them.”

“So they are not all alike?”

“Nobody’s all alike.”

“That is the difference between our worlds, Burke. In mine, un maricón could be accepted. He could do work—there is a contract killer, muy famoso, everybody knows what he is—but he could never lead, you understand?”

“If you say so.”

“I read once, in World War I, some white men died because they would not take a blood transfusion from black men. I do not know if this is true. But I know this. For those who play ‘mas macho,’ they would never follow a leader who was not, in their eyes, a ‘man.’ And that will never, ever change.”

“Maybe not.”

“You give nothing away, do you?”

“You called this meet, Felix. I thought Giovanni would be here, too. So I drive all the way uptown, find this place, and...it’s just you.”

“You are very trusting,” he said, sarcasm dusting his voice.

“You had plenty of chances, if that’s where you were going,” I told him. “From the very first meeting. Way before you spent any money.”

“So? I brought you here because I wanted you to understand that this thing you are doing, it is a very delicate matter.”

“I always knew that.”

“And you also knew...about me and Gio, didn’t you?”

“Not before I met you.”

“But then, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You think it is so apparent?”

“No. Not at all. You let me see, didn’t you? A test?”

“Of a sort. If it was, how do you know if you passed?”

“Because I’m not dead,” I said.

“You think I am a killer?”

“I think you just told me you were.”

“Gio thinks it is a federale. ” Felix tilted his head, as if Giovanni were in the room with us. “He already told you why. But there is another possibility. One I believe you have not considered.”

“What’s that?”

“That the message was not for Gio; it was for me.”

I watched his eyes, asked, “A message that whoever did it knows things?”

“Yes.”

“What would be the point?”

“For me to step away. Gio would not be a problem for...for the people in my organization. He is not one of us. Who you do business with, that is just business. If I moved aside, whoever took over for me, that man could continue with Gio, as before.”

“That doesn’t add up for me,” I told him.

“Why not?”

“If somebody knows something, something that would make you move over, if they had proof, why wouldn’t they just mail you a sample of that ? What’s the point of a homicide?”

“Because they would need me to move away,” Felix said. “But they would need Gio to stay.”

“So what are you telling me? That Giovanni would stay?”

“ Sí, he would stay. This they would expect. Business is business. And Gio doesn’t know any other business. In their minds, he would not be...emotional about it.”

I didn’t say anything.

“They don’t know him,” Felix said, very softly. “Gio would defend me. But, if he had to fight on two fronts, he could not win.”