Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“Flea markets? How much could—?”

“You have to watch the patterns,” he said, reciting his mantra. He turned back to the screen, beckoning me to look over his shoulder. “Look! Here’s one, right there on the screen. He’s selling a signed copy of a first-edition book by … Martha Grimes. See it?”

“Sure. The highest bidder is … forty-five bucks so far, right?”

“Right. And what this guy—I mean the seller, okay?—what he did was, he bought maybe twenty copies of that book when it was remaindered. You know, you’ve seen the tables where they sell them in bookstores, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing that everybody pays, and that the currency I needed to pay Lune’s tolls was patience.

“First, you have to understand that all books get remaindered. It doesn’t matter if they sell a million copies, there’s always some left over. Well, the publisher isn’t going to throw them away, so they sell them, in bulk, very cheaply. A book you spent twenty-five dollars on when it was new, a couple of years later, you’ll see it for a dollar ninety-eight.”

“Yeah …?”

“Now the guy has all these books, so he waits until this Martha Grimes is doing a book-signing someplace. Then he ambushes her, gets her to sign as many copies as he can get away with. Some writers will just do it, some will limit the number of copies. But this … merchant, his story is always what a huge fan he is and how he’s going to give the books away to all his friends as Christmas gifts or for their birthdays or something. See?”

“I … guess so. But …”

“Look at the pattern , Burke. Come on. This guy buys a book for, say, less than two dollars. He gets it signed. Then he sells it for forty-five dollars on this Internet auction site. Do you think, for one single solitary second , that he declares that profit as income?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Now multiply by … oh, ten million transactions per year.”

“Are you serious?”

Not a brilliant question to ask Lune. “Come closer,” he said, pulling back from the screen so I could do it. “Take a look as I scroll through for you. See how every single seller and every single buyer has to provide information just to participate? Their e-mail, a credit card, a street address … a ton of authentic data. What you see here is the clearest, cleanest audit trail that any IRS agent could ever dream of.”

“Damn!”

“Sure. All they have to do is watch . That is, if they didn’t set up the site themselves—there’s so many of them, now.”

“What a sting that would be. Jesus.”

“Net people aren’t the only ones. But they’re certainly the easiest. You know those scams where they tell you you’ve just ‘won’ something? If you use the mail, the return will be very low. But on the Net … My goodness, Burke, even the best browsers are free. You can get a free e-mail address from too many places to count. And never mind all those free downloads! Do you think those outfits that give away all this ‘free’ Net stuff aren’t turning around and selling your address to all kinds of people compiling their own sucker lists?”

“Something for nothing, huh?”

“Some ‘nothing.’ Every time you use that ‘free’ stuff, you’re making a perfect record. Of yourself. Every place you go, every site you check out, everything you buy on-line. Think about it.”

I did think about it. How Lune had tapped into that bizarre borderland where the Möbius strip crosses over itself. The one sure nexus between the hyper-right and the ultra-left: fear of government intrusion into their lives. That strange place where people who want to smoke marijuana in peace make common cause with the people who want to carry concealed automatic weapons. They share one great, unifying fear. It’s called Registration.

“Christ! I’m glad I don’t have one,” I told him.

“One what?”

“Computer.”

“You don’t have a computer?”

“Nope.”

Those big liquid-topaz eyes that had charmed hookers a million years ago filled with pity. I could read his thoughts like they were printed on his forehead: “And people think I’m crazy!”

In bed that night, Gem reached for me. It was no good. I kept seeing that Indian, scratching his dog behind its ears, talking to it in a language only the two of them understood. He’d want his partner to die in battle, too. I knew that. But I didn’t have centuries of tribal tradition to comfort me. I knew Pansy wasn’t in some fucking Happy Hunting Ground.

“You are so big,” Gem whispered from between my legs.

“You are one sweet bitch.” I chuckled.

She came up on her elbows. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No, little girl. I was being … grateful to you, I guess. Some women, all they live for is to chop a man’s cojones . If not off, at least down to size. You, all you can think about is building me up.”

“So you are saying I am lying?” she asked, crawling closer to my face.

“Not lying, honey. Let’s say … exaggerating. And it’s very—”

She interrupted me with a slap to the right side of my face. My blind side. I never saw it coming—maybe because it was the last damn thing I expected. It wasn’t a hard slap, but it got my attention. Her eyes were flaming. “I do not lie!” she whispered, harsh in the darkness. “You are not fully … engorged, are you?”

“Hell, no. Every time that window—”

“Yes! But even partially , you are … It is obvious that when you … when you are completely yourself, you would be huge.”

“Gem …”

“But you think that will never be again, don’t you?”

I took a deep breath. Let it out. Tried to think about it. Couldn’t. “Yeah,” is all I said.

“So what?” she countered.

“Huh?”

“It would not matter.”

“But if—”

“You are a fool, Burke. Give me your hand.”

I did it, not even trying to guess this woman anymore. She guided it between her legs.

“You see?” she said. “I am … embarrassed at how wet you make me. This never happened to me before. Look,” she said softly, “even here …,” pulling my hand down. The insides of her thighs were slick with estro-juice.

“That’s just because—”

“I will not listen to any of your stupid man’s explanations. You do not understand, even when I show you the truth.”

“Gem … Look, I wasn’t …”

“Last night, after you fell asleep, I put your thumb in my mouth. I love to do that with you—I don’t know why. I thought it would help me sleep, like a child’s pacifier. But do you know what happened?”

“What?”

“I had an orgasm. So deep I can still feel it.”

“Great. So even if my cock flops, so long as my goddamn thumb holds out—”

I was ready for her slap this time, but I didn’t move to block it. It was a lot harder than the first. Then she jumped up, grabbed one of my sweatshirts, pulled it over her head, and walked out the door.

It was very late when she came back inside. I was half asleep, but snapped awake as soon as I heard the door. She pulled off the sweatshirt and climbed into bed next to me.

“I apologize,” she said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did not say anything wrong. But I should not have slapped you.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it is not. Would you slap me?”

“No.”

“I do not mean, would you slap me of your own volition? I understand you would not. That is not you. But … would you slap me if I asked you to?”

“Gem …”

“Would you? Please? It would make me feel better.”