Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

“What does that mean?”

“And how good a pal he really is,” I continued, like I hadn’t heard her.

“ She’s a really good pal,” Nadine said.

“We’ll see. There’s no risk pulling up a guy’s rap sheet. Even if they check the computer log-on record, she wouldn’t need much of an excuse to explain why she wanted to know more about me. . . especially with this open pattern-killer running. But taking a look at those cases themselves. . . “

“What do you mean?”

“Is this pal of yours actually assigned? I mean, is she on the task force they got or whatever?”

“I don’t under—”

“There’s a case running, right? A bunch of them. The killings in the park, that’s one. I already talked to the two slugs who’re working it. But the others—the ones this Homo Erectus guy is doing—no way there’s only a two-man team assigned to that. There’s got to be more. A lot more. Too much press for it to be otherwise. So, first thing, is your pal involved in that, yes or no?”

“I. . . don’t know.”

“Jesus. Look, like I said, I don’t know how you play. And that’s none of my business. But I also don’t know how you talk, and that is, understand?”

“No, I don’t, ” she snapped back, turning toward me, face tilted up, jaw out-thrust, hands on hips.

“Well, then, I’ll explain it to you,” I said, keeping my voice as measured as my words. “Every crew has its own language. Sometimes it overlaps, sometimes it doesn’t. In prison, they call everything outside ‘the World.’ That’s what they call it in the army too. But if someone told you they were ‘waiting to get back to the World,’ it wouldn’t mean squat, right? Okay, you say someone’s your friend, what does it mean? Depends on your own language, see? I need to know what words mean to you if I’m going to do anything with you. Otherwise, we’re walking down a trail, I say ‘Duck!,’ and you think I’m pointing out a fucking mallard.”

“You think gay people—?”

“How about if you actually try listening to me, okay? I’m not talking about subcultural crap, I’m talking. . . just you, all right? Just tell me, Nadine. Tell me this. When you say this woman’s your ‘pal,’ what’s that mean? You took a roll with her one time? You’re in love? You go back to high school together? You can trust her? How much? With what? You understand what I’m saying now?”

She moved her hands to behind her back, flexing so her biceps popped. Took a step back. Looked up at me. “She’s my. . . you know that skinny blonde I was with? The first time you came to the place?”

“I remember her.”

“This one’s like. . . her. She’ll do what I tell her.”

“That doesn’t overlap,” I told her.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means just because she’ll lick your boots or whatever master-slave games you play doesn’t mean she’ll do what you tell her out side of sex.”

“You don’t know—”

“Yeah, I do. I know it enough not to trust it. And that’s all I ever need to know.”

“You think she wouldn’t obey me? I could walk her on a leash right up Broadway if I wanted.”

“Yeah, how very dom of you. It’s not the same.”

“Maybe not between men and women. Or even men and men. But with me, they all—”

“Sure. Look, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m not about arguing.”

“So what are you about?”

“Testing.”

“And what’s the test?” she said, moonlight glinting in her cobalt eyes, lips slightly apart, excited now, eager to show me how much control she had over her pets.

“I might have a way to get in contact with this guy,” I said softly. “A long shot. But I’d need a credential. Something to prove I was in the know. And something to test him with too—make sure I was dealing with the right guy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ever since they started working these murders as a group, they’ve been keeping all the evidence in one place. Forensic stuff, I’m talking about. Crime-scene photos too. The papers say a guy was stabbed to death, all right? But they don’t say anything about how many times he got stuck, or in what places, or even whether it was a Bowie knife or an ice pick. . . . You get the picture?”

“I. . . think so.”

“When something like this happens, it brings out the loons. I promise you, guys with loose wing-nuts have been confessing for weeks. On top of that, you get freaks who thrill themselves pretending to be the killer. No way the letters the papers have been printing are the only ones they got. So how would they know which ones were righteous and which ones were scams? Details. He sends them a little something each time. Just so they know they’re dealing with the real thing. That’s what I need too.”

“How come? Why would you need—?”

“Look, let’s say there’s a place I could leave a message. Not for him, specifically, but a place where he might look for messages. I tell him I want to talk, okay? He’s got to know I’m the real deal. And if he answers, I’ve got to know he is too, see?”

“I don’t see. How could you. . .?”

“That’s my problem. Your problem is whether you can make this other girl do what you tell her outside the bedroom.”

“Just tell me what you want,” Nadine said, voice hardening.

“Just a piece,” I lied. “A little piece. Something they’d use as a polygraph key—tell your pal that, she’ll know what you mean.”

“Yes, but I don’t.”

“Then ask her, okay? Or order her, however it is that you all communicate. I don’t have time to screw around with this. Either you really have something to ante up or you don’t.”

“I. . . All right, you’re saying I get this ‘polygraph key’ and then I’m in?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“And if I don’t, I’m out?”

“That too.”

“Even after what I told you?”

“What? That fairy story about how you love this guy? You’re a power freak, so what? I already figured that one out.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“The only thing I want to do with your ass is watch it walk away,” I told her.

She stepped close to me, stood on her toes, her chest brushing mine. “You’re a liar,” she said softly.

“Behavior is the truth,” I answered, blocking her game-player’s jab. Then I turned away and snapped my fingers for Pansy to come.

She was quiet on the drive back. At least for a few minutes. When I lit another smoke, she pointedly hit the switch for her window. I did the same for mine.

“I’m cold,” she said, something different in her voice. . . too ghosty for me to grab.

“You want the heater on? It’s got to be seventy degrees out.”

“No. I’m just not. . . dressed right,” she said, hugging herself. She wasn’t wrong about that—the lemon silk T-shirt she was wearing showed her off real good, but it was about the same as going topless when it came to weather protection. And you didn’t need X-ray eyes to see she wasn’t wearing anything under it.

“I’ve got a blanket in the trunk,” I told her.

“Why can’t I just wear your jacket?”

“Because it’s full of stuff that’s none of your business.”

“Like. . . what? A gun?”

“There’s that thing about language again,” I told her. “What does ‘none of your business’ mean to you?”

“Fine,” she sniffed.

I snapped my cigarette out the window. “Thank you,” she said, sending her own closed. I did the same.

“Better now?” I asked her.