Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

“Oh, I’m not wasting anything. And I’m not playing with myself either. I was playing with this. . . . Listen!”

What I heard on the phone was the sound a sheaf of paper makes when you riffle it against your thumb.

“Where and when?” I asked her.

I almost didn’t recognize her when she first showed, striding along the sidewalk in front of the joint like a yuppie businesswoman going to an important meeting, a fitted dark suit with a white blouse over plain dark pumps and sheer stockings. Her hair was in a tight bun. And the requisite attaché case was in her hand, a tasteful shade of blue.

I swung the Plymouth into place. She opened the door like it was a cab she had hailed, only she got in the front seat.

“Where’s your partner?” was the first thing out of her mouth.

“She’s working,” I told her.

“I thought you took her everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” is all I said. Pansy had been sick all day. Some kind of flu, my best guess. Upset stomach, lethargic. I kept her warm, gave her some homeopathic stuff I got from a vet. She was running a little fever, but her appetite wasn’t that much off, so I wasn’t worried. But she needed her rest.

“I don’t know what kind of old heap this is,” Nadine said, “but at least it’s got plenty of legroom.” She demonstrated by crossing her legs. Her perfume smelled coppery—the way blood tastes in your mouth.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.

“Wouldn’t understand. . . what?”

“This ‘old heap,’ ” I replied.

“Oh Christ, you’re sensitive about that too? You love your dog, you love your car. You should be driving a pickup truck with a gun rack behind the cab.”

“If I was, in this city, you think people’d remember seeing it?”

“Well. . . sure.”

“You think anyone’s gonna remember seeing this?”

“I. . . Oh. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. But the kind of broad you are, you always think you do.”

We were just pulling onto the highway when she said: “What does that—?” But she lost her breath as I mashed the throttle and the reworked Mopar 440 fired a giant torque-burst down the driveline to the fat rear tires. The Plymouth rocketed past traffic like it was a multi-colored picket fence. I slid across three lanes and drifted it around the exit ramp, scrubbing off speed with a downshift, and merged smoothly into the Riverside Drive traffic. The Plymouth went back to purring, its stump-puller motor barely past idle. Quiet inside enough for me to hear her whisper “Jesus Christ!” when she got her breath back.

“This thing is purpose-built,” I told her. “For work, understand? Not for show.”

“I get the point.”

“Good. Let’s stop playing, all right?”

“I haven’t been playing. I was just—”

“Playing, gaming, teasing. . . I don’t care what you call it. You got this whole ‘I-never-lie’ routine you want to run, go for it. What you’re really good at is making judgments, little girl. Bad judgments.”

“Little girl? Take a look, mister,” she said, sucking in a deep breath so none of her subtlety would be lost on me.

“I’m not talking about your age. Just your experience. I’ve seen it all my life. You know stuff, but it doesn’t translate, understand?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“When you’re a tourist, the natives all look slick to you.”

“Huh?”

“You know all about the. . . stuff you do. The roles you play, the language you use, the. . . props, whatever. You don’t know a damn thing about the only thing that’s happening where you and me are concerned.”

“And that is. . .?”

“Hunting.”

“I’m not trying to tell you your business. I was just—”

“—running your mouth,” I finished for her. “That’s the part you need to keep in neutral, all right? I don’t do word games. This isn’t about getting me to admit I want to fuck you, understand?”

“I—”

“That’s all you’ve been doing since I first laid eyes on you. What do you want that’s so important? You don’t need me to tell you you’re a fine-looking woman.”

“Maybe I want to fuck you, ” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Maybe you do. But I’m not interested in being one of your trophies.”

“Oh, I get it. A real Alan Alda you are. You only want commitment, huh? Won’t settle for anything less than true love.”

“I had true love,” I told her softly. “It died. And the killers are from the same tribe this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy is hunting.”

“How could—?”

“She was bi,” I said. “And she was one of the people who got done in that drive-by in Central Park.”

“You mean you have your own—?”

“I had my own,” I cut her off. “I never minded sex with a woman who wanted sex. . . just for that. Truth is, that’s mostly what I did. . . do. But people with agendas scare me.”

“Agendas?”

“Yeah. I’m a good man to have sex with if you’re married. I’m not going to fall in love with you, I promise. So when you decide to break it off, I won’t beef. I won’t stalk you, and I won’t blackmail you either. I’m nice and safe, see what I’m saying?”

“I see—”

“Shut up and listen, okay? Give it a chance, you might like it. I’m a good man for some things. Like I said. But if you’re married, I’m not going to kill your husband for you just ’cause I want some more of your pussy either. You get it now?”

“Yes. All right. But I don’t—”

“You don’t. . . what? You been preaching about what a liar I am all along, haven’t you? But you say you’re in love with a serial killer you never met, and I’m supposed to buy that, make you partners with me on this deal?”

“I didn’t say I was in love with him. I told you—”

“No, I told you. I don’t know why you’re all dressed up tonight, but whatever’s in that case you’re carrying better be a present from your girlfriend on the force. You know, the one you bragged about? So here’s one you must have heard when you were just sprouting those things you’re so proud of now: Put out or get out.”

“I don’t put out in cars,” she said, giving her lips a quick little lick. “But if you want to take me home and try your luck. . .”

“I don’t have a home,” I told her.

“You mean you’re married.”

“I guess your friend on the force really knows nothing, huh?”

“Fine. You don’t have a home. I do. Want to see it?”

“I want to see what’s in that briefcase.”

“Then take me home,” she said.

She lived right at the edge of Turtle Bay. And even if she’d scored a rent-controlled deal, it was still a pricey neighborhood. I aimed the Plymouth at the Triborough, planning to loop back on the FDR on the off-chance anyone else was interested in where I was going. That’s why I’d really pulled that highway stunt—if the cops had been tagging me, it would have smoked them out. The rearview mirror had been empty of anything suspicious. That didn’t cover everything—the federales are pretty good at box-tags. But I still didn’t think they were involved in this. And NYPD wouldn’t spare the numbers, not with the whole city screaming for an arrest.

I slapped a new cassette into the player. The car was wrapped in the blues. KoKo’s version of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Evil,” backed up by Jimmy Cotton on harp. You know how artists “cover” a record? Michael Bolton imitating Percy Sledge, Pat Boone white-breading Little Richard. . . ultra-lite fluff. Plenty buy it, though. Probably the same people who watch Hard Copy and think the emphasis is on the first word.