Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

She’d given me all I was going to get. The new ID. And the information.

So I made the phone call.

“Why do you want to come here?” Nadine asked me. “You didn’t seem so. . . fascinated the last time.”

“You said you wanted to be in on it,” I told her. “There’s more to do now.”

“You mean you—?”

“Not on the phone.”

“Can you come tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“What happened?” is how she greeted me, still wearing her business clothes, even though she’d had plenty of time to change.

“I may have found a way to—”

“Find him and—?”

“No! To get a message to him. And to put enough in it so he’ll read it, anyway. Now, what I need is to put something in the next one so he’ll want to see me.”

“And you want me to. . . what?”

“Your friend on the force?”

“Yeah. . .?” she said, warily.

“I need some other stuff. Not about the murders, okay? She doesn’t have to go near any of that. Not anymore. But there’s another case. The one that kicked all this off.”

“The drive-by?”

“Yes. But I don’t want anything about that one either. At least, not anything direct. The cops. . . they know a lot more than they’re letting out. Not because they got a sudden dose of class, or because they want to play it professional. This piece, the one they’re holding back, the media would have them for lunch if they knew about it.”

“And you want her to. . . get it?”

“Not ‘it.’ Not the whole thing. Just a name. And whatever information they have about the name. That’s all.”

“How is that going to—?”

“I’ve got a. . . theory. Probably a long shot, I don’t know. But it’s the only card I have to play. I’ve been looking everywhere,” I lied, “asking everyone. But there isn’t a trace of this guy. He’s about as lone a wolf as it gets. No partners. Whatever stuff he’s using he got a long time ago. Like he’s got a warehouse full of it or something. Like this isn’t anything new.”

Her eyes flickered when I said that. Flickered, not flashed, the blue going from cobalt to cyanotic and back, switching on and off for just a split-second. If she noticed me staring, she didn’t react.

“Anyway, she can do that, right?”

“I. . . don’t know.”

“I thought you said she’d do anything you—”

“Anything she can do,” Nadine snapped back. “I’m not insane. If it’s there, and if she can get it, I’ll get it, sure. But I don’t know. . . . She told me they have, what do they call them, ‘firewalls’ or something, inside the department. ‘Access Only’ places, when they’re working on stuff. Mostly political, I guess, but she doesn’t know. And I sure don’t.”

“It’s nothing like that,” I told her, with a confidence I didn’t feel. “I even know where it probably is. NYPD has the same thing as the feds—some Organized Crime unit, whatever they’re calling it this week, I don’t know, but it would be the same thing. That’s where she has to look.”

“He would never. . .”

“ He? I thought you said—”

“Not my. . . friend. Him. He would never have anything to do with organized crime.”

“Not even to kill a few of them?”

“Oh! But why would he. . .?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true. But before I can ask my questions, I need what I told you.”

She stood up and started to pace, unbuttoning her jade silk blouse, leaving the off-white blazer on over it. The black bra underneath was frillier than I expected, for some reason I didn’t focus on. “Sometimes it’s hard to breathe in all this stuff,” she said. “When it’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to think.”

There was so much truth in what she said that I focused on that, slitting my eyes as she walked back and forth. She stopped at one point, stood on one leg, and pulled off her shoe, then switched legs to do the other, so she was in her stocking feet. By the third circuit, she was down to sheer pantyhose.

“Men hate these, don’t they?” she said suddenly.

“Huh?” I’d been somewhere else. Not far away, but just. . . apart.

“Pantyhose. Men hate them, don’t they?”

“Hate? That’s a pretty strong word for clothing.”

“Okay, fine. Men don’t like them, all right?”

“I’m not following you.”

“You ever see pantyhose in a skin magazine?” she asked me. “It’s all garter belts and fishnet stockings and thongs, right? Pantyhose, it’s too. . . practical. Like shoes. You think men would wear spike heels? They hurt once you have them on for a while. But they make your legs look good, so what the hell, right?”

“What do I—?”

“That’s, of course, if they’re interested in big girls, right?” she snarled, angry beyond anything I could imagine having done to her. I couldn’t figure what had ignited all that, so I just rode it—waiting, knowing there’s always a reason in the eye of the tornado. . . if you’re around long enough to take that look.

“Some of them like little plaid pleated skirts and Mary Jane shoes and white socks. . . and white cotton panties too. A garter belt would spoil all that, wouldn’t it? The. . . image, I mean. That’s what it’s all about for. . . them. Whatever they see. Their eyes. You know even blind men are like that? I have a friend. A dancer. She says they get blind customers in there too.”

“And this is all about. . . what?” I asked her, as neutral as I could, no sarcasm anywhere near my voice.

“It’s all about. . . this!” she snapped at me. “This. . . killer, you call him. What ever name you call him. He’s a man. But he’s not like the rest of you.”

“Because he’s gay?”

“You think that’s a difference? You think gay men don’t look at us the same way? Oh sure, maybe they don’t want to fuck us. Or maybe they do and just. . . I don’t know. But who do you think runs the damn fashion industry?”

“Frederick’s of Hollywood isn’t exactly Versace,” I said.

“It’s the same thing,” she shot back. “It’s all about what men want.”

“So. . . these women who silicone their chests out to all hell, the ones who rake in a couple of grand a night under the same tables they dance on, they’re all fashion victims?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not saying it isn’t true, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying. . . the way things are. And any of us can feel it. We know. Some of us play along. Some of us just play. But we all know. And I’m telling you something about him. Something important, if you’ll listen. He’s not like you.”

“I already know he’s—”

“ Not because he’s gay,” she said.

“Fine. Because he hates fag-bashers. Because he kills a lot of them. Because he’s a fucking superior specimen of humanity, for all I know.”

“He is,” she said, calmly. “And before I do anything more, I need to know more about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re a mercenary, aren’t you? Lincoln says you have a ‘code.’ Some bullshit he picked up from the movies. You’re a ‘professional,’ ” she sneered. “You’d never double-cross a client. Your word is your bond. So, even if you could trade this. . . man to the cops instead of helping him get away, you’d never do that, would you? Even if it would help you get out from under a bunch of trouble of your own, huh?”

“You trust this friend of yours?” I asked her. “Not Lincoln—your playmate?”

“I told you—”

“You told me she’d kiss your ass in Macy’s window. So what? I don’t mean do you believe she’d play whatever game you ordered her to—I mean do you believe her when she says something.”