Andrew Vachss - Choice of Evil

“He figured out a way to do snatches without partners, man’s good,” the Prof conceded. “But he still sounds like the kind of fool I came up with. . . you know, a motherfucker so dumb, you tell him somebody with a gun’s coming for him, he runs around looking for a knife.”

“Those they still have,” Clarence said gravely.

“Always gonna have,” the Prof assured him. “Like they wasn’t born stupid enough, they got to practice.”

“Prof,” I asked him quietly, the same volume we used to speak on the yard, so many years ago. But straight ahead, not out of the side of my mouth. “Can you tell me anything?”

“Got two things to tell you, Schoolboy. Only one you gonna listen to.”

“You sure?”

“Here’s the first one: Walk away. Fast.”

The little man looked at me until my eyes dropped. “Thought so,” he said. “Here’s the other. Motherfucker’s tied to Wesley some way. And the way I see, only one way that could be.”

“Which is?”

“He’s afraid of him,” the Prof said.

“Wesley’s dead,” I said. My theme song now, I guessed it was.

“And people still not afraid of him?” the Prof challenged. “You know what they say. You know where they say it. Wesley may be dead, but he ain’t in the ground. Some be saying Wesley went down to the Crossroads, see if he could meet the Devil. Not like Robert Johnson did. Not to make no trade. To meet the man, to get it on. And the way it’s told, the Devil, he never showed. Remember, nobody did no autopsy. Every once in a while, the wire starts humming: Wesley’s coming. You hear it too, what do you do?”

“Get out of the way,” I told him, all truth.

“I don’t think this crazy motherfucker’s got even that much sense,” the Prof said solemnly.

We were still sitting there when Mama told me I had a phone call. It was just after midnight.

“What?” I said into the receiver.

“I have what you want.” Strega’s voice. “You bring me what I want now.”

“I don’t know if she’s—”

But the witch-woman was gone.

“Where are we going?”

“Never mind. You said you wanted in. This is how it has to go.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll meet you—”

“No. Stay there. I have to make sure you’re. . . okay before we go.”

“What does that—?”

I hung up on her.

She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, a thin red leather jacket held over one shoulder.

“Hold it,” I told her. “I want you to bring something with you.”

“What?”

“You know that mask you told me about?”

“Yes. . .”

“That.”

“Why?”

“Go get it,” I told her.

She stared at me for a long second, then went somewhere into the darkness. When she came back, she had it in her hand. Black leather, just like she described, right down to the zipper for the mouth.

“How do you get this over a full head of hair?” I asked her.

“She doesn’t. . . Oh: it laces up the back, see?”

I turned it over, saw what she meant. “Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”

There’s lots of ways to cross the river into Queens, but I had to make my move before I took any of them. I pulled under the FDR underpass, turned off the ignition. Handed her the mask.

“Put it on,” I told her.

“Me?”

“You. Where I’m taking you, I don’t want you to remember the route.”

“You could use a—”

“I don’t trust blindfolds. And I’m not gonna tranq you; it would take too long to bring you around.”

“Isn’t there any other way?”

“Sure,” I told her. “Get out.”

I walked her around to the back of the Plymouth, opened the trunk, showed her how much room there was back there, even with the padded fuel cell cutting into the space. Showed her the blankets I had for Pansy, the air holes for breathing.

“No,” is all she said.

“Then we’re down to two choices,” I bluffed, knowing I had to have her with me. Knowing Strega. “You can wear the mask, or I can take you back to where I got you.”

“I never had it on,” she said. “I always wondered what it felt like. Some doms I know, they try their gear on themselves. Like a paddle, you know? See how hard it’s really going to sting? But I never. . .”

“Yes or no?”

“All right ,” she said, walking away from me.

Inside the car, she pulled the mask over her head. I laced it up, not tight. She found the zipper herself, pulled it across. “It’s hard to breathe like this,” is all she said.

“I won’t smoke,” I promised her.

I wasn’t worried about some cop spotting the mask. All the glass in the Plymouth is tinted, and I could just tell Nadine to yank it off if I spotted any company. She didn’t say another word for a while. I was just turning off the BQE when she spoke again.

“You like this?”

“Like what?” I asked her.

“Me. Keeping me. . . restrained.”

“You’re not restrained,” I told her. “This isn’t some bondage trip. I don’t want you to see where you’re going. Big deal.”

“You said you don’t trust blindfolds. Why?”

“Because they don’t always work.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve had them on me, bitch. All right?”

“Playing a—?”

“You’re not going to make me lose my temper,” I promised her. “Playing? No, not playing. I was a child. And people were. . . It doesn’t matter. You’re not with me. There’s nothing you need to know about me. We made a deal. I’m keeping my end. But the person I’m taking you to, maybe they don’t want you to be able to find them on your own. Is that so fucking shocking to you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t have a truly sorry bone in that body you’re so proud of. But it doesn’t matter. You being sorry wouldn’t help me, even if it was true. You don’t even know what you’d be being sorry for. You’re just making it up. Filling in the blanks. Look, you don’t want to do this, just tell me. I’ll turn around, you can take the mask off. Then I’ll drive you back to your place.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Oh. Yeah, I get it now. You’re sorry that you might have been a little too cute, even for you. There’s something you want. It’s marked all over you. I don’t know what it is, and—”

“I told you I—”

“Yeah, I forgot. You love this guy. And you want to help him. And you don’t trust Lincoln and his crew and you sure as hell don’t trust me. Got it. It’s all playing with you, huh? All games? No matter what happens, you go back to your leashes and your collars and your chains and your other toys. Me, I’m in it, understand? So how about you just shut up, okay?”

I could feel her vibrate next to me, but she didn’t say another word for the rest of the trip.

I wasn’t surprised to see the garage door open. Two far-apart cars inside the murky space. I backed the Plymouth in carefully, but there was no risk—plenty of room on both sides. I got out and hit the switch—the door came down. The place went pitch-black then, but I’d been ready for it. I opened the passenger door and helped Nadine get out. Then the door opened, the one that leads right into the first floor of the house.

Strega was standing there, waiting. She was wearing a long-sleeved white silk something that was cut off around her diaphragm and a tiny black spandex skirt. Her fiery hair was lustrous and loose. Her stockings had some kind of sparkle-dust woven into them, picking up glints of light over her ankle-strapped black spikes.

“Bring her over here,” she said, her voice witchy and low.