Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"What kind of dog is that?" I asked her.

"She's an AmStaff," the woman said. "An American Staffordshire Terrier."

"Looks like a pit bull to me," I told her.

"They were originally the same," she said, like she had all day to explain. "Petey, you remember, from the Little Rascals? He was the first AmStaff. They're like the show version of the pits. Sweeter too, right, Honey?" she cooed.

The dog responded to her name with a soft snarl. The woman stepped closer. Her face was lovely: huge eyes, peaches–and–cream skin. But her mouth was straight and serious—I didn't need the beret to tell me she was with Wolfe.

"You have something for me, Mr. Burke?" she asked.

"Just a message," I said, not reacting to her knowing my name. "For Wolfe. You can do that, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm interested in somebody. Man named Kite. Think she could help me?"

"That depends."

"On…?"

"We're in business, Mr. Burke. Just like you."

"I'll pay what it costs," I said. "When can you do it?"

"Maybe now," she answered. "I have to make a call. Just stay here, all right? Pepper will come over and tell you."

"Pepper?"

"You already spotted her," the young woman said, glancing over to where the girl in the clown pants was showing the kids how to twirl long thick ribbons on sticks.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the young woman walked off. The dog she said wasn't a pit bull looked over her shoulder at me without breaking stride, a clear warning.

It was another fifteen, twenty minutes before the girl in the clown pants broke away from the mob of kids, waving goodbye. Half of them tried to follow her—it took her a few minutes to get clear. The guy in the black sweatshirt stayed right behind her, about twenty feet back. I watched Max pick him up on an angle, moving fast but so smooth you couldn't tell unless you referenced him against the stationary trees.

She rolled up on us with a springy dancer's walk, flashing a smile bright enough to light up a suicide ward. "Hi!" she called out.

"You're Pepper?" I asked by way of greeting.

"That's me, chief!" she said, throwing a mock salute. "At your service."

The guy in the black sweatshirt settled in behind her, hands still at his sides. Max settled in too, maybe four paces to his right—he must have made the guy for a southpaw.

"Tell your friend to relax," I said to Pepper. "We're friends too."

"My friend? Oh, you mean Mick? He's fine where he is, okay?"

"Sure. You're gonna fix it? For me to talk to Wolfe?"

She stepped closer. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, deep and lustrous, shining with some inner happiness I'd never know. "You know the big statue? In the plaza?"

"Yes."

"Go on over. Walk slow. By the time you get there, you can talk to her."

"Thanks."

"You get what you pay for," she said, flashing another smile.

Clarence caught up with me and the Prof before we got halfway to the statue. He was wearing a mango jacket over a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck. His pants were black too, ballooning at the knees and tapering down to a narrow peg at the cuff. The saddle–stitching matched his jacket, right out of the Fifties. His shoes were midnight mirrors.

"Max went with the big guy, followed him right out. He hooked up with the Pied Piper girl. He's got a beautiful old bike, mahn. A Norton Black Shadow. British, you know. The girl just jumped on the back and they took off."

"What about the other one? The blonde with the pit bull?"

"Ah, that one. She is a piece of work, mahn. I was walking behind her. Just slow, ambling like. You know the pull–over spot? Where the cops park to watch everything?"

"Yeah. By the library, right?"

"Yes, mahn. There are two cops sitting there in a prowl car. You know, kicked back—not cooping or anything, just chilling. So this blonde girl, she walks up on them. And the pit bull, mahn, it stands up on its hind legs and sticks its snout right inside the car. And when it comes out, it has a donut in its mouth! I could not believe it, mahn—that damn dog must think the police car is a vending machine. I never saw such boldness."

"Ah, the cops were probably just trying to make points with the blonde."

"No mahn. It was not like that, I tell you. It was the dog. I believe it does that all the time, like a regular thing. Amazing."

We found a piece of railing just across from the statue. Wolfe was nowhere in sight. The Prof hoisted himself up onto the railing, dangling his short legs free, basking in the sun.

Girls walked by. On parade. Every size and shape and color on the earth, it seemed like. The railing was lined with young men, some not so young. All fishing off the same pier, but using different bait. Some smiled shyly, some fiddled with cellular phones self–importantly, like they were making some big deal. One guy did an ostentatious series of stretches, like he was getting ready to run a marathon. Some crooned "baby!" some snarled "bitch!" Some of the girls smiled, some of them looked away. None of them stopped.

Clarence just watched. A woman with high cheekbones and glowing dark–chocolate skin approached. She had on a white halter top and white shorts, cornrowed raven hair swinging with her step. She passed right in front of us, close. Her butt looked like a bursting peach. "Oh, God has blessed you, girl!" Clarence called out, sincerity lacing his voice like honey in tea.

"Might be He could bless you too, you act as sweet as you talk," the girl called back over her shoulder, not breaking stride.

Clarence catapulted off the railing, falling into step next to the woman like he was going to walk her to church. We watched them until they were out of sight. The Prof extended an open palm for me to slap. "That boy can go . And I taught him everything he know."

"He learned from the master," I acknowledged.

"Too true," the little man replied. "Only thing, I can't figure out why he likes them so skinny."

I didn't say anything. The girl had been maybe five, six, and she'd trip the scales right around welterweight. If every man in America had the Prof's taste, anorexia would vanish overnight.

A few minutes went by peacefully. Then the Prof said, "The Queen's on the scene, Schoolboy. Get it done, son."

I started across to the statue. Where Wolfe waited.

The years hadn't changed her. Pale gunfighter's eyes set wide apart in a cameo of fair, unblemished skin, all surrounded by a mass of heavy brunette curls. Standing tall on black spike heels, her carriage proud and straight. "It's been a long time," she said softly, "but I keep hearing about you."

"I hear about you too," I told her.

"And that's why you're here," she said, getting right to it, like always.

I just looked at her. Years ago, she'd told me the truth: "You and me, it's not gonna be," she'd said then. Reading the menu, changing restaurants before she got a taste. I didn't blame her—Wolfe crossed the border once in a while, but she didn't want to live there. "You know about a guy name Kite?" I asked her finally.

"You want pedigree?"

"I want whatever you got."

"Past, present, or future?"

"You do that? Surveillance?"

"Not twenty–four–seven. But we can pull agency stuff every day. And he's on the Net too."

"What's the toll?"

"You can have a voice bio for a deuce, paper package for five. A cross–check, right up to today, that's another five, unless he's webbed and you want the whole thing run."

"And the updates?"

"A grand for every hit, voice–notify. Half that just to keep the watch on."

"You must be rich, girl, you getting prices like that."

"I've got heavy expenses," she said, flashing her gorgeous smile. But her eyes stayed hard.