Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

Iwatched the darkness lift, sitting with Pansy on my rusty fire escape, smoking a peaceful cigarette, scratching her behind her ears the way she likes. I had the cell phone with me, complete with a newly cloned number good for at least another few days, but time wasn't pressing so there was no need to risk it. I heated up a pint of roast pork almond ding Mama had insisted I take with me last visit. Pansy's the only dog I ever heard of who loves almonds. But until I run across something she won't eat, I'm not going to be too impressed with it. Me, I had some rye toast, dry, and some ice water.

I ate slowly, reading the paper. The usual mulch of crime and whine. Another little girl tortured to death. Child Protective Services couldn't comment on the rumor that they'd returned the kid to her mother after the last abuse and never bothered to check up on her again. After all, their records are confidential. To protect the kids. Lying maggots. Politicians promised an investigation as the usual babblers ranted on: If you're a parent and you feel like hurting your kid, seek counseling. Yeah, that ought to do it. Next thing you know, they'll be telling incest victims to Just Say No.

Of course, a spontaneous memorial sprung up outside the building where the little girl died: handwritten poetry about how much everybody loved her, pictures cut from newspapers. Flowers as dead as that baby. But that's okay—it'll make the late news on TV. And they'll have an open–casket wake, so there'll be plenty of photo ops too.

All that concern for dead babies, none of it for the living ones. Everything as empty as a President's promise.

I felt a shudder of hate, like someone had pulled a string of broken glass right through my spine. I stared for a long time at the red dot I'd painted on my mirror, breathing deep through my nose all the way down into my groin….

When I came out of it, it was almost three hours later. I didn't think about where I'd gone, but I didn't like the fear–stink in the room.

I took a shower and tried to start over. I worked on my mail for a while, keeping the lines out, trolling for freaks. They're the easiest to sting, especially the stalkers who want kids. But the Internet has changed the game a bit—they all want samples now. I know this guy. Everyone calls him Spike. Doesn't leave his house much, and doesn't say why. But he hates the baby–rapers and he's real good with software—you lock modems with this boy, your hard drive's going to fry.

Spike lets me use one of his machines for an E–mail drop, but I only tap it for big scores, not the nickel–and–dime stuff I usually work. It's all anarchy on the Internet now. Makes me nervous. I'm more comfortable when I know the rules—it's easier to cheat.

"Mr. Kite's office." It was the woman, a tightness in her husky voice.

"It's Burke," I said. "Returning his call."

"Thank you. Can you come over? There's some information you need to have. Before you make up your mind."

"Come over now?"

"Yes. If that's convenient."

"I need about an hour, hour and a half."

"That would be fine."

There was enough of a snap in the air to justify me putting on a leather jacket over a denim work shirt and a pair of cargo pants. I laced up a pair of work boots, patted myself down to make sure I had everything else, tapped Mama's number into the cellular, told her where I was going. Now that Wolfe had confirmed Kite was a major player, I wasn't worried about him pulling up stakes. And Max knew where to find him if he was going to be stupid.

It didn't feel like that though.

I walked over to Foley Square, taking my time, and grabbed the 6 Train uptown.

I found a seat next to a white kid with the sides of his head shaved but center–parted long hair flopping down each side of his narrow face. He had a pair of headphones tight on his head but I could still hear the bass line pounding through. He was nodding to himself, playing Russian roulette with his eardrums.

I got out at Fifty–first. The streets were quiet—still too early for the two–hour–lunch crowd. I snapped a half–smoked cigarette into the gutter and stepped into Kite's building.

The doorman opened his mouth to say something about the service entrance, but I beat him to the punch with Kite's name. He picked up the desk phone, announced me, listened for a second, then waved me into the private elevator with no change of facial expression. He was a professional ass–kisser, reserving his special talent for members only.

The ancient elevator car's hydraulics were as well–greased as Congress—it rocked slightly but didn't make a sound on the way up. The door opened to show me the woman, Heather, standing behind the grille. She was wrapped in a gauzy piece of red chiffon, heavy makeup masking her face. Her hair was sleek and shiny; in the faint light, it looked the same color as the black–cherry soda I used to love when I was a kid.

She stepped back so I could swing the grille open. The chiffon wrap was open to the waist, cinched tightly with a belt of the same material. Her breasts looked artificial in the dim light, jutting huge and rigid, the nipples so heavily rouged they almost disappeared.

I closed the grille behind me. When I turned back to face her, she was already walking down the hall without a word. I stepped behind her, not too close. Her hands went to her waist, came away with the sash. She shrugged her shoulders and the wrap slid off. She kept walking, barefoot, naked except for a red garter high on her thick right thigh. Released from the bondage of the corset she'd been wearing the last time, her body was still curvy, but soft and fleshy, shimmering with every bouncy, assured step she took.

As she turned the corner into the big open room, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. I stopped too, just in time to keep from blundering into her. She spun on her heel and whirled to face me, a left hook coming up from around her hip, catching me right under the cheekbone. I dropped with the punch. As I hit the ground, I whipped my left leg around on the slick hardwood floor—the toe of my heavy boot cracked hard into her ankle. Her leg wouldn't hold her and she fell forward, right on top of me. I took her face into my chest as I fired a two–finger strike into the side of her neck. She gasped in pain and tried to claw at my face, snarling some foulness I couldn't understand, but I had my forearms crossed and she never got through. I turned under her, just in time to take her knee on the outside of my thigh, pulled my right hand free and hit her with a sharp, digging punch just under her ribs—I felt her breath go. I spun with the punch, got her facedown on the floor, and rammed my knee into her spine as I reached forward and locked her jaw with both hands. "One snap and you're in a fucking wheelchair for life, bitch!" I whispered in her ear.

Her whole body shook, but she didn't try to break the hold. "You done?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said quietly, her body limp.

I backed off her, carefully. She stayed facedown on the floor, pulling in ragged breaths. A muscle jumped right over the red garter on the back of her thigh.

A minute passed. I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket, palmed a roll of quarters, made a fist. Waited.

She slid her knees forward so her hips were elevated, but she kept her face on the floor. It was a submissive position, like an animal calling off a territorial fight. "Can I get up?" she said.

"Do it slow," I told her.

She tried to put some weight on her left leg, but it was no go. She gave it up and turned to face me on her knees, eyes on mine, gazing up. She didn't look submissive any longer—her orange eyes were as cold and watchful as a lizard's.