Andrew Vachss: False Allegations

"What if the safe's empty?"

"I guarantee it won't be, honey. Believe me, this is a rich flower, just begging to be plucked, I tell you true. What do you say, then?"

"Let's do it," I said.

She threw me a mega–watt smile, turned her back, wiggled her butt gently as she rooted through the nightstand drawer for another condom.

"She's got the key, huh?" Michelle's voice, her creamy–silk trademark, the voice that made her a ton of green on the phone–sex circuit. She was perched on the edge of my desk, just past where I had my feet propped up on the battered surface. I was tilted so far back that all I could see was her flashy legs if I looked straight ahead.

"Sure does," I told her.

"And she wants you to go in when the guy's home ?"

"Yeah."

"So you can make him open the safe ?" she asked, a barely suppressed giggle in her voice.

"Un huh."

"And she's going to split the take with you fifty–fifty—?"

"Right again," I interrupted.

"And trust you to mail her share to her?" she asked, losing the fight to keep the laughter down.

"Yes."

"Oh baby, I don't mean to sound nasty, but…could she really think you were all that stupid?"

"No, I don't scan it that way. She's had a lot of experience. With men. Listening to them, sizing them up. That's the way she made her living, not just dancing. Her story's so bogus…it's like an open invitation to double–cross her."

"What…not give her an even split?" Michelle sneered.

"The best suckers are half–smart," I said. "I think that's the way she has me played. Let's say I believe some of her story—what do I do then?"

"Use the key when the voyeur isn't home," Michelle replied. "Duh–uh!"

"Yeah. Go in with my own safe man, pop the thing, and walk away with the cash. Only…"

"Only they'll have you on tape doing it. Or they'll walk in when you're red–handed. Or there's a dead body in the bedroom. Or…whatever."

"Sure," I said quietly. I interlaced my fingers behind my head, closing my eyes.

I went so quiet I could hear Michelle breathing, hear the faint rasp of her nylons when she shifted her position slightly.

Time passed. "You aren't any different," I said. "Even Pansy didn't notice anything."

"That mutant mutt of yours wouldn't notice Godzilla so long as the lizard left her Alpo alone," Michelle mock–snarled. "She's not exactly Rin Tin Tin."

I flicked my eyes open, shifted them to the left where Pansy reclined on the couch. Pansy's a Neapolitan mastiff. Long past the svelte hundred and thirty pounds she'd been when she was young, she tips the scales nearer to one sixty now. Sure, nobody'd confuse her with a genius—but Pansy would die for me as casually as she'd scarf down a quart of honey–vanilla ice cream, her personal favorite. And whatever she bites, God forgets.

"Don't mind her," I told Pansy. "Michelle gets cranky when she hasn't been shopping for a few days…you know how she is."

"I'll tell you what I won't be shopping for any more, baby," she said. "I'm done with all that."

"It really…worked?"

"Oh don't be so squeamish!" Michelle snapped. "Yes, it 'worked,' okay? Funny, all my young life, I thought it would be Denmark for me. And it turns out to be Colorado instead."

Michelle was a transsexual—a woman trapped in a man's body, she always called it. She wasn't the freak in her family—her scumbag bio–father filled that slot. So she ran. Ran down . First to the streets, then lower, always dropping deeper, fire–walking until she plateaued on pain. Once she got there, she did whatever it took to stay. It was dangerous as a subway tunnel full of psychopaths down there. And Michelle was scared all the time. But she was too high–instinct to touch any of the temporary tranqs—she saw what happened to the kids who go numb to escape the pain. So she spent every night surviving and every day crying.

I'd known her forever. She was my sister and I loved her, but I'd been hearing about the sex–change operation so long I'd stopped listening. Michelle would take it just so far…then some excuse would come up. She had to detox from the black market estrogen she'd been using. Or the doctors had to remove the cheesy implants from her chest first. Or the electrolysis destroyed the outer epidermis of her face so they couldn't risk surgery. Always something.

But this last time, she got it done. I went down into the Zero chasing ghosts—Michelle went over the wall. When we both got back, I was me, and she was herself. For me, it was a return. For Michelle, it was the first time.

The real difference was: Michelle liked what she was.

"I'm walking it backwards," I told her, getting down to business. "But I can't see who's calling the shots."

"I got it from Harry," Michelle said. "He's never burned us."

"Harry the painter?"

"No, Harry the CPA. You know, one of my old customers from…before."

"Yeah. He profiles, right?"

"Yes, he will front a bit, baby—lots of men do that, yes? So he wants to tell the girls he knows a guy who knows a guy who…like that. So what? Harry's a sweetheart, Burke. He goes out, buys a monster stereo, pays retail , okay? Then he gives it to a girl, she says 'thanks.' So Harry asks me—I mean, when it comes to l'amour , what poor fool would not ask the Queen of Hearts?—why does he get treated so mean? Well, honey, I told him the truth. You give a spoiled little bitch an expensive present, she'll just trail that mink on the floor, you understand? But you give her something nice, and you tell her you got it dirt cheap, baby…'cause you know guys, guys in the know, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I told her, telling the truth. She had the voice of the wiseguy wannabe down perfect. Michelle has a four–octave range—anything you want, from sandpaper to velvet. She has the purest heart of anyone I know, but she was born to steal. That proved she was my sister better than any DNA test could.

"Oh, believe it, sugar," she told me. "You give a girl a diamond, she'll be nice, but she'll have to fake it. You give her the same rock, tell her it was part of a jewelry heist, she gets her panties wet before she can get her dress off. Harry, he met this 'Bondi' in a strip bar. There's Harry, flashing his pinky ring, playing Moe Green, you know? So she tells him, she needs something done. And Harry tells her, sure, he can handle that. Let him talk to a few of the boys…

"Now, as we both know, I'm the only 'boys' he knows," Michelle smirked. "But that's okay—we played his tips before. And we did okay, didn't we?"

"Sure, but—"

"So you went to see her," Michelle interrupted, "and it came up zircons. But you can't be the target, honey. I mean, no way this Bondi bitch knows about you. Especially about you and me—how many people know that?"

"She lied, Michelle. There's a game in this somewhere, and—"

"I know," she put in. "The way I see it, maybe she does hate this guy—the guy in the building across from her. I mean, I'd hate him if he was doing that to me. Or maybe she's gonna Pearl Harbor you both. Who knows? It's a pass, period."

"Right."

"You're not even curious?" she asked, dropping her voice a notch.

"About what?"

"Who's got you on their list?"

"That list is too fucking long," I told her, closing my eyes again.

Iwasn't lying to Michelle. Chasing down clues is fine for books, but that doesn't work in real life. Down here, they solve the mysteries with autopsies.

I don't have a problem with curiosity. I learned everything about why people did things when I was just a little kid—they do things because they want to do them, because they like doing them. Some of those things hurt, a deep hurt you keep with you way after the scars fade. And the more I got hurt, the less curious I got.