Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Not ruby. Ruby not sparkle. Red diamond."

"A red diamond?"

"Sure. Yellow diamond too. Call 'fancies.' But not so much."

"Not so much what?"

"Money. Fancy diamond not cost like pure white."

"But not cheap?"

"Oh no," she chuckled. "No diamond cheap."

I ate some orange–glazed duck with roast pork fried rice and snow pea pods, washed it down with ice water as I read the paper. I checked Parade first, always do. Whoever thought up the idea of a free stand–alone magazine in every Sunday paper in the country was a genius. I heard their advertising rates were the highest in the world.

Another subway rape in Jamaica. Another drive–by murder in Washington Heights. Another racial assault in Bensonhurst. Another woman beaten to death by her estranged husband, died with an Order of Protection in her purse. Another baby–raper pleaded guilty and got probation. They don't need to hire reporters in this city—the stories are all written; all they have to do is fill in the names and dates.

Max showed up before I could get to the race results. We still had some time, so I didn't argue when he pulled out a score sheet from our life–sentence gin game. One of the alleged waiters brought a fresh deck of cards, and we got down to it.

It was Max's lucky day. I never saw the cards fall so good for him. Even as bad as he plays, even with Mama hammering him with incompetent advice, he hit me with back–to–back triple schneids, something he'd never accomplished in the thousands of games we'd played until then. Max has got a natural poker face. And the card sense of a chimp. But when the Prof showed up, the little man took one look and said, "My man ain't grinning, but he doing some serious winning, ain't he?"

I nodded to acknowledge the obvious reality of the situation and set my teeth, praying for the cards to change. It wasn't the money; even at the tenth of a cent per point we always play, Max was into me for almost a quarter of a million dollars over the years. We'd agreed when we started that we'd settle up wherever we ended up, after this life was done. But I knew there was no way on this planet I was getting up from this game with Max on the streak of his life. The Mongolian would sit there until I started winning or Cuba started holding elections, whichever came first.

The Prof knew it too. He sat down next to me and started in on a stream of criticism that would have cracked concrete. Clarence sat next to Max, a smile flashing broadly in his ebony face as the warrior drew bonanza after bonanza. Hell, I fucking dealt him gin twice in one hour. It didn't matter who held the cards—I passed my turn to deal over to the Prof with no change in the result.

"You got one humongous hoodoo, Schoolboy," the little man intoned. "The double–jinx maxi–mojo curse. Ain't nothing to do but let it do its worse."

Max kept glancing to the heavens, as if wondering when the sky was going to fall, but he never so much as shifted position, superstitiously keeping everything exactly as it was for as long as the magic moment lasted.

It was almost one o'clock before I turned the tide. And it was two–thirty before he was convinced that his incredible run was actually over. He stood up, bowed deeply…and snatched the score sheet from the table so fast I saw a vapor trail behind his hand.

And it was getting close to four in the damn afternoon by the time Immaculata showed up, with Flower in tow. Max quickly signed to them both, explaining in painstaking—and painful—detail how he had accomplished the ultimate gin destruction of his own brother.

And then we had to have supper.

By the time we got down to business, it was dark enough for it.

Heather called Tuesday night, leaving a number I didn't recognize. It was after midnight when I got the message from Mama, but I called anyway.

"Hello?" Her voice was wide awake, buoyant.

"It's Burke," I said. "You called?"

"I wanted to…thank you again…."

I didn't say anything, waiting.

"…and to tell you, it's all set. Either tomorrow or Thursday, whatever you want. Anytime, day or night."

"What's all set, Heather?"

"The interview ," she said, a throb in her voice now, telling me how important this was. To her? "He says to tell you you'll have as much time as you want, okay?"

"Okay. Let's make it Thursday, all right? First thing in the morning okay with you?"

"With me? Oh! You mean with—"

"Yeah. Nine okay?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"See you then."

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Would you want me to, maybe come over and…see you?"

"I already said I'd do it, Heather. I made a deal; I'll keep it. Don't worry about it."

"Not for…that. I know you'll do it. I know you're a truthful person. That's all I care about, you know. The truth. It's holy to me. I'm just…sorry about what happened. And I thought I could maybe…make it up to you."

"We're square," I said.

"Well, if you ever change your mind…"

"You'll be the first to know," I said, and cut the connection.

Then I called the precinct and asked for Morales.

Imet him at the dead end of Old Fulton Street in Brooklyn, a few blocks from the Federal Court. Outside of territory for both of us. He was already there when I pulled in, still driving that fire–engine–red Dodge Stealth, convinced it was the perfect undercover vehicle. Like every player in the city didn't know it was his.

"You all healed up?" I asked him.

"Like new," he growled, smacking his chest where Belinda's bullet had taken him hard enough to crack a rib a while back. He looked the same: ball–bearing eyes in pouchy pockets of flesh, a round face with a pushed–in nose and a thin scar of a mouth sitting on a tree stump of a neck. Stood a couple of inches shorter than me, short arms, big chest. Morales looked like a not–too–bright pit bull, but the first part was all wrong.

"Thanks for the stuff," I said.

"No problem. Like I left word, motherfucker's dirty."

"Meaning…?"

"He did work for Aiello. You know, the greaseball who took over for Sally Lou on The Deuce."

Sally Lou had been a fringe player for the wiseguys. Not a made man, but what they call an "around guy," sniffing at the edges, doing whatever. His game had been rough–stuff porno. In the freak sheets, he peddled it as "extreme, not terminal," but street talk was that he could find you a snuff film if you hauled enough green. No question about kiddie porn though—Sally Lou specialized in video of hairless little girls. He was gone now, part of the fallout in a mess I got into a long time ago. And, like always, some other slime seeped in to fill the void. Crime's like Nature—it hates a vacuum.

"What kind of work?" I asked Morales.

"I don't know exactly," the cop said with a "what the fuck does it matter?" shrug. "Legal research, it said on the bill. A big bill, I know that much."

"That's not dirty."

"Yeah, it is. Anything for that maggot Aiello is dirty. But I think it was something else. Word is, this Kite, he knows a lot of people. Political people."

"Like senators?"

"Like judges. Aiello was on the hook deep. A video studio, in a basement off Forty–fourth. The usual whips–and–chains stuff, no big deal. But there was little girls in there. Little girls. There was some kinda legal bullshit, like could we prove he knew they was underage? Fuck, you just look at the stuff, you know they wasn't grown. Anyway, the judge tosses it. Said the search was bad too. The CI spooked. Disappeared. Or maybe got done. But we couldn't produce him in court. That was just the excuse though—the whole thing was juiced from jump."

"Kite was the lawyer?"