Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Nah, Aiello had a regular mob mouthpiece. Your old pal, Fortunato, remember him? Like I said, wired like a motherfucking Christmas tree. Fortunato put out the word Kite did the research, like I said. But the way I scope it, the only research he did was knowing a bent judge."

"Okay."

"I wish Wolfe was still on the job. Wouldn't have happened if she was there—too much media heat. I love that bitch."

"Me too," I said. Then I caught his look. "I mean, I wish she was still working too."

"Yeah. Right. Anyway, watch your back, Burke. If this Kite motherfucker knows judges, he knows cops too, you understand me?"

"Sure. Thanks."

"Anything else I could…?"

"Run a phone number for me?"

"You got it."

Early Thursday morning, I let Pansy out to her roof. Then I cut a fresh semolina bread at the two–third's mark, scooped out the interior from the one–third and painted inside the crust with a light coating of cream cheese. That was mine. I put the two–thirds piece and the guts from mine in Pansy's steel bowl. Then, on the hot plate, I heated up some Mongolian beef with scallions I took from Mama's and I poured the whole thing over the bread. When she came back downstairs, she snarfed it up like it was a vitamin pill.

I had mine with some cold ginger beer. To settle my stomach.

I dressed carefully that morning—I figured this woman had already seen enough lawyers, but I didn't want to look like a hood either. Or a cop. When I told her the problem, Michelle had come over the night before and picked everything out. "The alligator boots, babe. They're always perfect. Casual class—that's our look, okay?" She put together a pair of gray flannel slacks, a black–and–white striped shirt with a button–down collar, and a dark–purple silk tie. From a garment bag she carried over her shoulder, she pulled a soft charcoal wool sports coat. "This is perfect, honey. It's semi–structured. See, no shoulder pads. Lots of room, very comfortable. It whispers money. Put it on, let's see how it works."

"I'm sure it'll be—"

"Put it on , honey."

It fit perfect. Michelle's eyes were micrometers. "How much?" I asked her.

"Thirteen hundred—"

" What? "

"Oh, that was retail , honey. I got it for only six. Some bargain, huh?"

"Six hundred dollars?"

"Yes, six hundred dollars," she said, in the tone you'd use on a moron. A stubborn moron. "I do not buy at Bloomingdale's, baby. And you'll need this belt too—it'll go perfectly with the boots. Now give me some money, honey."

I couldn't wait for the clash of wills when it came time for her and The Mole to outfit Terry for college.

Pansy insisted on rubbing against my leg and being petted goodbye. So instead of cologne, I hit the subway wearing Eau de Neapolitan mastiff. And carrying the black aluminum briefcase, empty.

Heather was on her side of the grille when the elevator arrived. This time she was wearing a modest plum–colored silk blouse over a black pleated skirt. But her dark stockings were seamed up the back and the skirt was six inches too short. I could see the faint outline of an ankle chain surrounding the bandage on her left foot. Her spike heels were the same color as her blouse.

"Hi!" she said brightly.

"How you doing?" I responded.

"I'm great …now that it's finally happening. Come on, they're waiting for you."

I followed her down the hall, listening to the rasp of nylon as her thick thighs brushed together under the short skirt. She turned the corner, ushering me in ahead of her.

"Mr. Burke," Kite said, getting to his feet. "Thank you for coming."

"Like we agreed," I replied, shaking the bony, blue–veined hand he offered me, going along with the show.

"This is Jennifer," he said, nodding toward a young woman seated in a straight–backed teakwood chair. "Jennifer Dalton."

I walked over to her, held out my hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said.

"Me too," she answered, not getting up. Her eyes were too big for her thin, pinched face. Her hair was mouse brown, thin at the temples. She was dressed in a slate–gray business suit over a fussy white blouse with a small embroidered collar, modest black pumps on her feet, sitting with her knees pressed together.

"Would you prefer I…leave you alone?" Kite asked.

"Up to you," I said to the woman.

"I'd rather you stayed," she said to Kite. Her voice was low and reedy, but very clear, every syllable articulated.

"As you wish," Kite said, taking a seat in his fan–shaped chair.

I took the leather armchair. Heard the tap of Heather's heels but this time, she was wasn't going to stand behind me—she took a position between the woman's back and the hologram, standing with her hands behind her, chest outthrust, orange eyes steady on me.

I settled in, investing thirty seconds in observing the woman's composed face. "How old are you?" I asked.

Her face twitched. It wasn't the question she expected. "I'm, uh, twenty–seven. Twenty–eight in November."

"Were you born here? In New York?"

"In Queens. In Flushing. But we moved around when I was little."

"Where?"

"New Jersey. Teaneck, then Englewood Cliffs. Then to upstate New York. But I really grew up in Manhattan. On the Upper West Side."

"You went to private school?" I asked her.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Just a guess. You have any brothers and sisters?"

"I have a brother. Robert. He's two years older."

"What does he do?"

"Do?"

"For a living."

"Oh. He…doesn't do anything, I guess. He's in rehab."

"For…?"

"Drugs."

"He ever do time?"

"Time?" she asked, her face confused.

"In jail."

"Oh. No, he was never in jail. I mean, just once. A couple of weeks, that's all."

"Did you go and visit him?"

She shifted slightly in her chair. "Why are you asking all this?"

I looked over her shoulder. Heather was in the same spot, standing stony. "Just background," I said.

She looked over at Kite. He didn't respond, watching her as though she was a chemical experiment, waiting for the result.

It was quiet for a long minute. "No, I didn't visit him," she said quietly. "We're not close."

"Are your parents still together?" I asked.

"No. No they're not. Is that 'background' too?"

"Yes, it is, Miss Dalton," I said smoothly. "These are…delicate matters. I want to establish a foundation before we explore the central issues."

She took a breath through her mouth, her shallow chest not involved in the process. "Go ahead," she said finally.

"Your turn now," I said, switching gears. "Just tell me about it."

"He—"

"From the beginning," I said softly. "From before it started, okay?"

She gulped another breath. "Okay. When I was twelve…I know that's when it was because it was just after my birthday, that's just before Thanksgiving…School was already started. I was doing all right there. Not great or anything, mostly B's and C's on my report card. And I was never any trouble. My teachers liked me. I had friends and everything. But my parents thought I should be doing better."

"Your grades?"

"Not just my grades. I was a puller."

"Trichotillomania?"

"Yes!" her eyes rolled up, settled back down, focusing on my face. "How did you know about that?"

"I had a friend who had it," I lied. "Did they send you to a doctor?"

"No. They didn't know it was a…disease, then. They just thought I was strange, I think."

"So what did they do?"

"My parents were very religious. Psalmists—do you know it?"

"No. It sounds fundamentalist."

"Well it's not," she said primly. "The official name of the church is the Gospel of Job's Song. And its prophet is Job, not Jesus. It was founded in the sixteenth century by John Michael, a man who suffered terrible misfortunes—he had epilepsy, and he underwent a crisis in faith. When the revelations came to him, he started the church. Eventually, the Psalmists had to emigrate to America to escape persecution. They settled in upstate New York. Some say their teachings were an influence on Joseph Smith."