Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"I…see. Is this the only one you have?"

"No. I have them all," I told him. "There's eleven all told."

He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard. Then: "If I wanted these…letters, it would be to spare the possibility of….oh, I don't know, unnecessary embarrassment."

"If you have the money, there doesn't have to be any embarrassment," I said quietly. "Not for anybody."

"It's very easy to make copies—"

"They're no good," I lied. "Without the originals, they're meaningless. No professional document examiner would ever—"

"Document examiner?"

"Like they use in court," I said, watching his face. "The important thing about…some letters is the date ," I said. "There's no date on any of the letters. And you can't tell the date from a photocopy. You can't test for the age of the paper, the ink won't—"

"I understand what you mean now," he interrupted.

"Do you want the letters?" I asked.

"I'm…concerned," he said. "A therapist shouldn't—"

"I agree with you, Brother Jacob. I make no apologies for my own position. Like I said, I'm a businessman. And the people I represent, they're business people. A therapist does have certain…obligations. Sometimes a person is obligated in more than one direction at the same time—I'm sure you understand. Let me see if I'm following your chain of thought," I said, gentling my voice. "You might be interested in buying back these letters so you can show them to Miss Dalton yourself. So you can prove this therapist to whom she entrusted her deepest secrets is actually not acting in her best interests. Is that about right?"

"Yes," he said. "That is right. Exactly right."

"Good. I won't waste your time in meaningless bargaining, Brother Jacob. This isn't a question of whatever 'value' the letters may have. After all, it's a question only of what the therapist owes my…employers."

"And that is?"

"Twenty thousand dollars."

"That's impossible!" he blurted out. "I don't have that kind of money."

"Well, we would have no way of knowing that, would we?" I asked reasonably. "Because you're the only…market for these particular items, it's not as though we could put them out for bids."

"I understand. I mean…I know what you're saying. But I don't see how I could…"

"That's up to you," I said, holding out my hand for the letter.

"Is it possible to…compromise?"

"I'm afraid not," I said, still holding out my hand. "I'm a salaried employee, Brother Jacob. I don't work on commission. If it were up to me, I'd do something about the price. I know why you're buying the letters, and I admire you for it. Not many people would spend a lot of money just to help someone else out. But there's really nothing I can do."

"What are you going to…?"

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. We'll explain to the therapist that there's no value in the letters. The money will have to come from someplace else. My employers thought it was worth a plane ticket to see if there was another possibility, that's all. I hope you don't feel I wasted your time."

"No. Not at all," he said, still holding the letter.

"Brother Jacob…," I said, looking directly into his eyes.

He cleared his throat again. "Is there a way I could…pay it gradually?"

"Of course," I said. "You could pay for each individual letter. But if you wanted them all delivered at once, certain…security would be required."

"Security?"

"My employers are very serious people," I said. "These are not things you put in writing—it's a matter of honor, you understand? You give your word—you keep your word."

"Yes, of course. But if—?"

"There is no 'if,' Brother Jacob. Except for this one: If y ou want the letters, I am authorized to agree to a time–payment plan. Say five hundred dollars a month."

"I…believe I could do that."

"For fifty months."

I could see the gears turn in his head for a few seconds. Then: "Fifty! But you said twenty thousand. Fifty times five hundred would be…twenty– five thousand."

"That's the business my employers are in," I said, my voice going flat and hard, driving out the reasonable tone I'd been using. "Lending money. The therapist borrowed a bit less than the twenty, but it's gonna cost twenty to get square. You want to pay this off, you're borrowing twenty. It's gonna cost you some juice to get square too, okay?"

"I…how would I…?"

"In cash," I told him, letting him hear the jailhouse and the graveyard in my voice. "Once a month. We can have somebody come by, pick it up. Or they could meet you, anyplace you say."

"How do I know…?"

"Like I said, the letters aren't worth anything to us. You can have them all, up front. How's that?"

"That seems…fair."

"We operate on good faith, Brother Jacob. Like I said: We trust you with our money; we trust you to keep your word."

"All right."

"I appreciate it," I said. "You keep that one. I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the rest. I hand them over to you, you give me the first payment. After that, once a month, okay?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for your time," I said, getting to my feet.

He didn't offer to shake hands.

Wolfe was waiting in the parking lot, standing next to her old Audi, the Rottweiler by her side on a loose lead. As I approached, the baleful beast snapped to attention, glaring at me with his dark homicidal eyes.

"This is her," I said, handing over a copy of everything I had on Jennifer Dalton.

"You talk to her yourself?" she asked.

"Yeah. And she rings righteous. At least for now."

"We'll take a look."

"Thanks. One more thing. Those addresses you gave me? The co–ops Kite owns. Can you get me a tenant list?"

"How deep you want to go?"

"Far as you can. How they pay the rent, canceled checks, leases, anything."

"Neighbors too?"

"Be careful you don't spook—"

"We know what we're doing," Wolfe cut in.

"I know," I said by way of apology.

A pair of elderly ladies strolled by arm in arm, steps slow but eyes alive. Pals, glad to be with each other.

"Look, Rosalyn," one said to the other, pointing at Bruiser, "isn't that one of those Wildenheimers?"

"Well, I think so ," her friend said, raising her eyebrows at Wolfe.

"That's right," Wolfe told her, a merry smile on her face.

"Are they good watchdogs?" Rosalyn asked.

"Oh, very good," Wolfe assured her.

"That's good, dear. A young woman in this city needs protection these days. You can't be too careful."

The two old ladies moved on, yakking away. "A Wildenheimer ?" I said to Wolfe.

"That's a Jewish Rottweiler," Wolfe smiled at me. "Don't you know anything?"

"You know anything about the Gospel of Job's Song people?" I asked the slim, hard–featured man. We were in a gay bar just off Christopher Street, talking in the four o'clock dead zone between the lunch crowd and the evening mating dance.

"The Psalmists? Sure. They're not with us exactly: homosexuals aren't really welcome in their hierarchy, and none of us serve as ministers. Not openly, anyway. But when it comes to AIDS, they're right there. I don't care for a lot of their doctrine—hell, I don't care for any doctrine—but they stand tall against that 'God's punishment' obscenity."

"You ever have any dealings with them?"

"Not personally."

"Okay. Thanks for your time."

"Tell Victor I said hello," the man said.

"Idon't like the hypnosis piece," I told Kite.

"Not to worry," he said smugly. "We're on all fours with Borawick ."

"What's a Borawick?"

"A case, Mr. Burke. The proverbial 'federal case,' as it turns out. The Second Circuit set the standard just last year. It's not a rigid formula—they use the so–called 'totality of the circumstances' test. But the factors the court must consider are all in our favor."