Andrew Vachss: False Allegations

I kept that hurt down, deep as I could bury it. But like the toxic waste it was, it bubbled to the surface once in a while.

People died then.

I could think of a dozen reasons why Bondi could have wanted me to go into that man's apartment, and every one gave me another reason not to do it. I could sell the job to a pro heister, but I never worked as a finger. There's too many ways to get cheated on your piece of the pie, too many ways your name comes up if the thief goes down.

"Don't take the call if you can't take the fall," the Prof always says. Prof stands for Professor and it stands for Prophet—you had to listen close each time to tell which role he was playing. That was a long time ago, standing on the prison yard, me listening, using the time instead of trying to kill it. Like the Prof said.

Could be I wasn't the target at all—accidents happen. Homicide happens too. Last time a woman thought I was the right man for the job, I almost got myself dead. Belinda. Belinda the cop. So patient, so careful, she almost got it done. Got herself done instead. That happens too—you grab the wrong end of the knife, you get cut.

I'm real careful about things like that. I walk the cautious convict's string–straight walk, trying to be a blot in the darkness. I learned it in the juvenile joints, always keep my back against something solid. It wasn't until I got to prison that I learned people could be solid too. Then I spent a lot of years learning which ones.

I always take my half out of the middle. Looking up from ground zero, the tops of the city buildings lean so close together they almost seem to touch—a nice canopy to lurk under if you stay down. But if you stick your head up, the canopy can turn into a crossfire real quick.

For the next few days, I worked at keeping my head down—minding my own business even if someone else was too. Frankie was going in a ten–rounder down at Atlantic City, but I couldn't make myself interested. We still had a piece of his action, but we didn't expect to see any coin for years, even if Ristone's plans worked out and he could finesse the kid into a title fight. Besides, it was another setup, Frankie fighting some tomato can off the canvasback circuit, padding his record, waiting his turn. Before we sold his contract, the Prof had been bringing Frankie along the right way: each fight a little harder than the last one, learning as he moved up, getting ring–wise. The Prof knew Frankie couldn't keep winning just by being tougher than the next guy—the prisons are full of tough guys.

But now Frankie was off that track, running parallel to a bunch of other young guys, all with their eyes on the same prize. They wouldn't get together until much further down the line. Frankie would make it happen then…if Ristone didn't decide there was more cash to be made from tossing him in the tank.

We knew what the deal was when we took it, and nobody was bitching. But Frankie wasn't proud of it anymore. The money was coming, but the jolt was gone. We promised him we'd be ringside when he got his shot—until then, we only saw him when he dropped by Mama's. Even though we didn't hold his contract anymore, he was still with us. He'd earned his way in the same way we all did. In the same places too.

So I was working at letting it go, but nobody was around to do it with. I headed over to Mama's. The white dragon tapestry was in the window—all clear. I docked my old Plymouth in the alley behind the restaurant, just underneath the pristine square of white paint that held Max's chop in black calligraphy—newly painted, the lines not as precise as usual. Flower's hand. Max's baby, a little girl now, growing up. But it said the same: Stay Away. And even the empty–eyed Chinatown gunslingers didn't cross that border.

The flat–faced steel door opened before I could rap. I didn't recognize the thickset young Chinese who let me in, but he knew me. One of Mama's new boys. I could see from the way he held the meat cleaver in his left hand that he was a real expert. And no cook.

I walked through the kitchen and took my booth in the back. Mama started toward me from her post by the cash register at the front at the same time a guy in a waiter's jacket moved out of the kitchen carrying a tureen of hot–and–sour soup. They arrived together. Mama ladled me a small bowl, prepared one for herself and sat down across from me.

"So?"

"I'm just hanging out, Mama. Nothing going on."

"Not working?"

Not stealing, she meant. "No," I told her. "I thought maybe Max'd be around and I'd give him a chance to get some of his money back."

"Max working," she said, a faint trace of disapproval in her soft voice. "No time to play cards."

Max is a courier. Gems, microchips, a tightly rolled rice–paper message…anything you don't want to put in the mail. Small packages only—Max had to have his hands free. And his feet. If he took your money, your stuff was as good as delivered. His life was the bond, and he posted it every time he carried a package. Everybody down here knows his word is sacred, even though he can't speak.

And that's not why they call him Max the Silent.

"He'll be back soon?" I asked.

I got an eloquent shrug in response. That and another helping of soup.

"Any calls?" I asked her.

"No calls. Very quiet. You not going to work?"

"Not for a while," I shook my head. I was kind of between professions. When I was younger, I was a cowboy, never thinking beyond cash registers and guns. I shot a man when I was just a kid. Because he scared me. I never lost that last part, but I got smarter as I got older. Probably because I didn't get dead first.

And because I met the Prof in prison and got schooled. I'll never forget the first time I saw him, watching from a distance as he faced a black man half his age and twice his size. I don't remember what the dispute was about, but I know the big guy was holding a shank and calling the Prof's name. The Prof stood his ground, capturing the other man's eyes, cutting right to it:

"Kill me? Kill me? You can't kill me, boy—I've been dead forever. Get wise to the lies—I'm a ghoul, fool. A spellbound hell–hound. I was here before you. I am a Black Man. I was here first . First on this earth. You can put me in the ground, but I'll always be around.

"You so dumb you be a slave to the grave, boy. The Man turn the key, you still won't be free.

"Here's a true clue, boy. Some news you can use. Me, I'm the Man. I'm the only one can shorten your sentence. How much you doing, boy? How much time you got? Oh, got it all, huh? Got took by the book. Doing life. Want me to shorten that ? Come on with it, then!"

And as the Prof held the crowd at bay with the hellfire of his preaching, I saw a pair of the homicidal children he was constantly fathering behind the Walls move in from the wings, eyes on the big man, hands concealed under loose jackets. By the time the big man figured it out, he was where he said he was going to send the Prof.

Nobody saw anything.

When the investigation was done, they blamed it on the serial killer who haunts every max joint in America: Person or Persons Unknown.

I never took my eyes off the perimeter again. When I hit the bricks after that stretch, I shifted into hijacking. Stole a load of heroin from the mob and tried to sell it back to them. Got dimed instead, and ended up in a subway tunnel holding the cops at bay with a pulled–pin grenade in my hand, waiting for Max and the Prof and the Mole to make it out the other end.

Back to prison. I knew how to jail by then. I had a name. I had people on the outside. And I never called another man's name. Not out loud.

Prison wasn't so bad that time. Bad enough that I wasn't going back, though. I put away the guns then. No burglaries either. Dope's too risky. I came from the same place as the hookers did, so I didn't want to be a pimp. Never minded doing some work on one, though, and I had a little business built up doing that until I shot one of them and he lived. I wasn't trying to wound him, and I guess he knew it, so he ran straight to the Law. A mobbed–up guy got me a pass on that one, and I paid him back by looking into something for him.