Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Right. But you could see he wasn't a cop. I mean, I never saw nobody ever looked like him. Like he had all the blood drained out or something. And he already knew all about the trick. Just not what we…did, okay?"

"Okay. So you told him…?"

"Yeah," she said, sandpaper in her voice. "I told him, okay? No big deal. It was nice just to…talk, for once. It wasn't like he was paying me to rat the trick out or anything. I mean, he wasn't the heat, right? He was doing…research, like. That's what he said. He was consulting me," she said, her voice loving the sound of the word in her mouth.

"And that was it?"

"That was it, Burke. No big deal. You want to pay me now?"

"Sure," I said, reaching in my pocket. "By the way, did you know that trick was a judge?"

"Oh yes!" she laughed, nasty–edged. "One thing you can always get from tricks, honey—they can't wait to tell you how motherfucking important they are."

Ihad other things to do besides Kite's job. I'm a professional—I work even when I'm flush, not living from score to score like some rookie. Like most criminals, I learned my trade in prison. On the yard, listening to the Prof preach the gospel:

"Every take ices the cake, schoolboy. But you never finish working, see? It's ain't a bunch of jobs, it's all one job. That's your work , got it? So when the time comes you got to cut into the cake, the cash is there, waiting. You don't got to do something stupid. You ain't in a hurry. Keep that cake rich all the time, so when you got to slice, it stays real nice."

All the scores don't pan out, especially when you work the corners the way I do. And the federales have been crimping some of those corners lately. Used to be I could always count on a steady stream of firearms sales to halfass Nazis preparing for the revolution, but their latest psycho fantasy is biological warfare—dump a load of botulism toxin in the water supply of "Nigger Dee–troit" or "Jew York," wait patiently up in the hills in their ramshackle little hate–houses to mow down the fleeing survivors.

The feds even monitor the White Night shortwave radio traffic now, and the FBI has a whole pack of undercovers working the survivalist beat. The feds cruise the Internet too, but that's still safe for me—I make kiddie porn deals but I never deliver, satisfying myself with the up–front cash. I guess I get some of Uncle's buy–money mingled in there once in a while, but they'll never come close enough to make a bust. Besides, it's the product they want—a lousy fraud arrest doesn't race their motors.

I trade with the feds too, but I never took a CI jacket—Confidential Informants never stay all that confidential. I take it out in favors instead. The way that works is so simple I'm surprised they haven't caught on: I sell guns to some Nazi wannabe, then I drop a dime on him and the feds get a good solid bust. They don't pay me for the info, but I get a couple of more cards in the Get Out of Jail Free deck each time.

G–men are pretty neutral characters. They don't go native like some of the NYPD undercovers do. Hoover's dress code went out the window about the time he went into the ground, but you can still spot the Gee at a hundred yards. Even across cyber–space.

That's the latest frontier, the freshest stalking ground for predators. But the Internet's no different from any other piece of technology. It's neutral, like a scalpel. In the hands of a surgeon, it cuts out cancer. In the hands of a freak, it cuts out hearts.

The Net is paradise for lurkers: nameless, no–scent psychopaths. That's the way camouflage works—by blurring the outlines. Most people look to the edges for definition—when it's not there, they don't see anything at all. But camouflage doesn't help when the other guy's willing to defoliate the whole jungle.

There's a few heavy players working the fringe now. They climb on the Net, usually one of those "kids only" boards, and they get right into the pen pal thing. It never takes long. One of the freaks engages them, chats a bit, makes some promises, and sets up a meet. The freaks especially love airport hotels—in–and–out's their game anyway. They check into the room and, in a little bit, a kid shows up. Whatever they thought they were cybering with—a little Latino boy, a freckle–faced white girl—doesn't matter. But before they can get down to what they do, the door pops open and there's a real big, real angry man there. Turns out—it always turns out—that the kid is his kid. Somebody's gonna get hurt. Real bad. But if the freak spills out enough oil, fast , maybe he can put out the fire before he gets burned himself. All it costs is money. It's the old badger game, updated cyber–style. And the freaks never run to the Law.

I don't go in for that stuff myself. I don't like to operate out of my territory. But I know there's crews working in half a dozen cities. Probably more by now. Freaks lock onto the Net and start salivating. They never figure that, in this world, there's creatures that prey on predators.

The world's nothing but crime. I don't do every kind, but I do more than enough. I've been playing this way for such a long time that I'm doomed to it now, dancing between the acid raindrops, waiting for that manicured hand to drop on my shoulder and read me my rights. That happens, I'm ready for it. Even with my record, I'm not risking a long time inside. Not with the way I work things now. I may sell guns, but I don't carry them.

And I keep swearing I'll never use one again.

The one place I couldn't risk the Prof invading was Kite's aerie. The way I had figured it at first, Heather was living there. The floor plan to the building backed me up on it—there was enough room for a large family in the penthouse. Wolfe had her living in that two–bedroom apartment over in the West Seventies, but I thought that was probably just a place to store her clothes and keep up appearances. Then I found out Kite owned the building she lived in. Not right out in the open—he had a corporation nested inside a holding company, and shares of that company were controlled by a real estate investment trust that also held a mini–mall in Tucson and an office building in Dallas—but he was Heather's landlord all right.

"Bitch is a clean–freak," the Prof told me. "Joint's a fucking hospital. Got one of them filter machines, looks like a waste basket it's so big. No carpet, nothing but tile and wood."

"Look like she lives there?"

"Yeah, I guess. Food in the fridge, stuff in the cabinets over the sink. Hamper got clothes in it, so…But she ain't no chef, I tell you that. All she had was them packaged meals. And a microwave."

"The food just her stuff you think?"

"Oh yeah, bro. Ain't been no man in that place ever, except maybe to fix the sink or something. 'Sides that, she got a motherfucking shrine in her bedroom."

"Religious stuff?"

"Only if your boy Kite is God, Schoolboy. Got pictures of him everywhere. On the dresser, on the wall. Big bulletin board too. Bitch's got every article ever mentioned his name, it looks like. Got a trophy drawer too."

"His stuff?"

"Got to be. Only thing that ain't clean in the entire joint. One drawer, sealed, like. Got a handkerchief, pair of white silk boxer shorts—I know women be wearing that stuff now, but that Heather broad couldn't get her damn leg in the pair I saw. Man's shirt. An old watch. Pair of cuff links. All wrapped in tissue paper. Souvenirs, like."

"Cash? Jewelry?"

"Nothing worth taking. Cheap costume stuff. Except for the chains."

"Necklaces?"

"No, bro. Chains. You know, those little ankle bracelets. Broad's gotta have a couple of dozen of them, all different kinds. Gold, silver…platinum, one looked like. All different patterns, too. She got them on little hooks in her closet. Like she puts on a different one every day."