Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Left? She got canned, honey. Dumped out on her skinny ass. The customers here, they ain't too choosy, you know what I mean? But they don't go for screw–ups all the time. I mean, maybe they would if I was doing it,"—she grinned—"but I know how to talk to customers. Men, especially—that's about all we get in here. Jenny, she didn't know squat. Girl probably didn't make five bucks a night in tips, even on a full shift."

"You do much better than that yourself?"

"Me? Honey, any night I don't go home with an extra fifty, I figure I'm losing it, you know what I mean? A joint like this, the guys like you to clown around a bit with them, you know what I mean? Jenny, she walked around like she had a sharp stick up her ass. Customer says something to her, she don't even come back at him. Me, I know how to handle myself. I know how to keep them in line, and I know how to play them too. That's part of the business…"

"Ever had any other trouble with her? Before she split?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know…swiping tips from other tables, dipping in the register…"

"Jenny? She was one of those Christian freaks, you know what I mean? One time, she was about ten minutes late. Anyone else, they woulda just told Mack the bus was late or something. You know what she says? She says she didn't get up on time, that's all. Mack told her he'd have to dock her pay. Just kidding around. You know, get a rise outta her. She says, that's okay—that's only fair. A real space cadet, like I told you."

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"You gonna drink that beer?"

"No."

"So why'd you order it, then?" flashing me another come–on smile.

"So I could leave you a bigger tip," I said, tossing an extra twenty onto the greasy formica tabletop.

"She always paid the rent on time," the stolid–looking middle–aged woman in the dull blue housedress told me, the chain on the door to her apartment still latched. "Every Saturday."

"She paid in cash?"

"You a bill collector?"

"Private investigator," I told her.

"What'd she do?"

"She didn't do anything. I'm just checking background. She might be in for an inheritance."

"Like in a will?"

"That's right. But we want to make sure she's the actual party."

"Huh?"

"Well, it's a common name, Jennifer Dalton. There could be more than one."

"Well, she's real thin. Scrawny, like. Never took care of herself. Real pasty–faced, like she never went out."

"Did she?"

"What?"

"Go out?"

"I mind my own business," the woman lied. "All I care about, they don't have nobody over in their rooms, that's all."

"Did she ever get mail?"

"Utilities included in the rent," the woman said. "And she didn't have no phone in her room."

"But…?" I asked, letting her see the fan of ten–dollar bills in my right hand.

"She got two, maybe three letters all the time she was here."

"Personal letters?"

"How would I know that?"

"Were they window envelopes? Like you get from a company? Did they have stamps on them, or a postage meter? Were the envelopes colored or white? Regular size or—?"

"Okay, I see what you mean now. They was little envelopes. And they wasn't typed. You know, handwriting. With stamps."

"Who were they from?"

"That wasn't on the—"

I stood there waiting, holding the money.

"There wasn't no name besides hers," she said. "All I could see, they come from New York."

"Icould get in trouble for this," the black man with the shaved head said. "Real trouble, man." His arms bulged from the short sleeves of his white cotton orderly's shirt. A dull white patch of skin ran across his lower cheek. Knife scar.

"They're just photocopies, right?," I told him. "No big deal."

"Fuck if it ain't, man. They catch me doing it, I'm gone. His–tor– ee , Jack. Just like that."

"Yeah. Well, it's already done, true? You got them right there in your hand."

"That's right," he said, neck muscles rigid. "And they ain't going in your hand unless I see some green."

"Five yards, like I said. I'm holding the coin—let me see the goods."

He spread the paper out across the scarred wood table in the barbecue joint, glancing over his shoulder as he did. I didn't touch the paper, just scanned it quickly with my eyes: the name and Social Security number matched against what I had. Date of birth too. Okay.

"Let's do it," I said, reaching into my pocket.

"Hold up, man," he said, covering the paper with a large, thick hand. The nails were long, yellowish and horny, starting to hook. "Like I told you…this is hot stuff. Seems like there oughta be something more in it for me."

"There isn't," I said flatly.

"A couple more yards won't hurt you," he said sullenly.

"It's not in the budget."

"Yeah, well fuck a whole bunch of that 'budget' shit. Man, that's all I hear at the hospital: 'Budget.' I got me a budget too."

"We had a deal," I reminded him.

"Yeah, well, deals get changed."

I held his eyes for a few seconds, the brown iris running into the yellowish white. The last time he'd been to prison, he probably got some strange ideas about white men—if I went a dime over what I'd agreed, he'd be thinking "fish," and that wouldn't do. "Maybe some other time," I said, ice–polite, getting up.

"Wait up, man! Don't be so cold."

"Those papers are no good to you," I said quietly, still standing. "They aren't worth a dime. Fact is, I don't take them off your hands, you got to burn them. I got five hundred dollars in my pocket. I'm gonna trade or fade, pal. Pick one."

He held out his hand for the money, muttering something under his breath.

Igot what I paid for. The hospital had wanted to hold her after the emergency admission, but the "AMA" note at the bottom of the chart told the story. She had signed herself out Against Medical Advice. She hadn't opened up to the social worker who'd interviewed her—not a single mention of the hair–pulling. And not a hint of Brother Jacob anywhere in the slim file of papers.

A psychiatric resident had written up the case after speaking to her, laying it out in the cold language shrinks use to label human beings.

DSM III–R DIAGNOSES (DISCHARGE)

A) POST–TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER, 309.89

B) R/O DYSTHYMIA

C) R/O MAJOR DEPRESSION, RECURRENT, UNSPECIFIED

A) HISTRIONIC PERSONALITY FEATURES

B) R/O BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER

A) SUICIDE ATTEMPT

B) ASTHMA

Back in my office, I used my own copy of the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders —to decode the shorthand. The suicide attempt was the "presenting problem." The clinical picture was mostly guesses: "R/O" means "rule out"—a possibility they wanted to consider once they got her into treatment.

But that never happened.

They put down getting fired and breaking up with her boyfriend as "psycho–social stressors," writing it like they happened at the same time. Probably the way she told it.

And the GAF was "Global Assessment of Functioning." The score was her highest level in the last year. A 55 meant "severe symptoms; significant interference in functioning." Good guess.

The whole file was nothing but outline sketches. Except for one handwritten note: "Patient states she has attempted suicide at least twice before. Expressed regret only in her lack of success…'I even failed at this.' No insight exhibited during interview."

If Jennifer Dalton knew why she tried to take herself off the count, she wasn't telling.

Not them. And not then.

"Doc," you remember that guy you told me about, Bruce Perry? The one working on the brain–trauma stuff?"