Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

I always returned the books when I was done. Couple of things I learned in prison: nothing you stole was ever really safe in your cell, but once it went into your head, no goon–squad shakedown could take it back.

When I was locked down, I used to read all the time—that's where I got my vocabulary. But I don't do it as much any more. Like the guys who stopped lifting iron soon as they hit the bricks. There's other ways to pass time once you're free.

I'd forgotten how much I'd loved it, reading and studying. I'll bet if I'd been raised by humans instead of a collection of freaks and the fucking State, I'd have been…a scientist, maybe. I don't know.

I know I wouldn't have been what I am now. You don't get born bad.

Ijumped when the phone rang next to the bed. None of the crew would call me here unless…

"What?"

"Burke? It's me. Heather. I'm in the hotel too. You got my note, right? They're keeping Jennifer overnight. To run some tests or something. Did you eat yet?"

I glanced at my watch. Jesus! It was almost nine o'clock—I'd been lost in Perry's stuff for hours.

"Ah, no. I was just gonna—"

"Can we have dinner together? We don't have to go anyplace, okay? Just room service and—"

"Where's Kite?" I asked her.

"He's back…home. Working on the case."

"Yeah, okay. Dinner. You want me to—?"

"My room's really small. Could I come up there?"

"Sure. Whenever you're ready."

"I'll be right up," she said.

Idug out the room service menu. Sounded pretty good, reading down the list. But they always do, I guess. It wasn't five minutes before I heard a tentative knock at the door. Heather. In a bone–colored business suit and matching pumps and stockings. The only traces of color were her black–cherry hair and a black lace bra she wore instead of a blouse under her jacket. And her orange eyes under long dark lashes.

"You look very nice," I told her.

"You too," she said politely, as though my white sweatshirt and chinos was an evening ensemble.

She took a seat on the couch, knees touching decorously. I handed her the room service menu. She studied it carefully, tracing each item with a blunt white–lacquered fingernail. "You want a steak?" she finally asked.

"Sure."

"Salad?"

"Whatever."

"I'll take care of it," she said, getting to her feet. She walked over to the desk and sat down in the straight chair next to it. She picked up a ballpoint pen and one of those cheap little pads you find in hotels, crossed her legs like a steno getting ready to work. "How do you want your steak?" she asked, looking over at me, poised to write.

I gave her the whole order, right down to a pineapple juice with plenty of ice. She called it in, speaking slowly and carefully like it was real important to her that they got it exactly right in the kitchen.

"It'll be about forty minutes," she said when she hung up the phone. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's normal. Eight minutes to microwave it, half an hour to bring it here."

"It's pretty late to be eating dinner, huh?"

"It just feels later—we're an hour behind New York down here, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, I forgot. What do you…think of it? I mean, so far?"

"No way to tell," I said. "Anyway, it's only a piece of the puzzle, right?"

"Right. I mean…I guess so. But…this was your idea, wasn't it?"

"You mean, not Kite's?"

"Yes. He never even heard of this place," she said.

"You sound surprised."

"Well, I was a little. It's so…complete here. I mean, they have everything . I thought it would be…famous, like."

"It might be, some day. But it's brand–new now. And I don't think they're much about publicity—I'm sure the last thing they need is more customers."

"It's mostly kids, huh? I mean, when I was waiting. With Jennifer. It seemed like the place was full of kids."

"Sure. That's why we're here with her, isn't it? Something that happened when she was a kid?"

"I know. It's just that…you know what I was thinking? That maybe there should be a special place. Just for grown–ups who had it…happen when they were kids. Not a kids' place. You understand what I mean?"

"They have places like that, Heather. Places full of grown–ups who got all fucked up when they were kids."

"What…places?"

"Prisons. Whorehouses. Psycho wards."

Her face fell. "I don't mean that. There are plenty of…kids who didn't turn out like that. No matter what happened to them."

"That's true. I'm not arguing with you. Being abused…it's no guarantee."

"It's no excuse either," she said, looking at me with those orange eyes.

Agentle knock at the door. Room service. Guy in a maroon uniform with black piping on the sleeves, OSCAR on an aluminum strip over his heart. He wheeled in a table of food, spent a few minutes showily setting it up: uncapping the dishes, laying out the silverware, working hard for the ten bucks I eventually put on top of the bill after I signed it.

"Thank you, sir. Just call Room Service when you want the table cleared away."

The food was okay. Nothing spectacular. But the steak was medium–well, the way I'd ordered it, the salad was crisp, with no brown on the lettuce, and they didn't stint on the ice. Heather tore into it with gusto, cleaning her plate and uncapping the goblet of vanilla ice cream like a gold miner unearthing a plump nugget.

"I shouldn't eat so much," she said, smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fat ," she said.

"No you're not," I told her matter–of–factly.

Her face flushed. She dropped her eyes, saying nothing.

It was past eleven by the time Oscar had collected the food table. I sat back in the only easy chair the hotel put in the suite, lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.

"You have a headache?" Heather asked softly. If the cigarette puzzled her, her voice didn't show it.

"No big deal," I told her, wondering how she could have known. "They never last."

"You want an aspirin or something?" she said, making a circuit of the room turning off the lights. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with moonlight, strong enough to see by.

"No, I'm fine."

She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her. I smoked slowly, letting the dark quiet comfort my headache. Just as I finished the cigarette, the bathroom door opened and Heather stepped into the moonlight. The only white left on her was her body. The black bra topped a matching garter belt, the hooks dangling loose against her round thighs. She was barefoot.

"Still think I'm not fat?" she whispered across the room.

The moonlight penetrated the bedroom too. Heather's pale body gleamed in the reflection. On her knees, hands clasped at the intersection of her thighs, she looked down at me lying on my back, hands behind my head, listening, eyes slitted so she was a soft blur.

"I don't know a lot about…this part," she said, biting her lower lip. She reached behind her and unclasped the black bra. Her breasts spilled out in a lush tumble. She cupped them, pulling them toward her mouth, licked the top of each one. "I used to do this all the time," she said. "By myself. When I was alone. I wanted to know what it felt like."

I didn't say anything, just made a sound to let her know I was paying attention, waiting for the rest of it, whatever it was.

She dropped her breasts—they bounced hard against her rib cage. Her eyes narrowed and she unhooked the garter belt, tossing it aside. Then she put her hands on the inside of her thighs, pulling them apart. She was as hairless as a baby, not even a trace of a razor's shadow in the moonlight. A white–tipped fingernail disappeared inside her, orange eyes steady on mine. "I used to taste this too. So I'd know…"