Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"We got three pieces," I went on. "We got Harry, we got Bondi, and we got this guy's card."

"Harry's dry," Michelle said. "He's Tap City. You could make him talk some more, but he's got nothing more to say. I'm sure of it."

"Nobody die on telephone," Mama said. Meaning why not just call this Kite, whoever he is, see what he wants?

"Bondi's probably in the wind already," I said. "Harry must've called the man, told him he gave me the word."

"Whatever the man wants, it ain't about no chump–change score. Before you book, let's all take a look," the Prof answered, putting it on hold.

Four days later, the cellular phone in my jacket purred. I flipped it open, said "What?" and waited.

"It's all like it was," the Prof's voice came. "The spot's still hot…and the geek's still on the peek." The connection went dead.

Bondi was still living in that high–rise with the blue leather performance–platform. And the watcher was still across the street, a few floors up, ready to look down on what he paid for.

So far, we'd already been through her apartment. Clarence kept watch until she went out, stayed with her until she got a good distance away, and used the cell to signal the team. Michelle drew the doorman outside to look at her pretty little blue BMW coupe—and her prettier little white dress. Maybe the nice man knew who owned the fat Mercedes that had put all those scrape–marks on the BMW's front fender when he pulled out without looking? The nice man didn't know, but he spent a few minutes looking around anyway. More than enough for the Mole to slip into the basement wearing his NYNEX uniform. And for the Prof to get past the apartment locks and go to work, while Max stood by the door just in case.

Me, I made a couple of phone calls. One to a reporter named Hauser, the other to a cop named Morales.

Morales owed me one and he came through. He found Bondi's girlfriend. Sybil. And she lived in the Village, just like Bondi told me. If this was a scam, there was a ton of truth in it. The mark of a pro.

Just past midnight the next Tuesday, we got together at Mama's. The joint wasn't closed, but Mama rarely got late customers—she worked at keeping the place looking about as inviting as a TB ward.

"Ante up," I told the crew.

"The Mole says there's three separate phone lines," Michelle said, "I gave you the numbers before. Probably one for her, one for the modem, and the one the watcher uses."

"Good guess," I answered her. "Morales pulled the records. One of the numbers hasn't made a single outgoing call in the past three months. On the other line, she calls this girlfriend of hers, Sybil, every day. Sometimes a few times."

"This Sybil a ho too?" the Prof asked.

"Dancer," I said. "Works the Playpen in Long Island City. Same place Bondi used to work, Morales said."

"They got sheets?" the Prof wanted to know.

"No. Not a single fall between them. Only reason Morales had her name, some freak jumped her in the parking lot a couple of years ago, tried to carve her a new face."

"Trick thought he got picked, right?"

"Right," I said. Happens all the time in those joints. Lap–dancers, they're not as honest as whores. They make their money off repeaters, let the suckers think they got something going between them besides the cash. A relationship , right? Sooner or later, some psycho goes for it, decides he's not a customer, he's the boyfriend. And they hold the wedding in a body bag.

"She get hurt bad?" Clarence asked.

"Nah. Just banged up. She was just sitting on her car, smoking a joint, waiting for Bondi to finish her shift. Bondi rolled up just when the guy made his move. They fought him to a standstill. Made so much noise somebody finally called the cops."

"There is a bouncer in those clubs, isn't there, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know. "To protect the girls, yes?"

Michelle's musical laugh was wrapped around a thick vein of contempt. "They're not there to protect the girls, sweetie," she told the young West Indian gunman who had taken the Prof for his father one ugly night—the night I had cleaned out a house of beasts with a gun while the Prof and Clarence waited outside for anyone who tried to leave. "They're there to protect the pimp…the guy who owns the joint. You have a problem, you take it outside, that's the end of it."

Clarence shook his head in disgust. He wasn't from the same place as the rest of us. Raised by a mother he still adored from across death's chasm, he couldn't understand how any man could fail to protect a woman. Any woman. Even when he went to work for a Brooklyn gunrunner named Jacques, he did it to get the money to bring his mother some of the peace she never had working three jobs to provide for her only son. A savage–hearted young man, cobra–quick with his pistol, Clarence would take a life before he would disrespect a woman. He was one of us, part of our family, but he was the only one of us who wasn't raised by beasts. He could know what we knew, but he could never feel it as deep. Michelle reached over and patted his hand. "Stay sweet, honey," she said sadly.

"Hauser came up empty," I said. "Whoever this Kite guy is, nobody ever heard of him. Nothing on NEXIS, nothing in the street."

"Not Hauser's street," the Prof said.

"You got something?"

"Not yet. But this guy's been walking too heavy not to leave footprints. He can slide, he can glide, but he can't hide."

"Her credit's just like she said," Michelle added. "I had Abe run a TRW for me. American Express and Visa, paid every month, right on the dot. Got a few locals too—she runs a tab with the dry cleaner, beauty parlor, couple of restaurants that deliver, like that."

"Abe look at the banks for you too?"

"Of course, darling," Michelle smiled. "Six large a month. Deposited every month. Like clockwork. The watcher never misses."

"She move it out?"

"No. She's got one of those 'private banking' deals. He probably set it up for her. T–Bills, a couple of mutual funds, jumbo CD. Nothing risky. I think she knows this isn't going on forever—it scans like she's building a stash, maybe going back to Australia, like she told you…"

"How'd you make out?" I asked the Prof. There was nobody better at vacuuming a joint than the little man. I remember sitting on the floor of his cell Upstate with the other young thieves while he conducted his seminars. Find it, take it, and get gone quick. But the Master Class—the one where he taught how to phantom your way all through a house without leaving a trace of your passage—that was reserved for family.

"Bitch got enough underwear to open her own boutique," he said.

"What kind?" Michelle interrupted.

"What kind? How I know what—"

"The labels , Prof," Michelle said. "Was it Victoria's or Frederick's?"

"I didn't look at no labels, okay?"

The Prof's disclaimer was about as effective as the War on Drugs—when it came to the subject of lingerie, Michelle was not to be denied. "What colors? Pastel or harsh? Lots of bright–red and black…or pink and blue? Did it have lots of straps? Was it what you'd wear under a dress or only by itself? Did you see—?"

"Girl, I didn't see nothin' , okay? I wasn't looking for no souvenirs , all right?"

"What else?" I asked, trying to take him off the hook.

"Cash money," he said, looking over at me gratefully. "Less than two large. Careless, not in a stash. Bunch of letters, wrapped in a ribbon. All from Australia, all from Amanda…some girlfriend, I guess. Gossip stuff: Sara married Sean, Isabelle just had a baby, you know. Joint was clean , like she had a maid come in every day. Beds made, dishes done. Bunch of pills in the medicine cabinet, but all over–the–counter stuff except for some Valium. Prescription too—had her name right on the bottle. Money stuff: Bank statements, checkbook. Fur coat. White fur."