Andrew Vachss: False Allegations

for Ken Saro–Wiwa

ACCLAIM FOR Andrew Vachss

"Vachss is in the first rank of American crime writers."

— Cleveland Plain Dealer

"Burke is an unlikely combination of Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, and Rambo, operating outside the law as he rights wrongs….Vachss has obviously seen just how unable the law is to protect children. And so, while Burke may be a vigilante, Vachss's stories don't feature pointless bloodshed. Instead, they burn with righteous rage and transfer a degree of that rage to the reader."

— Washington Post Book World

"Vachss seems bottomlessly knowledgeable about the depth and variety of human twistedness."

— The New York Times

"The best detective fiction being written….Add a stinging social commentary…a Célinesque journey into darkness, and we have an Andrew Vachss, one of our most important writers."

—Martha Grimes

"Vachss is America's dark scribe of the 1990s….His protagonist Burke is our new dark knight, a cold–eyed crusader."

—James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor

"Burke s the toughest talking first–person narrator since Mike Hammer….Vachss can write!

— Los Angeles Times

"Move over, Hammett and Chandler, you've got company….Andrew Vachss has become a cult favorite, and for good reason."

— Cosmopolitan

"Burke would eat Spade and Marlowe for breakfast, not even spitting out the bones. [He] is one tough, mean, pray–god–you–don't–meet–him hombre."

— Boston Herald

a warrior, murdered by jackals

whose voice, unstilled

scars their dishonor into our souls

marking our path

FALSE ALLEGATIONS

"Ihave to do it the same way every time," the woman said, her voice full and steady even though she was deep into her workout on a stationary bike. She was wearing a set of dull–gray sweats with matching head and wrist bands of the same material, her face glistening under a healthy sheen of sweat.

"How long does it last?" I asked her.

"The whole performance is about fifteen minutes," she said. "I don't know how much of it he watches."

"And you're sure he—?"

"Yes! He's nailed to it. A bloody junkie he is, I tell you—he doesn't get his fix, he'll go mad." The woman stopped pedaling. She climbed off the bike, pulling the gray sweatshirt over her head in one smooth motion, leaving her torso bare. She was as relaxed about it as someone who did it for a living. "Let me take a shower," she said, "I'll only be a minute."

I leaned back in the red leather recliner, turning it slightly so I could see down the hall where she had disappeared. I slitted my eyes, breathing shallow through my nose, slowing my clock, dialing my mind to wait–state—I know what "Give me a minute" means in girl–speak.

Like most things I think I know about women, I was wrong again. In less than five minutes, I caught a blur out of the corner of my eye—she was padding up the beige–carpeted corridor toward the living room, not making a sound. When she spotted me in the chair, she flashed a smile.

The only thing she was wearing was lipstick. She had a fluffy pink towel in one hand, patting herself absently with it as she made a full circuit of the living room, her eyes flicking from the bookshelves to the complicated–looking stereo to a solid rectangular platform no higher than a coffee table but much bigger. The platform was covered in light–blue leather, about the size of a pool table, seamless and smooth. It stood in a niche a couple of feet back from a huge window, which was completely covered by a panel of brass mini–blinds.

"That's where I have to do it," she said, pointing to the platform.

"How could he—?"

"They're adjustable," she cut in. "With this…," showing me something that looked like a TV remote.

I held out my hand for it, but she pulled it away. "I'm not allowed to open the blinds until he calls," she said. "It wouldn't do for you to push the wrong button."

I let that one pass.

"Sometimes he wants the blinds open," she said. "Sometimes he wants them all the way up. If he wants it at night, I have these…. Look!" She hit a button on the remote and a trio of baby spots popped into life on the ceiling, each beam trained at a different part of the blue leather platform.

"What makes you think he—?"

A telephone trilled in another room. She held up a hand for silence, head cocked to listen.

Another ring.

Another.

Nothing more. I counted to ten in my head. She pushed both palms at me in a "Stay there!" gesture, then she turned and ran out of the room.

She was back in a flash, wearing a red camisole with matching tap pants and spike heels, a white makeup case in one hand. She quickly crossed over to the blue leather platform and sat down, facing me. She put the makeup case on the floor, popped the locks, and opened the top. A quick eye–sweep satisfied her that she had what she needed. She pressed a finger to her lips, telling me to be quiet. Then she reached for the remote control and hit one of the buttons.

The mini–blinds slowly opened, angling down—you would have to be on a higher floor to see inside. The baby spots flashed into hot, focused light.

She did the whole performance without once leaving the blue leather platform, almost fifteen minutes to the second, just like she said. Once you got past the high–tech, it was standard–issue Tijuana Teaser, right down to the disappearing sausage act—she put it inside her, worked it back and forth, her face an ice–mask imitation of a woman scaling a steep orgasmic curve. Soon as she faked letting go, she pulled out the sausage, then licked it a few times before she bit off a piece and swallowed. The curtain closed on her lying facedown, spent and exhausted from the performance, her body zebra–striped from the mini–blinds, long chestnut hair crackling with pale sparks from the artificial light.

"Iknow what I have to do by the number of rings," she said later, a tall iced glass of orange juice in her hand. She'd taken another shower, wrapped herself in a white terry–cloth robe. The mini–blinds were closed.

"How can you tell if—?"

"It's his line, the phone," she anticipated my question. "Only his. He's the only one who ever calls on it. I'm not allowed to use it to make calls either."

"What if you…?"

"There's another phone. Two lines, separate from his. If I'm talking on one of those and I hear his phone, I have to hang up right away."

"But when you go out…"

"I can't just go out, can I?" she snapped.

"I don't know how it works," I said mildly.

She ran both hands through her thick chestnut mane, combing it back off her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I get so cooped up here sometimes I feel like biting my own head off. You can't imagine how…trapped it makes you feel."

"That's okay," I said softly, not telling her that I wouldn't need an imagination. I grew up trapped—and not in some luxo–pad. "Tell me how it works," I urged her, still soft.

"Seventy–two hours," she said. "Three days, that's the key. Once I…finish, I don't have to do it again for seventy–two hours. It could be more—he could wait a long time to call me—he was out of the country once for almost a month—but it's never less, understand?"

"Sure."

"He used me," she said, her voice flat and hard. "He lied. He's a liar. Now he has to pay for it."

"What did he lie about?" I asked, moving my right hand in a sweep–gesture to cover the whole setup.