Andrew Vachss: Footsteps of the Hawk

My bottom–feeding wasn't limited to business. I've known Vyra forever, met her when she was engaged to marry an architect. She didn't go through with that one. After working her way through another half–dozen guys, she eventually settled on an accountant. All throughout that, we'd get together once in awhile. We never had that much to say to each other— came together as smooth as chambering a round, parted as easy as firing it.

Vyra was a slim girl, not very curvy, with breasts way too big for her frame. The only bras she could wear had industrial–strength under–wires— when she took them off you could see the violent red marks where they had cut into her. They made her back ache too, she said. And sometimes her neck hurt so badly she had to have it braced.

"Why don't you get them fixed?" I asked once, lying next to her on a hotel bed.

"You mean like the rest of me?" she asked, not sure whether to try sarcasm or tears— she always had both on tap. I'd known Vyra before she started on the plastic surgery— hell, I knew her when she was still Myra— but I'd never tried to talk her out of it. She finally got her nose reduced, earlobes cut down, and an implant at the tip of her chin. All in one visit— I didn't see her for about three months. When I did, she was the same sweet bitch–on–wheels she'd always been, only with more confidence,

"Why not?" I replied. "You could get the best— "

"Men love them," she said. "I mean, they worship them. You have no idea…"

"But if it's going to keep you in pain all the— "

"Don't worry." She smiled, her perfectly capped teeth white in the afternoon dimness. "I make them pay for it."

When I first saw Vyra, she was a hat–check girl in a nightclub, wearing one of those imitation bunny outfits— a one–piece bodysuit cut high on the thighs with a deep V at the chest. A customer gave her ten bucks to reclaim his hat, watched hungrily as she stuffed the bill deep into her cleavage.

"I'll bet you could stuff a hundred bucks down there," the guy said. "All in singles."

"I don't play with singles," Vyra shot back, telling him the score.

She married a guy she met in the club. Or a guy she met in the club introduced her to the guy she married. Or the guy was married when she met him and divorced his wife over her. Or something like that…When Vyra tells her stories, I don't listen too hard.

Next time I ran into her, it was an accident. I was working a tracking job over in Jersey— she was sitting out in front of a café, at one of those little round tables with big Euro ashtrays, sipping something from a tall narrow glass. I sat down across from her, grateful for the vantage point and the cover.

Vyra told me about her life, flashing a diamond ring that must have cost five figures wholesale. She gave me her phone number, but the calling instructions were so complicated— only on Tuesday and Thursday, between two and four in the afternoon, but not if it falls on the first day of the month…crap like that— I never got around to it.

But when she called me, she caught me just right. I was in Mama's, not doing anything, and she was in the Vista Hotel, right across from Battery Park. It only took me a few minutes to get there. About the same time it took both of us to get done with the only thing there ever was between us.

She was good at it— a lifetime of faking passion blurred the line so much that, sometimes, she actually thought she was letting go.

"You're the only one who ever made me come," she told me. It was a good line, as such things go. "You were the first" would have been deeper sarcasm than "I love you," but making a woman come for the first time in her life— hell, most men's egos would slip–slide around that credibility gap with ease.

Vyra's good at sex. Practiced, athletic, responsive…controlling enough so she does most of the work, but not so much so that you feel controlled. On a good day, she can bite a pillow hard enough to make you think you were driving steel like John Henry never dreamed, the Boss Rooster with his pick of the chicks. Vyra must have learned the truth early on in her life— faking love is a snap, but faking lust is a bitch.

Vyra's great at girl–gestures— whipping off an earring to make a phone call, tossing her hair off her face with a quick movement of her neck, walking with one hand on her purse, the other swinging in time with her hips, like a conductor directing musicians— not an original move in the lot, but all of them sweet, smooth and sexy.

Vyra's a good person too— just tell her about an abandoned baby or a wounded animal, her checkbook opens faster than a bagman's hand. She's one of those girls…I really can't explain them. It's like they're running parallel to you all the time. The lines never cross, but, sometimes, they get close enough to almost touch.

It was always hotel sex, except for one time in her car. She never asked to come to my place— never asked me much of anything. Sometimes we made a date on the phone, sometimes she'd just call when she was around…and if I was too, we'd get together.

It's as though our lives are checkerboarded— when our pieces land on the same square, we get together, take care of business, and move on.

Vyra wants something she can't call by name. I know what to call it, but I don't want it.

She offered me some money once. Real money, so I could go into a business or something. It was a sweet thing she was trying to do, maybe the only way she knows how. I didn't take it— told myself it was better to leave that kind of offer in the bank, for when I might really need it.

I didn't need Vyra, either. But when I called in, and Mama said there was a message from her, I aimed the Plymouth at the Vista without thinking much about it.

Vyra had a new pair of shoes. Blue spikes, with little red bows at the back. She liked them so much, she kept them on.

Afterwards, she wanted to tell me all about what she'd been doing— she was a volunteer counselor in some "therapeutic community" on the other side of the Hudson. I lay on my back, blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. She propped herself on one elbow, sprouting prepackaged wisdom— "there's no such thing as a free lunch" seemed to be her favorite. I closed my eyes, letting her voice wash over me.

"Are you listening to me?" she finally said.

"Sure."

"Listen, Burke, you're not the only one with problems. Everybody has to carry their own baggage through life."

"But everybody doesn't have to go through Customs, do they, little bitch?" I asked, my voice gentle.

I don't know why that started her crying, but I held her against my chest until she was done.

I pulled my car out of the hotel's underground garage, thinking about how Vyra had offered me money again— she was one of those goodhearted women who could offer to lend you money without wanting your balls for a down payment. And my ego wasn't stupid enough to tell her I still had a big piece of my last score stashed away.

I don't want to live large— it just makes you a bigger target. I live a small, low–maintenance life. I'm just trying to get through it.

I was just trying to get through the intersection at West Broadway and Chambers, heading for the West Side Highway, when it happened. I was coming through at the same time as a bright lipstick–red low–slung sports coupe— a Dodge Stealth, it looked like. My Plymouth has so many dents in its primer–coated body that I usually carry major bargaining power over any contested space in city traffic, but the driver of the red car wasn't having any, bulling his way through, oblivious to the blaring horns and screech of brakes. I let him through, tucked in behind, followed him to the Highway.

He made the right turn ahead of me. I cranked the wheel hard into the service road and pulled ahead. I took a quick glance at the red Stealth— it sported blackout windows and I couldn't see inside. I felt it somewhere to my left but, after a while, I couldn't even pick it up in my left–side mirror.