Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

"Can't she…?"

"She can't do nothing. The house, I owned it once. Helene, she sold it. To get bail money for me one time. Years ago. Just forged my signature, sold it. I couldn't tell her— didn't have time. You understand? Some citizen owns it now— you gotta go in the basement."

"What if it's not there?"

"Then I played my last card. There's nobody else I can ask— didn't want to take a chance the feds have the jail miked."

"Tell me the address," I said.

He told me, gripping my arm so hard it hurt, looking down, trusting.

143

Gerritsen Beach is in Brooklyn, just past Sheepshead Bay. Sunday, we drove the Boulevard, Marine Park running swampy to our left, reed grass high, people walking their dogs, Bensonhurst Boys cruising in Mustangs and Camaros, checking out the teenage girls on the promenade, watching other circuit riders for cues. Eyes would meet at a stoplight. Just one word…"What?!"…and they'd be at it. In the trunks of their shiny cars, baseball bats. For a harder game than the one you play on grass.

We looked for the opening. Turned right, into a tight grid of narrow streets. Some converted cottages, some two-story newer construction, flat-faced. Followed Silver's directions. Dead-ended at a canal, went back one block, located the house. Guy working in the yard, building something. Couple of kids playing catch, wearing Little League uniforms. Houses jammed together, yards deep front to back but no space between them. Neighbors all over the place, windows open, men washing cars, women talking.

I looked over at the Prof.

"It's no go, bro'," the little man said.

I shook my head, giving in to the truth.

144

Helene lives in Ridgewood, Queens. Top-floor apartment, walk-up. She let me in when I said the name Silver gave me.

The living room was all cheap furniture, poison-neat, Silver's picture on the mantelpiece. I wondered if there was another one in the bedroom.

She was in her mid-forties, maybe. Hard to tell— no makeup around her wary eyes.

I gave her a paper bag. Inside was $31,450. Most of what I had left from the score with Elroy's phony paper.

I get up against it bad enough, I can always go in that basement.

145

Done, then. Loose ends all around, but they weren't mine.

Off cycle, somehow. Pansy wasn't in heat. Michelle wasn't ready to come home. Luke would need more work. Wolfe would find the freaks who built the bomb.

It would all happen without me.

I should have been glad to be out of it.

146

The next morning, I took Pansy, went back to the park. This time, I had an old army blanket with me, big sketch pad, charcoal pastels. I set myself up in a good spot, halfway up a rise, strong outcropping of rock to my right. Facing west, the sun behind me.

I propped up the sketch pad, swirled the charcoal over the paper a few times, my eyes sweeping the terrain. Pansy lay on her stomach, face between her paws, wrinkling her nose— the park didn't smell like her roof. Yet. I unzipped the gym bag I'd brought with me. Still-warm loaf of French bread inside, a bottle of water, slab of dark chocolate wrapped in white paper, pack of smokes. And a couple dozen of those little round cheese pieces they wrap in red string.

The white limo came into my field of vision, making the circuit. I could track it pretty well from where I was— no hurry.

I opened one of the cheese pieces, put it right in front of Pansy's snout. She ate it with her eyes, not moving. When there was a river of drool rolling down the slope in front of her, I said "Speak!" in a soft voice. She delicately snarfed it up, ripping a divot out of the grass.

"Good girl," I said, patting her. She snounted up against me, the sun sparkling baby rainbows over her dark fur.

A woman jogged by beneath us, hair flying loose behind her. Couldn't tell if it was Belinda— bad angle. Lots of bicycles, more runners. Mostly cabs on the road. Carlos wouldn't be back my way for a while.

I worked on my drawing, occasionally unwrapping another cheese for Pansy, looking around.

A woman's figure left the path, working her way up the rise toward me. Belinda.

"Hello, stranger," she called our, pulling Walkman earphones off her head. She put them around her neck, covered them with the towel from her waist. Bounced up and sat down. Dressed the same way she was last time, fine sheen of sweat on her face, blue eyes lively.

"What's up?" she asked, indicating my sketch pad.

"Interpretive art. A hobby of mine."

"Could I see?" Pushing close to me, perfume under the sweat. "What's it supposed to be?"

"Just…patterns. Light, shadow…like that."

"It's…I don't know what to say."

"That's okay. Neither do I."

Pansy watched her, not moving.

"Your dog…I never got her name.

"Betsy." It just came out that way— I went with it.

"That's a funny name for such a big dog."

"Oh, I think it suits her. Doesn't it, girl?" Making a gesture with my hand. Pansy put her head on my lap, still watching the woman.

"You remember me, Betsy?" she asked, reaching out to pat. I gave Pansy the signal— she took the pats. I felt her neck muscles under my hand. Steel cable.

I lit a cigarette. "You never did call me," she said, a teasing undertone in her voice, less than a challenge, more than an accident.

"Dinner, you said. I've been working nights."

"Oh." She arched her eyebrows, brushed some sweat from her pug nose— a gesture like you'd see in the ring.

"Nice day for a picnic, it looks like, you had some food." Clarence's voice, materializing from somewhere behind us.

"Yeah, it is," I told him. "Sit down, join us."

He folded himself onto the edge of the blanket, indifferent to the risk to his lime-green pants. "This is Belinda," I said to Clarence. "Belinda, meet John."

He extended his slim dark hand into her thick white one. They shook, smiling. I rummaged around in the gym bag, came out with the bread, broke off a piece, offered it to Belinda. She took it, bit off a nice-sized hunk with her small white teeth. Clarence took one too. I opened the water bottle. We each took a drink. Unwrapped some cheese. Clarence declined. Belinda took one. Pansy glared at her harder than ever. I unwrapped another half dozen pieces, pulled Pansy's head close to mine, whispered the word in her ear. She mashed the cheese like a compactor, licked her teeth to get the remnants.

We finished off the bread. I broke out the chocolate. This time Clarence went for it, Belinda passed.

Peaceful there, delicate as an underwater bubble, the four of us in that park.

"What is that thing, mahn?" Clarence asked, looking at my pad.

"It's art."

"It is, yes?" His black silk shirt rustled as he took it from my hands, examined it from different angles.

"Do you work with James?" Belinda asked Clarence.

"No, we are members of the same club."

"What club?"

"A health club, miss."

"Oh! I'm a member too. Which one do you go to?"

"You never would've heard of it, miss. Way out in Queens, by the train station."

She got to her feet, patted herself like she was checking something. Her calves flexed under the exercise pants, heavy, shapely things. I got up too.

"I'll call you," I said. "Soon."

"Do it," she said, low-voiced. Stood on her toes, gave me a quick kiss near my mouth. Made her way down the hill, turned onto the track, jogged off.

"You were right, Clarence," I said. "She is a pretty woman."

"She's a cop, mahn."

147

Winter sun on my back, throwing shadows. Burning cold.

"You sure?"

"I been out here a long time, mahn. Not just today. She jogs around the park, got that Walkman in her ear. Only thing, she don't just listen, she talks too. Two white men, just past the Fifty-ninth Street entrance, two more, just off Central Park West on Eighty-sixth. Dressed like she is. Ankle holsters, walkie-talkies too. The black guy with the ice-cream wagon…the one by the big pond? Same thing. She talks to them all. That's all, mahn. She don't talk to nobody else."