Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

I bowed.

"Take your son. And go now."

151

I parked the Plymouth right in front of the building across the street. Got out, sat on the hood, lit a cigarette. The window shade in the front room flickered. The kid had a lot to learn. I waved my arm in a "come on down" gesture. Waited.

Clarence came out the front door, suitcase in one hand, his pistol an the other.

"It's okay," I told him, opening the trunk for the suitcase, lifting the panel next to the fuel cell so it would disappear even if some cop wanted to play Probable Cause on the way back.

He climbed in the front seat. "How'd you know, mahn?"

"Never mind. Where's your car?"

"My car?" he said, looking across at me like I was on lithium. "I wouldn't bring my ride to this place, mahn. Where would I park it? I took the bus."

152

I rode the BQE toward Brooklyn. The Plymouth's independent rear suspension absorbed the potholes in the middle lane, just a touch under the speed limit.

"You should've told me you were working backup, Clarence."

"I figure, I tell you, you have an attitude, mahn. Give it away."

"It's not professional, surprise your partner, okay? I didn't know it was you in that window, might've been the first thing I took out, I made it to the street. Specially if I saw that curtain move. What'd you figure…you were gonna lay down some cover for me, spray their house with the rifle?"

"Something like that." Paying attention, sullen.

"You had the high ground, that was good. Probably got a couple of extra clips for the piece too."

He nodded.

"That's not the way, kid. You'd never get out of there alive. That's cowboy shit. Kamikaze. You send a partner into a meeting, you want to get out, not get even, understand?"

"How would you do it, mahn?"

I reached in my jacket pocket, feeling the Queen's amulet against my chest. Handed him a palm-sized black plastic box, tiny toggle switch on the top.

"What's this, mahn?"

"Throw the switch, Clarence."

He flicked his finger. A tiny red LED light came on. He looked over at me.

"My car is parked in their backyard, okay? There's trouble, I take out this little box. Show it to them. Flick the switch. The light comes on, just like it did with you. I tell them my partner's close by…maybe circling in another car. The red light, that's his signal. I don't drive the car out of there in ten minutes, my partner's gonna push a switch of his own. In the trunk of my car, there's enough plastique to make the whole block disappear. And even if they got somebody crazy enough to try and drive the car away, they couldn't start it, even with the keys. They open the trunk, the whole thing goes up. Understand?"

"What if they search you, find the box right away?"

"I tell them the same thing, only it's gonna happen if I don't : throw the switch, see?"

"It's a cold bluff, mahn."

"I had a partner on this, it wouldn't be."

He didn't say another word until I turned off Atlantic, heading for Jacques's joint.

"You gonna show me stuff like that, mahn?"

I looked over at him, at his fine-boned face, thinking about what the Queen told me.

"Yeah," I said.

153

I know how to be alone. How to get there by myself. Where I was raised, privacy was more precious than diamonds. In the orphanage, nothing was your own, even your clothes— gifts they could take away. They made sure you knew it. Most of us only learned to hate each other, fighting over the scraps they left us.

You get into enough of those fights, reform school is the next stop. In the reform schools, they didn't have cells. Just a big room with a toilet in one corner. Cots all over the floor. Whichever kid had to sleep right next to the toilet, he spent his life being pissed on.

I remember the kid who slept there. When he got out, he vowed he'd never sleep next to a toilet again. He went out with a gun in his hand, got something of his own. In prison, they had cells, not dorms. The lucky ones, the ones with juice, they got a one-man cell. This kid, he did a lot of things, went high-profile, made his rep. When he went down again, he was grown. They gave him a one-man cell. With a single bunk. Right next to the toilet.

When I got out, I made my own vows. I found a basement. Mine. An older guy wanted it for his crew. I was so scared, I shot him.

That cost me a stretch in the joint. That's where I ran into the kid who'd slept next to the toilet, heard his story. The State's good at that— arranging reform school reunions.

In prison, you've got nothing but your body and your honor. Plenty who'll try and take those too. I knew a guy, had tattoos all over him. The only real estate that was his. They couldn't take that from him, he said. Made it easy to identify the body when they found it.

I didn't need time to think about what the Queen said. Even as she spoke, I knew what she meant. Who she meant. She called him a vampire— I always think of him as the Mentor. A heavy-networked pedophile, safe like rich makes you safe. I'd gone to him years ago, looking for a picture of a kid. For Strega, the Witch. I got to him through the Mole. The freak had done something…was still doing something…for the Israelis. I couldn't hurt him, the Mole told me. Came with me to make sure.

The Mentor told me his philosophy— silky voice wrapping around the lying words. Sodomizing children is love. Taking pictures of it happening was preserving that special love…icons to a perfect moment in time.

I was the vigilante Wolfe thought I was, he'd be dead.

The last time we talked, I'd learned something. Never put it together before last night. All freaks are dangerous, but they're not all the same.

No point calling the Mole. He'd give me the same warning. Insist on going with me again. Maybe even tell me to stay away.

The Israelis wouldn't be watching his house, but breaking in would be tough. And for this guy, the cops would use the siren.

154

I shaved carefully the next morning. Put on one of the suits Michelle had made me buy, dark gray. A pale blue shirt, dark silk tie with blue flecks in it. Laced up my shoes, gave them a final buff with an old T-shirt.

"Where're we going, mahn?" Clarence asked as he got into the front seat.

"To school," I told him, heading back to Manhattan.

It took a while, three full circuits of the cesspool. The Prof was on his cart, tiny body looking legless under the blanket, talking to a pair of hookers a block from the exit off the Lincoln Tunnel. Two young black girls, one with a blonde wig, both wearing short shorts, halter tops, high heels. One squatted next to him, listening. The other tapped her foot nervously, looking left and right. I pulled over, motioned Clarence to come with me, started back up the block.

The Prof was gesticulating wildly, his arms flapping in the oversized sleeves of his coat. Last year's Cadillac squealed to a stop, a baby-blue coupe, gold custom wheels, gold trim. A player oozed out the driver's side, a heavy-bodied man in a short red jacket with gold trim, white pants tucked into red boots. We closed the gap on his blind side.

"Get your black ass back on the stroll, bitch! You costing me money."

The blonde-wigged one looked at him cautiously. "We was just…"

He slapped her so hard the wig went flying. She went to her knees in the street, snatched it up, took off. Her sister went with her, moving fast.

"Hold up, brother!" the Prof said. "The Lord will punish the wicked. Do not harm these children."

"Yeah," I said from behind him. "Don't."

The pimp whirled on us. "This ain't your business, man."

"That's right," I said, reasonable-voiced, "it's not. But I don't want you thinking maybe you don't like my brother talking to your women, maybe you figure you'll catch him again someday, alone."