Andrew Vachss: Sacrifice

But it was me who kept going down. No more. Now all I want is to go the distance, be standing at the end.

Standing up.

13

I nosed the Plymouth into the one-stall garage at the corner of the old factory. The landlord converted it to living lofts years ago. Made himself a nice bundle from sensitive artists with rich parents. I live on the top floor. You look at the building plans, all you'll see is storage space up there. The landlord owed me for something I didn't do— my office is the price.

He could always start charging rent— make me homeless. I could always make a phone call, whisper an address— and the people his coke-loving son sold to the federales would make the little rat room temperature.

Pansy wasn't at her post when I let myself in the door. The beast was lazing on the couch, one massive paw draped over the edge, 140 pounds of brick-brained muscle, her light gray eyes flickering with just a trace of contempt.

"You glad to see me, girl?" I asked the Neapolitan mastiff.

She made a sniffing noise, like she smelled something bad on me. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the bitch copped an attitude because I'd worked with another woman.

"You want to go out?" I asked her, opening the back door to the office. Outside, a small iron fire escape, rusty and gnarled with age and neglect. From there, a shaky set of stairs to the roof. She ambled over and climbed up to her yard, ignoring me.

When she came back inside, I reached in my jacket pocket. Took out four orders of shish kebob in pita bread, individually wrapped in foil. They sell them on the street here. Along with watches, jeans, radios, necklaces, logo'd sweatshirts, street maps, handguns, videotapes, books, hot dogs, cocaine, flesh, and artwork. Pansy immediately whipped into a sitting position, slobber erupting from both sides of her gaping maw, watching me toss away the foil, squeeze the whole thing into a giant smelly, greasy ball.

"Still mad at me?" I asked her, holding the prize right in front of her snout.

She didn't move, rigid as a fundamentalist.

"Speak!" I told her, tossing it in her direction. Her first snap sent pieces flying all over the room. Her tail wagged madly as she chased down and devoured every last scrap.

I sat at the desk and watched her. When she was finished, she came over to me, put her bowling-ball-sized head in my lap, making gentle noises as I scratched behind her ears, blissed out.

They're all alike.

Sure.

14

I leafed through my mail. It's not delivered here— I keep PO boxes all over the city, open new ones all the time. I'd never go back to the latest group once this collection of scores was done.

A dozen or so responses to my latest ad in the freak sheets. Darla's only ten years old, but she's real pretty. She loves to have her picture taken, and her daddy's real good at it. You tell Daddy how you want to see Darla posed, and he'll send along some really delicious Polaroids. Five hundred bucks gets you a set of four— custom work is expensive. No checks.

The first loving correspondent wanted Darla in pink ribbons— and nothing else. Another wanted to see Darla disciplined. I didn't read the rest, just carefully separated the money orders, put them in a neat stack to one side.

I mail the original letters to a Customs agent I know in Chicago.

He doesn't know me— I'm his mystery pal. A concerned citizen. The Customs people mail some porno they have lying around to the letter-writers. Then they bust them for possession. I keep the money orders for my trouble. Like a bounty.

Another batch of letters responding to my mercenary recruitment service.

More mail: applicants for membership in the Warriors of the White Night. One human handwrote a long letter along with his entry form. Told the Central Committee how eager he was to link up with real urban guerrillas who knew how to deal with the Nigger Menace. He sent cash— didn't want to wait the customary four weeks for processing.

There's a check-cashing joint in the Bronx that converts the money orders for me. Somebody comes around, they'll describe me to perfection. Black, about six foot four, 230 pounds, shaved head, razor scar down one cheek. Driving a gold Cadillac with Florida plates.

15

Not all my mail comes to PO boxes. My personal drop is over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers picks it up for me every couple of weeks, brings it to her restaurant. Max takes it from there, stores it at his temple until I come around. It takes longer, but it's safer.

That was the only address Flood had. For years after she left, I waited for a letter. I don't do that anymore.

Michelle's last letter was still on the desk. Shell-pink stationery, a fragrance to the ink.

It's not going to happen here, baby. You're the only one I can tell this to. I'll deal with Terry and the Mole when I make up my mind. Sorry if this sounds incoherent but it looks like your baby sister stayed too long at the fair, honey. I had the money. I still have it— they won't take it. All those years of scheming, risking…

I got myself a lovely apartment, right near the hospital complex. At least it's lovely now, once I got through with it. The psychological screening wasn't much of anything. I mean, I didn't tell one single lie until it got to the part about how I've been living these past years, do I have significant family support for sex reassignment surgery?— you know how they do.

I've been living as a woman. That's what they say they wanted, the hypocrites! But I've been a hustler all my life, ever since I escaped. And I didn't always work dry. I told a psychiatrist about my biological family once. I won't ever do that again.

Anyway, it all looked good. What happened is I failed the medical. I've been on the hormones too long, and those bootleggers I dealt with, they must have mixed and matched too many times. I remember how much it hurt when I started, how I got cramps I wouldn't wish on any of my sisters.

The doctor I asked back then, he said it was purely psychological, the pain— all in my head. Of course, he was a male.

Anyway, estrogens can contribute to clotting, they said, and I'd have to come off them before surgery. But if I stop now, stop the hormones, they said I could crash. I've been on them too long, with too heavy doses.

And when they asked me who did my breasts, I wouldn't tell them. The silicon's still holding up…I'm as beautiful as ever. But I was crazy once. Before you knew me. When I was so young and headstrong. I played around with some other hormones then. I wanted these poor boobs of mine to lactate, and I had to have more surgery.

Bottom line, baby: they won't do it! Too high a risk, they said. I'm all a mess inside.

God, like I needed some fool in a white coat to tell me that.

So here's my choices. I can come back, like I am. Keep taking the hormones. Even get psychotherapy if I want it. Above the table. That's one thing they gave me, I'm official now, the diagnosis is on paper. Pre-op transsexual.

But I learned some things from this. And there's one thing I know, baby, I can never go to jail. Not ever. I'd die first. So how do I live?

I'm trapped, and they won't fix me here. I can go overseas.

One of my shadow-sisters gave me a name of a hospital in Brussels, and I know it can get done in Morocco too. Casablanca. Only there's no Bogart for me.

I went through the hormones, the electrolysis, everything. All I wanted from these people was the final chop and some reconstruction. I don't need their simpleminded therapy. In my heart and my soul, I'm a woman. Your sister. Terry's mother.

I need some time. To see what's important to me. I'll let you know.

Watch out over my boy.