Andrew Vachss - Sacrifice

"Yeah?"

"If we put our names together, you and me, do you know what they would be?"

"No. What?"

"Burke and Luke. Together it would be Lurk. What do you think?"

"I think you're right." Watching his eyes, holding them steady. Tiny lights dancing in them now— candlepoints in the night.

I got to my feet.

"Are you coming back?" he asked.

"Count on it," I told him.

21

Back in Lily's office. I lit another smoke, waiting.

"He's got a genius IQ," Lily said. "Tests right off the scale."

"I could tell."

"What else can you tell?"

"He's video-phobic, right? Somebody photographed him, maybe videotaped. While something ugly was going on…maybe to him. You see the same reaction from some kids when a flashbulb goes off."

Storm edged forward. "He was examined at our hospital. After the attack on his baby brother. They found something besides the knife scratches."

I turned my face to her, waiting.

"A prolapsed rectum," she said, icy hate in her soft voice.

"The parents?"

"Wolfe thinks so," Lily said, something standoffish in the way she said it. I wasn't going to let it go by twice.

"Wolfe is your pal, right?"

"Sure."

"Your sister?"

"What's your point?"

"What's yours?"

She looked across the desk to Storm. Shrugged her shoulders. "Luke's been sexually abused. Wolfe should be right on top of it— she knows what we know. But she's waiting…like there's something more.

"And she doesn't like him." Immaculata's voice, stepping into the room.

"How do you know?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Luke knows. He told me."

Immaculata had a baby. Lily had a glowing teenager named Noelle. Storm was pregnant. Wolfe had no children. I never would. I glanced at Storm's swelling belly. "You're sure you're not…?"

Lily caught my look. "No, it's not that. Wolfe is just like us. She adores Noelle. And Flower. She knows something."

"And you want…?"

"We have to protect the child," Immaculata said. "That's what we do here."

"Wolfe won't talk to me," I said.

Lily smiled her Madonna's smile. "She might…she likes you.

Storm giggled.

Women. "I'll take a look," I told them. Immaculata kissed me on the cheek.

22

Max and I motored over to West Street, took it north past the triangular wedge of the short-stay motel at Fourteenth Street, hooked a U-turn, and headed back downtown. Horatio Street runs through the Village, a nice block, brownstones, well kept. On the other side of the highway, it's a dead-end street, runs right up against the filthy Hudson River.

The Prof was there, wrapped in his long overcoat, a flaming red silk scarf around his neck, the ends trailing almost to his feet.

Midafternoon now. When it turns dark, the long parking lot parallel to the river becomes a hustler's strip. Boys work the pavement, competing for the attention of the cars that slowly cruise the circuit. Manicured fingers push buttons— tinted glass slithers down. Young faces ravaged by the acid of their lives appear in the opening, auditioning on a private TV screen. The winners get to climb in the front seat and open their mouths. They usually finish at the end of the concrete strip— it doesn't take long. The kids get out of the cars and wait for the next customer. Sometimes a dark posse car comes by, loaded with cold-eyed blacks fondling automatic weapons. The crack express. Then the kids become customers themselves.

Out here, the winners go to jail. The losers get dead. Freaks don't like their little boys covered with condoms, but they don't mind a shroud.

We got out of the car, standing side by side. The Prof stepped into the space between us.

"There was more to the score," the little man said.

"You have enough time?" I asked him.

"I didn't Hoover the place, Ace. You never know when the maid's gonna show."

The Prof had graduated from shotgun bandit to hotel burglar, one of the very best. Worked with a shoeshine box over his shoulder, no nerves. But he wasn't perfect— I'd met him in prison. Every wheel has a double zero someplace, you spin it long enough.

I barely felt the little man's touch as something slipped into my coat pocket. We worked this 50-50. The Prof got half for taking the up-front risk of going inside— I split my half with Max.

"The cash ain't wrapped in trash, bro'. The freak had a Xerox in his pad. I made you some copies."

I fingered a roll of paper. The money would be inside.

"Pictures?" I asked.

"The Yellow Pages, man."

A pedophile's address book. Maybe worth more than the cash.

Traffic noise at a distance. Safe and quiet where we were. Little knots of people all around, dealing. Nobody looked too close.

"Drop you anywhere?"

"I'm cribbed up north, 'home. Get me to the tunnels, I'll ride the rails."

We dropped him off at Fourteenth and Eighth. Headed back downtown.

23

The white dragon tapestry was barely visible in the streaked window of Mama's restaurant. All clear. We parked in the alley behind the joint, entered through the unmarked steel door. The kitchen crew nodded to us, eyes over our shoulders in case we hadn't come alone.

We took my table in the back. I held my hand at stomach height, indicating a child. Then I went rigid, holding my arms out so tight they trembled. Pointed at Max, a question on my face.

He nodded. Taking me to see Luke had been his idea. Mama stood between us— I hadn't seen her approach. She bowed to Max, to me. We returned her greeting. She snapped something at the young Chinese pretending to be a waiter. I should know the Cantonese words for hot and sour soup by now, but Mama never seems to say the same thing twice.

The tureen of soup came. Mama served Max first, then me, then herself.

Max took a sip. Made the sign of a flower opening itself to the sun. I told her it was the best she ever made. Mama nodded curtly— any lesser praise would be a grievous insult.

Mama toyed with her soup, hawk-watching me and Max to make sure we emptied our bowls. Refilled them without being asked.

The waiter cleared the table, put glasses of clear water before us, a small porcelain ashtray.

I pulled the Prof's package out of my jacket, unwrapped it carefully. Separated the cash from the paper, put the paper back inside my pocket.

Mama riffled through the money, counting it quicker than any machine could. Almost six grand. She cut it in half, pushed one pile to me, one to Max. We each separated a piece, handed it back to her. Mama was my banker, holding a piece of every score, keeping ten percent off the top for herself.

She held up the bills Max handed her. "For baby," she said, not bothering with sign language. Max didn't argue with her— he wasn't tough enough for that. He lit himself a smoke from my pack.

"Everything good now," Mama said. "Back to old ways.

24

When Mama got up to attend to her business, I made the sign for Luke again, telling Max I wanted to know why he was pulling me into this.

The warrior opened his eyes wide, pointed to them. He'd seen it too.

Nothing more to say.

I needed an excuse to see Wolfe again. It would come to me. Max and I went through the Harness Lines, but I couldn't find a horse that appealed to me.

I thought about the racetrack. About going there with Belle, watching as the big girl so deeply identified with a game mare who came from off the pace. Bouncing in her seat, yelling, "Come on!" Her battle cry.

The last words she screamed at the police before they cut her down.

If love would die along with death, this life wouldn't be so hard.

A tap on my shoulder. Mama. The bench opposite me was empty. My watch said four-thirty. I must have gone somewhere else, losing track of time.