Andrew Vachss - Blossom

I raised my eyebrows.

"Some gun-freak degenerate motherfucker. One of those Nazi-boys. You know, I'd like it to be one of them."

"Me too."

He lit a cigarette. "Notice you haven't been smoking, last couple of times."

"You don't miss much."

"I'm missing something here. Someone."

"I got an idea. Maybe not much of one. Something. You can really shut the parking places down?"

"Oh yeah. Cold fucking turkey."

"I got to take a look at something. I'll call you soon."

139

I WANTED to look at Matson's files, but I'd bolted out of Blossom's house as soon as I'd heard the news. One stop to make first.

The phone picked up in the junkyard.

"Mole," I said, "I need a shark cage."

140

MATSON was one selective Nazi. His files showed nine "actives," seventeen "affiliates," three "candidates," and thirty-four "rejects."

I looked closer. The "actives" were listed by "MOS." Rifleman, Communications, Infiltration. Every military occupation except Intelligence. Between the arcane symbols and the lavish praise for the "warriors," a collection of life's losers lurked, waiting for their flabby Armageddon.

The "affiliates" were members of other groups who occasionally came to meetings or corresponded. About half lived in southern Illinois or Indiana, the others were scattered throughout the country.

"Candidates" turned out to be humans who Matson thought had potential. One human's credential was a news clipping saying he had been arrested for spray-painting filth on a synagogue.

And the "rejects" were a clump of former "candidates" whose hostility wasn't exclusively confined to blacks. One was rejected after he fractured the jaw of one of Matson's boys in a bar. In his black Magic Marker, Matson neatly printed Unsuitable for Service across the file. Most of his other reject-reasons weren't so sweetly phrased: Jew! Suspected Homosexual. Suspected Government Agent.

I went through them again. Carefully.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Blossom came into the kitchen, face glowing from her shower. Dark purplish band across her throat. My fingerprints drew my eyes.

"It's okay, baby. I'll be pretty as a prom queen in a few days." Her voice was a sugar-edged rasp.

"Yeah."

" Yeah! Just stop it, okay? I know what happened, why it happened."

"Blossom…"

"You want a cigarette?"

"What?"

"Your time's up. A week, like we agreed. And you been such a good boy too. Not one drag, huh?"

"How would you know?"

"I can smell it. All over you. On your hands, in your hair. You've got nice thick hair for such an old man."

"It won't be a week until tonight."

"That's okay. You're off the hook. I lost. I know you could do it now. For as long as you wanted."

"I wish I could do this."

She fumbled in her purse, brought out a fresh pack of smokes. My brand. Slit the cellophane with a fingernail, struck a match, got it going. She walked over, pushed her shoulder against me, sat in my lap, her legs dangling over the sides like a kid on a boat. Held the cigarette to my lips. "Maybe this'll help you think."

141

BLOSSOM WOKE ME with a quick tap on my chest, standing her distance. "Supper's ready, honey."

I couldn't taste the food.

142

LATER THAT NIGHT.

"Blossom, can you make a list of all the names from the child abuse stuff? Just the names and dates of birth?"

"Sure."

I went back to the Nazi files, grinding at the paper with my eyes.

Blossom's list was printed in a clean, sharp hand, slightly slanted to the right.

"Can I read you some names, you check to see if any of them are on your list?"

"I should have alphabetized them."

"It's okay, it's short."

I lit a smoke. Too old to be playing long shots. Too black&white for this movie.

Quiet time passed. Name after name. Blank. No match. Rustle of Blossom's papers.

"Luther Swain."

"Burke, I swear I…yes!"

"Give it to me…not the damn list, Blossom, where's the printout?"

"Keep your pants on, boy. I'll get it."

Luther Swain. Only child of Nathaniel and Margaret Swain. Born February 29, 1968. Removed from his home by Social Services November 4, 1976. Department alerted because child had not attended school, parents had not responded to letters. No home telephone. Whip marks from an electrical cord, cigarette burns, severe eye damage from being kept in a dark basement for several months. Father committed to Logansport, the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Child kept in state institution, released to foster care, returned to institution. Finally: Released to mother, August 9, 1979. Family Reunified— Case Closed.

Blossom on her knees, surrounded by a floorful of paper. Watching me.

The Nazi file. Swain, Luther. Answered one of their ads, requested further information. Sent to a PO box in Gary. Called. Matson and two others met him. "Applicant was evasive about personal details. Suspected homosexual. Rejected."

"Is it him?"

"I don't know. He's as close as we got so far. Let's go through the other names, see if there's another match."

No.

143

MIDNIGHT.

"The only address on the Social Services files is more than ten years old. Even the PO box, that's a couple of years dead. No phone listed. Tomorrow, I'll take a look."

"Me too."

"No."

"Burke!"

"Do what I tell you, Blossom."

She leaned over the couch, pearly breasts a soft spill against my face, whispered, "I will. Right now. Like I promised. Let's go to bed. Then you can tell me what to do."

Sure.

144

IN THE BEDROOM. I was lying on my back, two pillows behind my head, smoking. Blossom stood to my left, standing straight as a soldier, thin straps of the blue negligee on her shoulders.

Smiling, her eyes wicked.

"What d'you say, boss?"

"Take that off."

She pulled the straps down. A cloud of wispy blue drifted to her feet.

"Come here." Grinding out the cigarette.

I took her hand, pulled her down to me, kissed her softly. I rolled her onto her back, my face against the dark hollow of her throat. My lips touched a tiny jewel of a nipple. I curled against her, found my place, closed my eyes. She made comfort-sounds against my ear as I drifted away.

145

IT WAS LATE morning when I left. Stopped at the motel. Showered, shaved, put on a dark gray pinstripe suit. Studied the street maps again for a few minutes.

At the center of an intricate web, cross-connected by blood and honor. Virgil, Reba, Lloyd. Virginia and Junior. Blossom and her sister. So much. And, somewhere, a maniac with an axe in his hands, his eye on the hard knots lashing my people together. Me, spinning between the loves. A visitor, welcomed for the gun in my hand.

I passed the Marquette Park Lagoon, turned into a series of dirt roads, watching for the street signs. Past a pizzeria, grocery store, bait shop.

The Lincoln nosed its way into the slough. Termite-haven wood houses with rickety steps up the outside, cloudy plastic sheets covering broken windows. Grungy soot-colored cars dotted the yards. A pickup truck with monster tires, suspension jacked up, Kentucky plates. Satellite dish next to one shack. Barefoot, disinterested children watched.

The sun slanted through the murk— the barren ground defied photosynthesis.

The address was three houses down from where two pieces of barbed-wire-topped fence didn't quite meet. I parked the car, got out. Next door, a thick-bodied beast who looked like he'd been kicked out of a junkyard for antisocial behavior rumbled a greeting, baleful eyes tracking me.

I climbed the steps, knocked. TV sounds from inside. I hit it again.

A scrawny woman opened the door. Pasty skin, lank hair, dull grayish teeth. Somewhere between nineteen and dead.