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Authors: Andrew Vachss
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can? Vincent?”
“Vincent said you. . . do things for money. He said he. . . helped you with one, once.”
“That’s nice,” I replied. “Only thing is, I don’t have any old stories for you, friend. You want to check me out, do what you have to do. Or maybe you already did that. But I don’t have a crystal ball. Or promises either.”
“But you could
try,
couldn’t you?”
“Sure. I could try. But I don’t do bounty hunting.”
“What does that mean?” Nadine asked.
“It means I don’t do COD, understand?” I said, holding her eyes. “I get paid for work, not for results. You want to pay me to look, I might do that. You want to pay me only if I turn him up—if it’s a ‘him’ at all—forget it.”
They all went silent again. Nadine turned and walked back to her little table, showing off what every man on the planet was missing. I could tell she’d had a lot of practice.
I went back to scratching behind Pansy’s ears. If they didn’t learn anything else from all this, they’d at least discover I could outwait a tree.
Lincoln went over to a far corner. A number of them clustered around. The skinny blonde at Nadine’s table started to get up, but Nadine grabbed her wrist and wrenched her back down.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nadine and I played with each other across the distance. It was as good a way to pass the time as any.
Lincoln finally came back. “We. . . can’t decide,” he said. “But we will. Soon. If we agree to your. . . terms, we’ll reach out for you.”
“You don’t even know my terms,” I told him. “The money has to—”
“The money, the money,” he said dismissively. “Don’t worry about money. Your terms are that you’ll. . . work. Like you said. Yes?”
“Sure.”
“You can find your own way out?”
“Sure,” I said again, getting up. Pansy slowly got to her feet, then we walked toward the door. As we passed her table, Nadine shot out one hand, grabbed at my jacket.
“Ahhh,” she said, mock-sorrowfully, “you didn’t even ask for my number.”
“I already know it,” I told her. “And it’s a wrong one.”
I went through the door into the alley. It was empty. Pansy was the only one disappointed.
“ I do not like them, mahn,” Clarence said, back inside Mama’s an hour later.
“Them?” Michelle’s voice, scorpion-under-glass if you knew how to read it.
Clarence did. And he wasn’t going anywhere
near
there. “No, my little sister, I do not mean their. . . sex. That is their business. I mean, I do not trust these people who come to Burke. Something is wrong with all. . . this.”
For Clarence, that was a long speech. And for him to
start
a conversation was rarer still. I exchanged a long look with the Prof. Max just waited, as always.
“You make the call, you got to tell it all,” the Prof finally said.
“Yes, Father, that is what I am saying,” Clarence agreed, not understanding that the Prof was talking about him, not about the crew I’d just visited. “Why don’t they. . . fight the ones who attack them?”
“Remember the Haitian guy over at the Seven-Oh in Brooklyn?” I asked Clarence.
I didn’t have to say anything more. A couple of cops supposedly took him in the back room and sodomized him with a nightstick. An ugly-filthy Tontons Macoutes–style power display. Ruptured his bladder. Told him if he screamed they’d kill his whole family, muttering about “teaching niggers a lesson.” There’s a big Haitian community here, and they sure aren’t all nonviolent. But they stayed with peaceful demonstrations, expressing confidence that the authorities would get the job done.
The young man nodded, his face unreadable.
“Maybe it’s the same thing,” I said. “Maybe they’re waiting for the public to fucking
get
it, I don’t know.”
“Mahn, they do
not
get it. The Haitian guy, it happened when the Mayor was running for re-election, yes? And it was on the front page of
“Vincent said you. . . do things for money. He said he. . . helped you with one, once.”
“That’s nice,” I replied. “Only thing is, I don’t have any old stories for you, friend. You want to check me out, do what you have to do. Or maybe you already did that. But I don’t have a crystal ball. Or promises either.”
“But you could
try,
couldn’t you?”
“Sure. I could try. But I don’t do bounty hunting.”
“What does that mean?” Nadine asked.
“It means I don’t do COD, understand?” I said, holding her eyes. “I get paid for work, not for results. You want to pay me to look, I might do that. You want to pay me only if I turn him up—if it’s a ‘him’ at all—forget it.”
They all went silent again. Nadine turned and walked back to her little table, showing off what every man on the planet was missing. I could tell she’d had a lot of practice.
I went back to scratching behind Pansy’s ears. If they didn’t learn anything else from all this, they’d at least discover I could outwait a tree.
Lincoln went over to a far corner. A number of them clustered around. The skinny blonde at Nadine’s table started to get up, but Nadine grabbed her wrist and wrenched her back down.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nadine and I played with each other across the distance. It was as good a way to pass the time as any.
Lincoln finally came back. “We. . . can’t decide,” he said. “But we will. Soon. If we agree to your. . . terms, we’ll reach out for you.”
“You don’t even know my terms,” I told him. “The money has to—”
“The money, the money,” he said dismissively. “Don’t worry about money. Your terms are that you’ll. . . work. Like you said. Yes?”
“Sure.”
“You can find your own way out?”
“Sure,” I said again, getting up. Pansy slowly got to her feet, then we walked toward the door. As we passed her table, Nadine shot out one hand, grabbed at my jacket.
“Ahhh,” she said, mock-sorrowfully, “you didn’t even ask for my number.”
“I already know it,” I told her. “And it’s a wrong one.”
I went through the door into the alley. It was empty. Pansy was the only one disappointed.
“ I do not like them, mahn,” Clarence said, back inside Mama’s an hour later.
“Them?” Michelle’s voice, scorpion-under-glass if you knew how to read it.
Clarence did. And he wasn’t going anywhere
near
there. “No, my little sister, I do not mean their. . . sex. That is their business. I mean, I do not trust these people who come to Burke. Something is wrong with all. . . this.”
For Clarence, that was a long speech. And for him to
start
a conversation was rarer still. I exchanged a long look with the Prof. Max just waited, as always.
“You make the call, you got to tell it all,” the Prof finally said.
“Yes, Father, that is what I am saying,” Clarence agreed, not understanding that the Prof was talking about him, not about the crew I’d just visited. “Why don’t they. . . fight the ones who attack them?”
“Remember the Haitian guy over at the Seven-Oh in Brooklyn?” I asked Clarence.
I didn’t have to say anything more. A couple of cops supposedly took him in the back room and sodomized him with a nightstick. An ugly-filthy Tontons Macoutes–style power display. Ruptured his bladder. Told him if he screamed they’d kill his whole family, muttering about “teaching niggers a lesson.” There’s a big Haitian community here, and they sure aren’t all nonviolent. But they stayed with peaceful demonstrations, expressing confidence that the authorities would get the job done.
The young man nodded, his face unreadable.
“Maybe it’s the same thing,” I said. “Maybe they’re waiting for the public to fucking
get
it, I don’t know.”
“Mahn, they do
not
get it. The Haitian guy, it happened when the Mayor was running for re-election, yes? And it was on the front page of
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