Read Online False Allegations by Andrew Vachss - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Vachss
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Political, Hard-Boiled, American, New York (N.Y.), Ex-convicts, Private Investigators - New York (State) - New York, Burke (Fictitious Character), Child Sexual Abuse
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“H e’s got to have a couple dozen grand in the setup,” I told Mama, sitting in my booth in the restaurant. “He spent all that money, he’s got to know where to find me. He knows the connect to Michelle, that’s for sure. All this dancing around just to leave me his business card. What’s the point?”
“You know my place on Mott Street?” she asked, like she hadn’t heard me.
“Sure,” I told her. Behind an orange steel door, a series of immaculate rooms, all furnished in duplicates: twin chairs, twin lamps, twin ashtrays. Inlaid mosaic tile tables, teak floors, pristine white walls dotted with framed hand–drawn haiku and old tapestries. Recessed lighting. Heavy dark plum floor–to–ceiling curtains blocking all outside light. Central air–conditioning whispering within cork–lined walls, vacuuming humidity away. A marble slab covered with black velvet, twin stalks of fiber–optic adjustable lights for examining jewelry.
“Showroom,” Mama said. “Understand?”
“To show the goods?” I answered tentatively, not sure where she was going. Mama dealt in product. Transportable product. Diamonds, bearer bonds, engraved currency plates. Guns were too bulky, narcotics too shaky–flaky. When I first met her, I realized we were in the same business. Only Mama stayed at the high end.
“Goods not change,” she said. “Emerald on velvet is same as emerald on wood, yes? Mott Street not to show the gems, to show the dealer. Face. Very important. Serious business, take serious, okay?”
“You think this Kite guy, he went through all this just to show me he was a serious player?”
“Sure,” Mama said, shrugging her shoulders to show it was no big deal. “Good investment, maybe.”
“I’m small–time, Mama. Nobody needs all that to try and sell me a job.”
“Must be big job,” is all she said.
C alling Kite was a no–risk— if there was a way to kill someone over the phone, nobody’d work for the Motor Vehicle Bureau. And I always use the phone like it’s a party line anyway— with the cops on the other end. But the way this was coming down, even all that didn’t make me feel safe enough.
So, just before daybreak, I drove up to Hunts Point. The City’s supposedly been fixing the FDR for years, but under its lousy overhead lighting, it was even more of a killing ground for cars than usual— busted chunks of pavement cleverly camouflaged the cavernous potholes, broken glass glittered everywhere. Buying a new car in this cesspool of a city is like wearing a tuxedo to a gang fight.
The streets were still slick from a midnight rain, so I picked my way carefully over the Triborough. Rolling north on the Bruckner, I drove by an underpass and spotted a tow truck lurking, shielded from sight, its red taillights the glowing eyes of a carrion–eater, waiting for the next car to die.
I pushed the button for the all–news station. Big bulletin: Seventeen overdose deaths directly attributable to a new brand of heroin on the street called China Doll. That’s the kind of crap they call a “public service announcement.” Sure. Truth is, they’re not scaring the junkies off with that kind of crap— they’re running a promotion for the new stuff. Every dope fiend in town is going to want a piece of that fresh dynamite; if it’s killing people, it’s the real thing, not some cut–sugar lemonade.
The radio said the year–end survey showed subway crime was down. In all areas except homicide— the only crime that self–reports. I wonder why they call it “news.”
There’s an all–sports station too. They had an interview with the guy who owns the Yankees, Steinbrenner. He was saying how nobody wants to go to the Bronx to see the Yankees because the neighborhood around the stadium is too dangerous. Not suitable for families. Except for the ones who live there, I guess. Steinbrenner charges a hundred bucks for a pair of tickets and a couple of beers and he says
“H e’s got to have a couple dozen grand in the setup,” I told Mama, sitting in my booth in the restaurant. “He spent all that money, he’s got to know where to find me. He knows the connect to Michelle, that’s for sure. All this dancing around just to leave me his business card. What’s the point?”
“You know my place on Mott Street?” she asked, like she hadn’t heard me.
“Sure,” I told her. Behind an orange steel door, a series of immaculate rooms, all furnished in duplicates: twin chairs, twin lamps, twin ashtrays. Inlaid mosaic tile tables, teak floors, pristine white walls dotted with framed hand–drawn haiku and old tapestries. Recessed lighting. Heavy dark plum floor–to–ceiling curtains blocking all outside light. Central air–conditioning whispering within cork–lined walls, vacuuming humidity away. A marble slab covered with black velvet, twin stalks of fiber–optic adjustable lights for examining jewelry.
“Showroom,” Mama said. “Understand?”
“To show the goods?” I answered tentatively, not sure where she was going. Mama dealt in product. Transportable product. Diamonds, bearer bonds, engraved currency plates. Guns were too bulky, narcotics too shaky–flaky. When I first met her, I realized we were in the same business. Only Mama stayed at the high end.
“Goods not change,” she said. “Emerald on velvet is same as emerald on wood, yes? Mott Street not to show the gems, to show the dealer. Face. Very important. Serious business, take serious, okay?”
“You think this Kite guy, he went through all this just to show me he was a serious player?”
“Sure,” Mama said, shrugging her shoulders to show it was no big deal. “Good investment, maybe.”
“I’m small–time, Mama. Nobody needs all that to try and sell me a job.”
“Must be big job,” is all she said.
C alling Kite was a no–risk— if there was a way to kill someone over the phone, nobody’d work for the Motor Vehicle Bureau. And I always use the phone like it’s a party line anyway— with the cops on the other end. But the way this was coming down, even all that didn’t make me feel safe enough.
So, just before daybreak, I drove up to Hunts Point. The City’s supposedly been fixing the FDR for years, but under its lousy overhead lighting, it was even more of a killing ground for cars than usual— busted chunks of pavement cleverly camouflaged the cavernous potholes, broken glass glittered everywhere. Buying a new car in this cesspool of a city is like wearing a tuxedo to a gang fight.
The streets were still slick from a midnight rain, so I picked my way carefully over the Triborough. Rolling north on the Bruckner, I drove by an underpass and spotted a tow truck lurking, shielded from sight, its red taillights the glowing eyes of a carrion–eater, waiting for the next car to die.
I pushed the button for the all–news station. Big bulletin: Seventeen overdose deaths directly attributable to a new brand of heroin on the street called China Doll. That’s the kind of crap they call a “public service announcement.” Sure. Truth is, they’re not scaring the junkies off with that kind of crap— they’re running a promotion for the new stuff. Every dope fiend in town is going to want a piece of that fresh dynamite; if it’s killing people, it’s the real thing, not some cut–sugar lemonade.
The radio said the year–end survey showed subway crime was down. In all areas except homicide— the only crime that self–reports. I wonder why they call it “news.”
There’s an all–sports station too. They had an interview with the guy who owns the Yankees, Steinbrenner. He was saying how nobody wants to go to the Bronx to see the Yankees because the neighborhood around the stadium is too dangerous. Not suitable for families. Except for the ones who live there, I guess. Steinbrenner charges a hundred bucks for a pair of tickets and a couple of beers and he says
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