Read Online False Allegations by Andrew Vachss - Free Book Online Page B
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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the reason the attendance is so lousy is because of crime. Maybe he means highway robbery.
The rest of the AM dial was all halfass advice: money, love, real estate, food. And the usual hate talk. New York’s all black and white now, a sharp blood–red line between the colors. The black radio stations still don’t get it— when O.J. Simpson was acquitted, every Klansman in America cheered.
I switched over to FM, looking for some music, but BGO was playing jazz, not blues. And the CBS oldies station was playing disco.
I went back to the news: Some freak took real good care of his girlfriend. Paid for everything, including her implants. When she said she was leaving, he tried to repossess them. With a knife.
A drunk driver’s car hit a child so hard they found his license plate inside the kid when they did the autopsy. Happened in Queens— the driver’ll probably get probation. Doesn’t matter— last guy to run for D.A. there did it on the Democratic, Republican, Liberal, and Conservative tickets. Even if sheep could talk, they’d never ask questions.
An idiot in an iridescent yellow Honda Accord sedan flew past me on the right, huge tires set so far outside the fender line they looked like pontoons. That’s what the tires were about— looks. The car wouldn’t handle worth a damn. Lot of guys make that mistake, and not just with cars.
I nosed the Plymouth against the razor–wire–interwoven chain–link fence and waited. The junkyard was quiet, like it always is. It’s always alive too. The dog pack ambled up to the fence, only mildly interested but on full alert. Then Simba chested his way through the pack. A German shepherd’s face on a bullmastiff’s body, his single–coated fur a dull gold color, his ears too big for his head. He looked misbegotten, but his carriage was a king’s. Not a bloodline king, a warrior king who had taken his throne by combat. He was old now. Slower, maybe, but stronger than ever, case–hardened from years of successful survival. Darwin’s Dog. A white pit bull female with a black patch over one eye strode next to him, a step back and to the side. Not deferring, guarding the flank. A harlequin Dane watched from the left, standing alone. To the right, a half dozen of that special breed of lean, dirt–colored, slash–and–burn brothers to wolves and coyotes— the American Junkyard Dog.
Terry walked through the pack, good–naturedly bumping dogs out of his way with a knee when they blocked his progress. “It’s Burke, Simba!” he called out to the boss dog, as he unlatched the gate so I could pull the Plymouth inside.
If Simba was impressed with the news of my arrival, he managed to keep it concealed, pinning me with his alligator eyes as I climbed out of the car, his posture telling the pack to hold its ground. I stood there while Terry moved the Plymouth between some junked cars. It merged with the other wrecks, looked right at home.
We walked all the way back to the clearing next to the Mole’s bunker. “He’s gone out,” Terry said, answering my question before I asked.
I raised my eyebrows— the Mole left the junkyard about every three, four years.
“With Mom,” he said. Meaning Michelle. She’d taken Terry out of a kiddie–sex freak show years ago. Adopted him by force. I was the force, Michelle was the love. She’d never said anything about wanting a kid all the years I knew her, but she took one look at Terry and gave birth.
He was a little one then, performing on command. Sold by his bio–parents, pimped by a smooth–talking psychopath right out on the Deuce. A fast–food service: fresh hot chicken to go, rentals only. I didn’t know how old he was, not for sure. Birth certificates aren’t required in our family. He looked about sixteen now. A slim, handsome teenager. He’d be taller than me when he got his full growth. That was the only genetics in him. The Mole taught him science, Michelle taught him art. With those two in him,
The rest of the AM dial was all halfass advice: money, love, real estate, food. And the usual hate talk. New York’s all black and white now, a sharp blood–red line between the colors. The black radio stations still don’t get it— when O.J. Simpson was acquitted, every Klansman in America cheered.
I switched over to FM, looking for some music, but BGO was playing jazz, not blues. And the CBS oldies station was playing disco.
I went back to the news: Some freak took real good care of his girlfriend. Paid for everything, including her implants. When she said she was leaving, he tried to repossess them. With a knife.
A drunk driver’s car hit a child so hard they found his license plate inside the kid when they did the autopsy. Happened in Queens— the driver’ll probably get probation. Doesn’t matter— last guy to run for D.A. there did it on the Democratic, Republican, Liberal, and Conservative tickets. Even if sheep could talk, they’d never ask questions.
An idiot in an iridescent yellow Honda Accord sedan flew past me on the right, huge tires set so far outside the fender line they looked like pontoons. That’s what the tires were about— looks. The car wouldn’t handle worth a damn. Lot of guys make that mistake, and not just with cars.
I nosed the Plymouth against the razor–wire–interwoven chain–link fence and waited. The junkyard was quiet, like it always is. It’s always alive too. The dog pack ambled up to the fence, only mildly interested but on full alert. Then Simba chested his way through the pack. A German shepherd’s face on a bullmastiff’s body, his single–coated fur a dull gold color, his ears too big for his head. He looked misbegotten, but his carriage was a king’s. Not a bloodline king, a warrior king who had taken his throne by combat. He was old now. Slower, maybe, but stronger than ever, case–hardened from years of successful survival. Darwin’s Dog. A white pit bull female with a black patch over one eye strode next to him, a step back and to the side. Not deferring, guarding the flank. A harlequin Dane watched from the left, standing alone. To the right, a half dozen of that special breed of lean, dirt–colored, slash–and–burn brothers to wolves and coyotes— the American Junkyard Dog.
Terry walked through the pack, good–naturedly bumping dogs out of his way with a knee when they blocked his progress. “It’s Burke, Simba!” he called out to the boss dog, as he unlatched the gate so I could pull the Plymouth inside.
If Simba was impressed with the news of my arrival, he managed to keep it concealed, pinning me with his alligator eyes as I climbed out of the car, his posture telling the pack to hold its ground. I stood there while Terry moved the Plymouth between some junked cars. It merged with the other wrecks, looked right at home.
We walked all the way back to the clearing next to the Mole’s bunker. “He’s gone out,” Terry said, answering my question before I asked.
I raised my eyebrows— the Mole left the junkyard about every three, four years.
“With Mom,” he said. Meaning Michelle. She’d taken Terry out of a kiddie–sex freak show years ago. Adopted him by force. I was the force, Michelle was the love. She’d never said anything about wanting a kid all the years I knew her, but she took one look at Terry and gave birth.
He was a little one then, performing on command. Sold by his bio–parents, pimped by a smooth–talking psychopath right out on the Deuce. A fast–food service: fresh hot chicken to go, rentals only. I didn’t know how old he was, not for sure. Birth certificates aren’t required in our family. He looked about sixteen now. A slim, handsome teenager. He’d be taller than me when he got his full growth. That was the only genetics in him. The Mole taught him science, Michelle taught him art. With those two in him,
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