Choice of Evil (8 page)

I thought about getting locked up for something petty, but that bullshit only works in movies. Nobody who’d ever been Inside for a minute would go back just to prove his whereabouts. Besides, the killer was off the job. Or quiet, anyway. And I couldn’t alibi myself twenty-four-seven if I was sleeping alone.

I was still thinking it over when he went back to work.

T
his one was harder to connect. Fact is, the cops probably wouldn’t have put it together on their own. It was at a college residence, uptown. The usual stuff:

ALL FAGS MUST DIE!

spray-painted on a dorm door. The same door someone had been slipping nasty little notes under. Somebody threw a rock through the kid’s window too. All reported to the campus cops, but not to NYPD. They had some suspects, but not enough proof to go to the Student Court or whatever other impotent nonsense they used there. The gay kids had a demonstration in the Quad. Got some local coverage. But nothing happened—no ID on the perps.

But the hunter must have figured it out. The target was alone in his room. On the third floor. It was a hot night—I guess he left the window open while he slept. Maybe he felt the first burning slice of the razor, maybe not. In the morning, they found him in strips.

Turned out the kid who died was one of the suspects. But that wasn’t enough for a connect until the hunter launched another communiqué at the papers.

Night will not protect you. The darkness holds no safety. Your shield is now my sword. Another of you has joined his cowardly comrades. Do not deceive yourselves. The design is not deterrence—it is extinction. Either we will be allowed to live in peace or you will not be allowed to live. The next one will be close to home. Welcome to a new food chain, prey.

There was one big difference to this note. Apparently he didn’t care for the “Avenger” title the media came up with. So this time it was signed: “Homo Erectus.”

T
he tabs went crazy. “Profilers” filled the talk show stages. Gay groups got center stage. . . and used it to go on and on: They understood how this killer
felt,
blah-blah, but they were
very
careful to denounce violence, playing their role. All the editorials read the same: Fag-bashing is bad, so is killing. Two wrongs don’t make a right. The kind of trenchant, cutting-edge stuff that makes them so relevant. The “re-enactment” shows ran fake violence-video of the murders, but they didn’t have an image of the killer, so the “Most Wanted” stuff went unanswered. Rewards increased.

The father of the kid who got razor-ripped called a press conference, saying his son was the innocent victim of a maniac. That can of spray paint the cops found in his room—the one with his fingerprints all over it—so what if it was the exact same brand that had been used on the gay kid’s dorm door? Was that
proof
? Even Jeffrey Dahmer got a trial, for God’s sake! What kind of country was this, anyway?

And, of course, he sued the school.

I
kept adding to my new refuge. Never anything bigger than I could lug in the Plymouth. The Mole looked like one of those TV aliens with his huge goggles as he arc-welded away. Max wasn’t any good with techno-stuff, but he understood mechanics and leverage as perfectly as he did his own kinetics, and the loading-bay door he designed pulled up into the roof, silent as cancer, when I touched the dashboard switch the Mole installed. Now I could turn the corner, cut my lights, and, if I timed it right, slip inside the building as if I’d just vanished. Much easier than in my old. . . place. I didn’t have to carry the spotlight anymore either. A pair of them blasted on automatically as soon as the Plymouth’s front end broke the motion-detector beams. If you weren’t ready for it, you’d go instantly blind. Nice for uninvited visitors.

I spent some of the money I’d stashed, fixing the place up. Gave a little chunk of it to Michelle for clothes, and she went through it like a dope fiend the night before detox.

And I kept the lines out too, but I didn’t hook anything. When you’re in the freak-scamming business, you meet a lot of humans who hate gays, but you also meet a lot who hide behind them. . . like those “man-boy love” groups who masquerade as homosexual and try and march in the gay-pride parades—as if fucking a boy is the same as making love with a grown man.

I was at the table, ready to play, but all I drew was blanks.

If I got a hint, I was ready to do some ugly things. If I thought anyone in particular knew the answer, they
were
going to tell me. But I didn’t have. . . anything.

I
knew better than to go back to working my scams until I got the new ID. And I didn’t really need the alibi anymore. Morales had nailed it—mail bombs weren’t my style, and whoever took out that last one was either a ninja or in a lot better shape than I was. The
federales
knew I had the horses in my stable—the Mole could fit enough bang-stuff into a suitcase to take down a big building. And Max could climb walls like I could climb stairs. But they weren’t showing any interest, and I didn’t expect any. Whoever—or whatever—this Homo Erectus was, it was all local.

Still, I made the rounds. Shot a lot more pool than I had in years. Took Max with me down to Freehold to watch some
real
trotters—the Meadowlands is closer, but only the half-mile tracks really show you any action—and even hung out in some after-hours joints.

After a while, I didn’t know what I was waiting for, so I told myself it was the ID.

I
was in the restaurant, playing another round of our life-sentence card game with Max. It was gin for a long time, but we’d switched to casino ever since Max had a once-in-forever winning streak and refused to play anymore for fear of insulting the gods.

For once, Mama wasn’t lambasting him with her incompetent advice—he’d brought his daughter Flower with him and the little girl was watching, patient and quiet. Like her mother, except the child was actually interested in the game, missing nothing. Max was convinced she’d bring him luck. But casino’s not like gin, and there was no wave of fortune for him to catch. Oh, he could win a hand once in a while, but he’d never get close to breaking even. The trick was making my deliberate blunders slick enough so he wouldn’t snap that I was tanking the game. I don’t do that often, but, with Flower sitting there watching me with those grave and glistening eyes. . . no choice. He got back a couple of thousand off his deficit before Immaculata came in there to collect the little girl.

“Are you ready for the museum, child?” she asked, her face blazing with love.

“Could we wait a bit, Mother?” Flower asked politely. “I am helping Daddy.”

“And how are you doing that?” Immaculata asked.

Max signed “good luck” to her. She bowed, and took a seat next to me. Mama brought her some tea, serving it personally, a sign of deep respect. Their elaborate thank-you ritual took long enough for us to play another couple of hands.

“Are you. . . all right now? In your new place?” Immaculata asked me.

“Yeah, it’s fine, Mac,” I told her. “Better, even. It was time to go anyway.”

“Ah,” she said, as if she understood. That I was lying.

Needless to say, with Immaculata added to Max’s arsenal, I started losing
every
damn hand. Max would have sat there for hours—when he hit a winning streak, he went absolutely immobile, convinced that any alteration would change his luck. But Immaculata wasn’t having any. “It is time to go now, Flower,” she said.

“Yes, Mother,” the child said. She stood up and kissed Max on the cheek. Max signed that he loved her, that he would always protect her, that she was the most precious thing in his life. The child’s face reddened slightly, just a trace of embarrassment showing.

Watching them took me away.

When I was little, I was in custody. They called it an orphanage, but we all knew what it was. All except those chumps who thought they were going to get adopted one day by the privileged people who came around and looked us over like it was a petting zoo. They didn’t want any of us—they just wanted babies—but we got displayed anyway. I hated them all. By that time, hate came easy.

Once they took us to watch some Little League game. Out in the suburbs, all us State kids on a bus. Same kind of bus they used to take me to prison years later, only this one didn’t have that steel mesh over the windows. Anyway, it wasn’t like we were going to play or anything; we just got to watch.

This one kid, he was a fat clumsy little goof. Every time they hit the ball to him, he flubbed it. And when he got up to bat, his swing was spastic. But his father was running around the stands cheering like the kid was the second coming of DiMaggio, shouting encouragement, applauding everything. I could see it embarrassed the fat kid, his father making such a fuss over him and all.

I hated that kid.

I wanted to kill him.

And take his place.

I wanted to. . .

“Burke. Call for you.”

Mama, tapping me on the shoulder, that look on her face telling me it wasn’t the first time she’d tried, but I hadn’t been there.

I shook my head to clear it. Immaculata and Flower were gone. Max was sitting across from me. Cards still on the table. Score sheet to my right. But it was—damn!—half an hour since I’d been in the room.

“Thanks, Mama,” I said, like nothing was going on. I saw her exchange looks with Max.

“What?” I said into the phone.

“Aw, you never
did
call, huh?” A woman’s voice. But not one I. . .

“Nadine,” I said.

“Sure. Who else? You have
other
girlfriends?”

“What do you want?” I asked, flat-voiced, just this side of harsh.

“Ah, what a list
that
is. But, for now, I’ll settle for this: We want to meet with you again.”

“Lincoln—”

“Yes, Lincoln. All of us.”

“What’s the—?”

“The point,” she interrupted again, “is that we’ve come to an agreement. And we want to propose it to you.”

“I
told
you—”

“Yes, and we
listened,
okay? You can have what you want. How many times a day do you hear
that
?” she mock-purred.

“I
hear
it all the time,” I told her.

“Well, you play your cards right, you’ll get to
see
it too,” she said, a play-sexy catch in her low voice.

“You want entertainment, watch TV, bitch.”

“You scared?” she challenged.

“Sure,” I said indifferently.

“Hmm. . . that works on most men,” she said, whispering now, breathy. “What works on you, Burke?”

“Money,” I said, neutral-voiced.

“Well, then, you got your wish, mister. Interested now?”

I
didn’t bother with the bouncer this time. Or backup either. If there was going to be trouble, it would have been last time. Anyway, my crew knew who everyone was, and where to find the place. If those people knew enough about me to offer me a job, they knew enough to figure out that double-crossing me was a sure ticket to Payback City. And that it wouldn’t be a round trip.

The yellow door opened a split-second after I rapped. Nadine. In baggy pink jersey sweats, her thick dark hair tied behind her head.

“You ever go anyplace without her?” she asked, nodding at Pansy.

“Sometimes,” I replied, looking over her shoulder. The place was empty. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Oh, they’ll be along. Don’t worry. I just wanted to talk to you first. Alone.”

“Talk,” I told her, walking past her and sitting down at the same table she’d been at the first time.

She strolled slowly over, hauling the sweatshirt over her head with both hands as she moved. Underneath was a white jersey bra with heavy shoulder straps. She needed them. Pansy watched her, not moving. She doesn’t rely on smell like most dogs, never makes guesses. If I told her to, she’d let the strange woman pat her head and not make a sound. Or lock on to her like a crocodile with an antelope that ventured too near the water’s edge. All the same to Pansy—she’s a pro.

Nadine sat down, rummaged in a small black nylon bag sitting on the table. The only light was somewhere in the back room. No noise. She came out with a hypo, hit herself on a fleshy part of her upper arm, and pushed the plunger. If she felt the spike go in, I couldn’t see it in her eyes.

And if she expected a reaction from me, she didn’t see it either. “What is it you want?” I asked her.

“To find out. . . something. They’re going to hire you, but I have a. . . proposition. Maybe. I need to find out. . . . Did you ever know a lesbian? I mean, really know one, not watch a couple do it in some movie?”

“I live with one,” I told her.

“Huh?
You?
Who is she?”

“She’s right there,” I said, pointing at Pansy.

“I guess I don’t like your sense of humor much,” she said, her voice sharp around the edges.

“Pansy’s gay,” I said, telling her the truth. “Or whatever it is that means she wants nothing to do with male dogs. She’s a Neapolitan mastiff, from one of the finest lines. I could get an easy fifteen hundred bucks for one pup, and they usually have real big litters. So I paid a ridiculous stud fee for this famous brute Neo, over in Brooklyn. And even though Pansy was in heat, she wouldn’t get busy with him. No matter what he did, she wasn’t having any.”

“Maybe she just didn’t like him?”

“
Like
him? A bitch in heat? Sure. Anyway, I tried it again. Couple of times, in fact. No Sale.”

“Didn’t they want you to tie her down so he could—?”

“Yeah, they did. You think I’d let anyone rape my dog?”

“Well. . . you were going to breed her, right?”

“I was going to
let
her have sex, then
let
her have puppies. That’s it. I thought she wanted to. And I was wrong. Truth is, I thought she would—she loves puppies.”

“You really think she’s gay?” she asked, leaning forward, moving her elbows in to display the cleavage.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t think dogs could be—”

“Why not? Some monkeys are. It’s just brain chemistry, right? Hormones trigger differently. I heard it from other guys too, about their dogs.”