Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Praise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
About The Author
Also By Andrew Vachss
Copyright Page
ALMA HENRY
BESSIE MYRICK
MARY SPENCER
They don't give medals on this planet
for courage in urban combat.
But there are silver stars shining in the sky
that the astronomers can't explain.
Acclaim for
Andrew Vachss
"Vachss is a contemporary master."
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
"His writing has the power of a rogue elephant."
—Cleveland Plain–Dealer
"A confection from Hell—a poison pill laced with acid and wrapped in razor–edged concertina wire."
—Courier–Post (Philadelphia)
"Jolting…eerily seductive."
—Washington Times
"Each [Burke book] is as savage as Celine. And there it is, a three sentence throwaway paragraph, as pure as Euclid. I'm a sucker for such Elegance."
—Newsday
"It's wonderful. The words do leap off the page. The principal character is an original. The style is as clean as a haiku."
—Washington Post
"Andrew Vachss is unique among modern writers; no one else comes close to the raw power and intellectual ambiguity that he manifests so elegantly, so coldly."
—Clarion–Ledger (Jackson, MI)
1
CITY VULTURES never have to leave the ground.
I was standing on the upper level of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, waiting in the November night. Back to the wall, hands in the empty pockets of a gray raincoat. Under the brim of my hat, my eyes swept the deck. A tall, slim black youth wearing a blue silk T–shirt under a pale yellow sport coat. Baggy pants with small cuffs. Soft Italian shoes. Today's pimp—waiting for the bus to spit out its cargo of runaways. He'd have a Maxima with blacked–out windows waiting in the parking lot. Talk about how hard it was to get adjusted to the city—how he was the same way himself when he hit town. He'd be a talent scout for an independent film producer. If the girl wanted, he'd let her stay at his place for a few days until she got herself together. Projection TV, VCR, sweet stereo. A little liquor, a little cocaine. High–style. The way it's done, you know. Another black guy in his thirties. Gold medallion on his chest under a red polyester shirt that would pass for silk in the underground lights. Knee–length black leather coat, player's hat with a tasteful red band. Alligator–grain leather on his feet. Yesterday's pimp—waiting his turn. He'd have an old Caddy, talk his talk, make you a star. A furnished room in a no–see hotel down the street. Metal coat hangers in his closet that would never hold clothes.
You could go easy or you could go hard.
Two youngish white guys, talking low, getting their play together. Hoping the fresh new boys getting off the bus wouldn't be too old.
A blank–faced Spanish kid, black sweatshirt, hood pulled up tight around his head. Felony–flyers on his feet. Carry your bags, ma'am?
A few citizens, waiting on relatives coming back from vacation. Or a kid coming home from school. A bearded wino picking through the trash.
The Greyhound's air brakes hissed as it pulled into the loading port. Night bus from Starke, Florida. A twenty–four–hour ride—change buses in Jacksonville. The round–trip ticket cost $244.
I know—I paid for it.
The man I was waiting for would have a letter in his pocket. A letter i
n a young girl's rounded handwriting. Blue ink on pink stationery.
Daddy, I know it's been a long time, but I didn't know where you was. I been working with some boys and I got myself arrested a couple years ago. One of the cops took my name and put it in one of their computers. He told me where you was, but I didn't write for a while because I wanted to have something good to tell you. I'm sorry Sissy made me run away that time without even telling you goodbye like I wanted. I wrote to her but the letter came back. Do you know where she's at? I guess she got married or something. Anyway, Daddy, you'll never believe it, but I got a lot of money now. I'm real good at this business I'm in. I got a boyfriend too. I thought you could use a stake to get you started after you got out, but I didn't want to mail no cash to a prison. Wasn't that right?
Anyway, Daddy, when you get ready to come out, you write to me at this Post Office box I got now and I'll send you the money for the ticket up here. It would be like a vacation or something. And I could give you the money I have saved up. I hope you're doing okay, Daddy. Love, Belle.
The slow stream of humans climbed down. Hands full of plastic shopping bags, cartons tied together with string, duffel bags. Samsonite doesn't ride the 'Hound too often.
He was one of the last off the bus. Tall, rawboned man, small eyes under a shock of taffy–honey hair. Belle's eyes, Belle's hair. A battered leather satchel in one hand. The Spanish kid never gave him a second glance. A cop would, but there weren't any around.
I felt a winter's knot where my heart should have been.
His eyes played around the depot like it was a prison yard. I moved to him, taking my hands out of my pockets, showing them empty. He'd never seen me before, but he knew the look.
"You're from Belle?" he asked. A hard voice not softened by the cracker twang.
"I'll take you to her," I promised, turning my back on him so he could follow, keeping my hands in sight.
I passed up the escalator, taking the stairs to the ground floor. Felt the man moving behind me. And Max, shadow–quiet, keeping the path clear behind us both.
2
THE PLYMOUTH was parked on a side street off Ninth Avenue. I opened the driver's door, climbed in, unlocked his door. Giving him all the time in the world to bolt if he wanted to try it.
He climbed in next to me, looked behind him. Saw a pile of dirty blankets.
"No back seat in this wagon?"
"Sometimes I carry things."
He smiled his smile. Long yellow teeth catching the neon from a topless bar. "You work with Belle?"
"Sometimes."
"She's a good girl."
I didn't answer him, pointing the Plymouth to the West Side Highway. I lit a smoke, tossing the pack on the dash. He helped himself, firing a match off his thumbnail, leaning back in his seat.
I turned east across 125th Street, Harlem's Fifth Avenue, heading for the Triboro Bridge.
"You all got nothin' but niggers 'round here," he said, watching the street.
"Yeah, they're everyplace."
"You ever do time with niggers?"
"All my life."
I tossed a token in the Exact Change basket on the bridge and headed for the Bronx. The Plymouth purred off the highway onto Bruckner Boulevard, feeling its way to Hunts Point. He watched the streets.
"Man, if it's not niggers, it's spics. This ain't no city for a white man."
"You like the joint better?" His laugh was short. Ugly.
I motored through the streets. Blacked–out windows in abandoned buildings—dead eyes in a row of corpses. Turned off the main drag heading toward the meat market. Whores working naked under clear plastic raincoats stopped the trucks at the lights. We crossed an empty prairie, tiny dots of light glowing where things that had been born human kept fires burning all night long.
I pulled up to the junkyard gate. Left him in the car while I reached my hand through a gap in the razor–wire to open the lock.
"What do we do now?"
"We wait."
The dogs came. A snarling pack, swarming around the car.
"Damn! Belle's here?"
"She's here."
The Mole lumbered through the pack, knocking the dogs out of his way as he walked, like he always does. He came up to my open window, peered inside at the man in the front seat.
"This is him?"
"Yeah."
He clapped his hands together. Simba came out of the blackness. A city wolf, boss of the pack. The beast stood on his hind legs, forepaws draped over the windowsill, looking at the man like he knew him. A low, thick sound came out of the animal, like his throat was clogged.
"We walk from here," I told the man.
His eyes were hard, no fear in them. "I ain't walkin' anywhere, boy. I don't like none a this."
"Too bad."
"Too bad for you, boy. You look real close, you'll see my hand ain't empty."
I didn't have to look close. I knew what he'd have in his satchel— they don't use metal detectors on the Greyhound.
The dirty pile of blankets in the back of the Plymouth changed shape. The man grunted as he felt the round steel holes against the back of his neck.
"Your hole card is a low card, motherfucker." The Prophet's voice, low and strong for such a tiny man. "I see your pistol and raise you one double–barreled scattergun."
"Toss it on the seat," I told him. "Don't be stupid."
"Where's Belle? I came to see Belle."
"You'll see her. I promise."
His pistol made a soft plop on the front seat. The Mole opened his door. The man got out, the Prof's shotgun covering him. I walked around to his side of the car. "Let's go," I told him, my voice quiet.
We walked through the junkyard until we came to a clearing. "Have a seat," I said, pointing toward a cut–down oil drum. Taking a seat myself, lighting a smoke.
He sat down, reaching out a large hand to snatch at the pack of smokes I tossed over to him.
"What now?"
"We wait," I said.
Terry stepped into the clearing. A slightly built boy wearing a set of dirty coveralls. "That him?" he asked.
I nodded. The kid lit a smoke for himself, watching the man. The dog pack watched too. With the same eyes.
The Mole stumbled up next to me, the Prof at his side. The little man supported himself on a cane, the scattergun in his other hand.
"Pansy!" I called out. She lumbered out of the darkness, a Neapolitan mastiff, a hundred and forty pounds of power. Her black fur gleamed blue in the faint light, cold gray eyes sweeping the area. She walked toward the tall man, a steamroller looking at fresh–poured tar.
"Jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the ground, her eyes pinning the man where he sat.
I looked around one more time. All Belle's family was in that junkyard. All that was left, except for Michelle. And she'd already done her part.
The Prophet handed me a pistol. "Here's the sign—now's the time." I stood up.
"They got the death penalty in Florida?" I asked the man.
"You know they do."
"They got it for incest?"
His eyes flickered. He knew. "Where's Belle? Let me talk to her!"
"Too late for that. She's gone. In the same ground you're standing on."
"I never did nothin' to you…"
"Yeah, you did. I don't have a speech for you. You're dead."
"I got people know where I am."
The Prophet smiled at him. "Motherfucker, you don't even know where you are."
"You want the kid to see this?" I asked the Mole.
Light played on the thick lenses of his glasses. "He watched her die."
I cocked the pistol.
He kept his voice low. Reasonable. "Look, if I owe, I can pay. I'm a man who pays his debts."
"You couldn't pay the interest on this one," I told him.
"Hey! I got money
, I can…"
"I'm not the Parole Board," I said. The pistol cracked. He jerked backwards off the oil drum. I fired twice more, watching his body jump as each bullet went home.
The Prophet hobbled over to him. The shotgun spoke. Again.
I looked at the body for a dead minute.
We bowed our heads.
Pansy howled at the dark sky, grief and hate in one voice. The pack went silent, hearing her voice.
I didn't feel a thing.
3
AFTER THE COPS took Belle off the count, I thought about dying too. Thought about it a lot. The Prophet told me the truth.
"If there's something out there past this junkyard, she'll be waiting for you, brother."
"And if there's not?"
"Then what's your hurry?"
"I feel dead inside me," I told the little man with the hustler's soul and the lion's heart. The man who helped raise me inside the walls. Everyone called him the Prof. I thought it was short for Professor—he knew and he taught. But Prophet was the true root. A man who sees the truth sees the future. He showed me both—showed me how to be a man.
Or whatever it is that I am.
"You know what to do with it," he told me.
I knew. Survive is what I knew. What I know. The only tune I know how to play.
Down here, we have rules. We made them ourselves. Feeling dead inside me—that was a feeling. It wouldn't bring Belle back to me—wouldn't get me closer. But making somebody dead…that was a debt.
Belle's father. The maggot who made her older sister into her mother. He loaded her genetic dice. She never had a chance. Her mother died so she could run, and she ran until she died.
I was holding her in my arms when she went, torn to pieces by bullets she took for me. She looked it in the eye when it came for her.
4
BELLE DIED in the spring. I went cold through the summer. Waiting.
Her father was in a prison in Florida, finishing up a manslaughter bit. I did some checking—learned they'd cut him loose in late October.
Michelle wrote the letter, copying Belle's handwriting from a poem the big girl once tried to write.
If her father had any family left to spend Thanksgiving with, there'd be an empty chair at the table.
But the cold was still in me.
5
I SLIPPED MY PLYMOUTH through Chinatown, heading for Mama's. The car didn't feel the same since Belle left. I couldn't make it sing the way she could. Her Camaro was cut up into a thousand pieces in the Mole's junkyard. Her body was in the ground. She left her clothes at my office, her life savings stashed in the hiding place in my garage. I burned the clothes. Kept the money. Like she would have wanted.