Good Day to Die (17 page)

“Daddy’s going to kill me, Becky. He’s going to kill us both.” She tugged Becky’s head down onto her shoulder. “He’s going to kill me because he kills all the women he kidnaps. He’s going to kill you because you know what he does.”

Lorraine released Becky and stood up, fetched the bucket, and walked outside without asking permission. Noting that her feet were already accustomed to the rough, broken earth. Listening to Becky’s shallow breathing as she followed behind.

“Are you coughing blood?” Lorraine asked, kneeling to empty the bucket into a narrow trench.

“No, I guess it is not all that bad.”

“How did it happen?”

“Well, see, that is just what bothers me so much. I was frying up some veal chops when Daddy came walking by the stove to get himself a beer. You know how men are in the kitchen, Lorraine. They don’t see a doggone thing, especially when they are a bit tipsy. Anyway, I did try to get my body out of Daddy’s way, but he bumped into the frying pan and the fat spit up onto his arm.

“‘Quick, Daddy,’ I said, ‘run your arm under the cold water.’

“You know what he did, Lorraine? He grabbed me by the hair and put
me
under the cold water. He kept me there until I was nearly
drowned.
And he was hitting me while he did it. Hitting me and hitting me. Why, I just thank the Lord above that I passed out. Otherwise it would have been terrible.”

“Did you fight back?”

“Lord, no,” Becky said, “I would never do that. That would be the worst thing I could
ever
do.”

“Why, Becky?”

“Because if I fight back, Daddy will put me in the chipper for sure.”

“I guess you can’t resist. You’re right about that.”

“Yes indeed I am, Lorraine.”

“But you could escape. We could escape together.”

“I can’t believe you are saying this, being as how you know me so well. How many times have I told you that I was raised to prize loyalty? I am not from this new breed of female that runs from man to man without giving it a second thought. No sireee. I believe the Lord put us on this earth to serve our men the way we serve Him. And that I intend to do.”

Lorraine heard the coldness in Becky’s voice and sensed the danger in going on. But she ignored her instincts. Telling herself there must be some way to reach out, to touch this strange woman.

“We could be gone before Daddy knows it, Becky. We could just get in the car and drive away before he kills us both. I don’t want to die. …”

Lorraine heard a sharp crack and froze. She thought she knew what it was, a branch being snapped off a tree, but the first blow cut into her naked flesh before she could react. A second, then a third blow followed before she fell forward and began to crawl.

Small rocks jammed into the soft spaces between the bones of her knees. The knobs of protruding roots bruised the palms of her hands. In a moment, she became totally disoriented; she wanted to flee to the cabin, but crawled, instead, into the frigid waters of the stream. The blows continued to descend, ripping into her flesh. Above it all—above the sharp whiz of the branch as it fell, the crack of the whip on her back and legs, the indifferent bird song, the rush of fast water—she heard Becky screaming … Becky’s pain-muffled diatribe echoed in Lorraine’s mind.

“Bitch, dirty fucking bitch. Cunt. You’re no good; you’re pathetic. You don’t deserve to live. Bitch, dirty fucking bitch. Cunt. You’re no good; you are pathetic.”

B
OUTON WASTED NO TIME
in putting me on the receiving end of a not-unexpected chewing out when she finally showed up at two o’clock the following afternoon. Maybe I should call it a critique, because she went about it fairly gently. She started by asking to see my “automatic,” and since I had no choice in the matter I handed it over, pointing out that detectives are permitted to carry backup guns. She nodded solemnly, and I went on to list the Detonics’ various attributes.

“It’s accurate enough to shoot competitively,” I told her, “and it has less kick than a 9mm. Maybe even less kick than your .38.” I went on to explain the mechanics of slide tighteners, compensators, and barrel bushings. “Everybody knows,” I concluded, “that a .45 is a proven man stopper. It makes a big hole going in and a crater coming out. The only problem is that it’s hard to shoot. Off-the-shelf .45’s (the cheaper ones, anyway; the kind most cops can afford) are just not accurate. Not without careful training and constant practice. The weapon you’re holding goes for a thousand dollars new. Add in the customizing and you’re looking at two and a half, large.”

“It weighs a ton.” She handed it back to me. “Do they price them by the ounce?”

“I’m willing to admit that it might not be the ideal weapon for a woman.” I gave her my brightest smile, but she wasn’t about to let it drop.

“How is it a backup gun if you pull it before you pull your .38? If your .38 is on your ankle and that thing is in your belt?”

“Actually, there’s no set rule about when you pull what.”

“No set rule?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And you think a technicality will get you off the hook if you actually
use
it?”

“I have used it, Captain. On a scumbag who was about to kill one of my brother officers. I sent him off to a closed-coffin funeral and they handed me a commendation.” I gave her a second to think about it. “Look at it this way, Captain. Your butt has to be on the line before the job’ll let you pull that trigger. Now, when it’s really
your
butt on the
real
line, you have to know you can fire one shot, center of mass, and conclude the discussion. I’ve been around guns all my life; I’ve seen a deer run two miles with half a lung and a big chunk of his heart missing. You can’t rely on your .38, especially with the cheap loads most cops use.”

Somehow, I got the mistaken impression that I was reaching her. Maybe it was that absorbed look on her face. At the time, I thought it showed some interest in what I was actually
saying.
I should have known better.

“See this, Captain.” I got up, walked over to my gun collection, pulled down the Thompson and flicked on the laser sight. “Forty-five caliber. Thirty-shot magazine. Fully accurized. It fires as fast as you can pull the trigger, and the bullet goes wherever you put the little red dot. You don’t have to jam the stock up against your shoulder, and that’s a big advantage. It’s hard to keep track of what’s going on around you when you’re sighting a long gun.”

“Most officers manage to negotiate their careers without ever using their weapons.”

Her voice was soft, but the expression on her face had passed from “absorbed” to “what the hell am I looking at.” It’s a look I’ve been getting all my life.

“I’m not ‘most officers,’ Captain.” I kept my voice as low and neutral as hers. “That’s why you came to me.”

“Is that why you wear your shield on a gold chain?”

“I want people to remember me.”

“What people?”

“The ones who sport those gold medallions. You know, the automatics, the maps of Africa, the anchors, the pitiful street names. I want them to know who I am. That I’m not afraid of them. That my juice is greater than theirs, my power more powerful.”

She sighed and crossed her legs. “Do me a favor, Means. Put your shield where it belongs. But carry the … what do you call it?”

“It’s a Detonics. That’s a manufacturer’s name. New Detonics.”

“Carry the Detonics, Means. If you flip out, I want you to be able to back yourself up. Me, I’m heading for the hills.”

She burst out laughing, and I found myself grinning in return.

“It’s nice to know you’re committed, Captain.”

“I
should
be committed,” she said through the tears running down her face. “For taking up with
you.
”

“Ready for lunch?” It was the slickest rejoinder in my repertoire.

“What have you got, Means?”

“Salami and provolone on Italian semolina with hot and sweet peppers, shredded lettuce, and Chinese mustard. I can rustle up a couple of Heinekens if you’re drinking this afternoon. Otherwise it’s Snapple lemonade.”

“I’ll take the Snapple.”

It wasn’t too bad, once we got down to business. Bouton had spent the morning contacting VICAP, looking for any sign that Thong had begun to kill again. She did this once a week, and not because she expected to find anything useful. She did it, she explained, to check on herself. To keep her ego under control.

We went from VICAP to a review of the interviews we’d conducted the previous night. Neither of us had taken notes on the spot, but Bouton pulled several sheets of paper from her purse and laid them on the table. They contained the names of those we’d interviewed and a short synopsis of what had been said. Our immediate task was to review the notes, then transfer them to the supplementary report forms known as DD5’s.

“By the book, Means,” Bouton explained. “The paperwork has to be perfect.”

“Not if we find Thong.”

She dropped her sandwich onto the plate and sipped at her lemonade. “Theoretically,” she explained, “we’re operating independently. In fact, Chief Bowman could ask for the paperwork at any time. Big Brother
is
watching, Means. And Big Brother has a big stake in our failure.”

I nodded wisely. Just as if I wasn’t part of that review.

“Did you locate a rehab program for Dolly?” she asked after a moment.

“Not yet, Captain. Tell you the truth, aside from asking Barry Millstein for advice, I don’t have any idea how to go about it.”

“Well, you can forget it. I found a place myself. Not that it was easy. The waiting list for drug rehab is six months and growing.”

I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. “Tell me something, Captain. Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? How do you know Dolly Dope
wants
to go into a program?”

She gave me a pained look, her eyes narrowing as she shook her head. “Don’t call her that, Means. She’s a human being.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s human and we’re cops. Not social workers.”

“Spoken like a true warrior.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin (paper, not linen) before continuing. “Means, on the day I walked into the academy, I swore that I’d never be a twenty-four-hour-a-day cop. I’m black, in case you didn’t notice, and there isn’t a black man or woman in this city who doesn’t have mixed feelings about the po-leese. What I wanted from the NYPD was a secure job with decent pay and good retirement benefits. It’s called civil service, Means, and it’s the only industry that’s really open to blacks. Despite affirmative action and all the rest of the bullshit. You pass the exams and you move up the ladder. That doesn’t happen at IBM.”

By this time, she was leaning forward, palms down on the table. “What was it you said yesterday? ‘Law enforcement is a play without a final act?’ If that’s the case, it’s important to have something else in your life besides the job. Something to hold you down. I’ve been working in the community for years. Working with kids who want to move up when everything around them conspires to beat them down. I see that struggle as noble, Means. Noble.”

And it doesn’t look bad on your resume, either.

I thought it, but I didn’t quite have the courage to say it. No, what I said was, “Who’s going to break the bad news to Razor Stewart? Who’s going to tell him that a chunk of his income is about to be rehabilitated?”

“I’d have thought you’d be looking forward to it.”

She was right, I was looking forward to it, but when I finally confronted Stewart a few hours later, it turned out that he couldn’t have cared less.

“Take the bitch,” he said. “She costin’ more than she’s worth. Word, Mister Means, they ain’t enough cock in New York to keep that bitch high. Not when she can’t do no more than give fi’-dollar blow-jobs.” He motioned me closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She think she so smart. Went to
Vassar.
Treat me like shit in the beginnin’. Me, ah took it. Kep’ feedin’ the bitch steady dope. Tellin’ her how much ah love her. How she the only bitch for me. How all these other bitches don’ mean nothin’. They jus’ workin’ under my protection. Tellin’ her it’s all bid-ness. Except for her, mah onliest true love.”

It was a familiar story. Take one inexperienced girl with a fondness for the fast lane. Romance her until she’s hopelessly strung out. Put her ass out on the street. Beat her into submission when she balks. Dump her when she’s finally used up. The only added ingredient in the recipe was Razor’s hatred of Dolly’s education. That and his obvious pleasure in her downfall.

“Has she got the virus, Razor? She been tested yet?”

His eyes jerked up, trying to figure out where I was coming from. If I was pissed off, he’d try to deflect my anger, even if he didn’t know exactly why I was mad.

“Ah can’t say as how I rightly know. She ain’t never been tested; not so she told me about. But she been shootin’ up so long I figure she gotta have it. She gotta have it and she gotta be steady givin’ it out to her tricks. Ah say it serve the motherfuckers right. Tricks ain’t nothin’ but massa comin’ to the slave quarters. Only difference, he wavin’ a few bills, ’stead of passin’ out hair ribbons. Ah hopes they give it to all they wives.”

“If the tricks are ‘massa,’” I said, “then who are you? You the slave who administers the whippings?”

When he finally responded, his voice showed careful respect, though his eyes remained defiant. “I hear you some kinda Indian, Mister Means. If you a Indian, tell me what the white man ever done for yo people, ’cept kill ’em. Shit, you jus’ a damn nigga like me. Takin’ massa’s pay to keep the rest of the niggas quiet. But that ain’ nothin’, but nothin’. Even niggas gotta get paid.”

I suppose I should have been angry, but I wasn’t. Razor Stewart had as much chance of understanding me as a mouse of understanding a lion. Meanwhile, he wasn’t making a fuss about losing one of his whores, which was all I cared about. At the moment. Later, once I was back in business, I’d look up old Razor and teach him something about lions.

But that was for later. For now, my job was to keep Vanessa Bouton happy. She was in the other room, pitching Dolly Dope on the joys of detox. Apparently, Dolly wasn’t an easy sell, because they were in there for the better part of an hour before Bouton opened the door.