Sacrifice (9 page)

47

L
ater, in Bonita's studio apartment on the fringe of the Village.

"My roommate will be back soon," she whispered, sliding the tube skirt down over her hips.

Later, at her kitchen table. "Did you get it?" she asked me.

"Get what?"

"The
play.
The one we saw tonight. I didn't, the first time he did it. See, the teacher at the school, he was molesting that little boy. And the boy's mother, she
trusted
him. That's why the machine didn't work…the one the janitor made for him…the monsters weren't all in his head like they thought."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Isn't it
disgusting
…what some people do?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder where she is, Tawny. I thought she'd be home by now."

"It's okay, I gotta take off myself."

"She's going away next weekend. You could spend the night…"

"If I don't have to work, I'll call you."

"You
better
,"
sitting in my lap now, squirming.

"Bonita, I feel pretty stupid about this, but…"

"What?"

"Well, I wanted to buy you a present…just to show you how much I care and all. A charm for your bracelet…I saw one I really liked…a little gold heart…"

"Un–huh…"

"Yeah, but by the time I got to the store, tonight, it was closed. So, I was wondering…I don't mean to be crude or anything…you know the crazy hours I work…Could I give you the money, let you pick it up for yourself?…I mean…"

"Oh, you're so
sweet,
honey. I don't mind at all."

I handed her five fifty–dollar bills, folded in half. She put them on the table without looking.

"You have to go right
now?"
she purred, squirming some more. Maybe she wasn't
such
a lousy actress.

48

I
cut myself shaving the next morning. Took a plump leaf from the aloe plant on the windowsill, punctured it with my thumbnail, smeared it on, watching Pansy sneer at my clumsiness. Thinking of Blossom and her goddamned health advice.

Ate slowly. A rosette of michetta roll, hard crust, hollow inside. Only place you can get them in New York is this Milanese bakery in Brooklyn, on the Bushwick border. Real Italians. I'd been going there for years—never heard them say Mamma Mia once. I smeared cream cheese on each piece as I snapped it off. Drank my ice water, swallowed the beta carotene and vitamin C.

Blossom again.

If I ever went over her back fence one night, I wouldn't need cash. Or lies.

I snapped out of it, looked over to the couch. "Want to go for a ride, girl?"

Pansy's tail thumped happily.

Saturday morning, bright and clear. We took the Willis Avenue Bridge to the Hutch, headed north. All the way to the wilds of Dutchess County, almost a two–hour drive.

Teenage girl hitching by the side of the road. I thought of a maggot who picked up a girl like that in California. Raped her, chopped her hands off so there wouldn't be fingerprints, and dumped her in a culvert. The little girl lived, somehow. The maggot's already been paroled—it's not like he robbed a bank or anything. I read he got arrested again in Florida. For shoplifting. The paper said he stole a hat, but he'd paid for another item he had in a bag. A box of diapers.

I knew I was close when I saw the clapboard shacks standing just off the dirt road. A trio of chopped–down Hogs sat outside one shack, ape–hanger handlebars sprouting like stalks from the chromed engines. One of those prefab metal sheds sat behind the shack. They'd be cranking up the heat inside, making meth, choking on the ether fumes. The bikers figured out the dope business a long time ago—the real problem is getting the stuff across the border, so they cook their own right here.

The last house made the others look like Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Set well back from the road on a winding, narrow approach, it sagged from depression. Tar paper covered most of the windows, missing shingles pockmarked the roof, the whole sorry mess rotting from termites who had long since fled to better pickings. If it burned to the ground, the coroner would call it suicide.

I pulled the Plymouth into the side yard, gunning the engine, sliding on the dirt, letting him know I was there. Turned off the ignition and waited—I wasn't going to jump out too fast.

He came around the side of the house, a tall, rawboned, slope–shouldered man with a doofus mustache. Hair cropped short, wearing tiny round sunglasses. A rifle in one hand, a dog on a chain in the other—a white pit bull with a ring of black fur around one eye and one black ear. The animal didn't look a bit like Spuds McKenzie.

Elroy. He lived back in the woods. Off the land, he said. He'd jack deer by spotlight at night when they came to the salt lick he'd set up. Blow ducks off the water with his shotgun. Anything that had fur, feathers, or scales. He wasn't a hunter, he was an armed consumer.

Even the bikers cut him considerable slack—people said he ate road–kill sandwiches.

I hit the window switch, let him have a good long look.

"Burke!" he boomed out.

"Yeah, it's me. Put the gun down, okay?"

"Sure."

"And tie that animal up."

"Barko wouldn't hurt anyone," he said, sounding insulted.

"I got Pansy in the car," I told him, by way of explanation. I climbed out. The pit bull watched me with only mild interest, but his ears were cocked. He had Pansy's scent, growled a challenge.

We walked around behind the house. Elroy had his own prefab shed too. Maybe they came with the original houses.

"You have the paper?" I asked him.

"What's your hurry?"

"That paper isn't going to move itself, Elroy."

"Come on," he said.

We walked past the shed toward the woods. Two more pit bulls were anchored to metal stakes set in cement. One had an old tire in his alligator jaws, waving it around in triumph as the other watched.

"Aren't they beauties?" Elroy asked.

"They are, for sure. You training them?"

"Yeah! Want to see?"

"Okay."

"Barko's really my best one. Just wait here, I'll get him."

He came back leading the dog. The other two yapped in anticipation, pawing the ground. A low–slung four–wheeled cart stood on a level patch of ground, piled high with solid–concrete blocks. Elroy took an elaborate leather harness from a hook on a nearby tree. It was lined with some spongelike material. As soon as he took up the harness, Barko began running in little circles, overcome with excitement.

"Come on, boy! Time to work!"

Barko trotted over on his stubby legs and Elroy fitted him up. He attached two short leads from the harness directly to a U–bolt on the front of the cart. Barko stood rigid at attention, waiting.

"Okay, baby…
pull!
" Elroy yelled.

The pit bull surged forward, straining against the harness, fighting for traction. When all four legs locked in, he began to inch forward, dragging the cart behind him, foaming a bit at the mouth, Elroy screaming, "Full Pull, Barko! Full Pull!" Soon the little tank was slogging forward, like a man wading through setting cement. Barko never faltered, chugging ahead until Elroy ran to intercept him, kicking a wooden wedge under the cart's wheels. He unsnapped the harness, held the dog high over his head in both hands.

"The winner…
Barrrko!
" I swear the dog grinned.

"That's
what you're training the dogs for?"

"Sure. You don't think I'm gonna let my dogs
fight,
do you? This is the latest thing. They get ninety seconds to pull the weight fifteen feet—that's a full pull. Barko's going in the middleweight class this fall."

"Pit bull tractor pulls?"

"Yeah, man! You know how much Barko just lugged across the finish line? One half ton, man. A thousand pounds. And that was on grass—the regulation pulls're on a piece of flat carpet. Better traction, smoother roll."

"Unreal."

"He's still working. The record's a little over one full ton, man. Twenty–one hundred pounds."

"What pulled that, a Clydesdale?"

"A pit bull, Burke. A forty–eight–pound bitch, in fact. That's the middleweight class, not the open. Some of those damn Rottweilers, they could pull a house."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, they're amazing, huh?"

Elroy dropped Barko to the ground. I saluted him. He trotted back to the front.

"Pansy's in the car," I reminded him.

"Barko's no dog fighter."

"He's a pit bull."

"It's all in how you raise them, man."

Some of Elroy's receptor sites were burned out, but he knew the truth.

"Let's look at the paper," I said.

49

I
t was spread out on a long clean table in the shed. Bearer bonds, beautifully engraved. Face value, ten grand each. Elroy had been a counterfeiter, but his last stretch in the pen had cured him of playing with funny money. Now he just worked in small lots: bonds, deeds, certificates. Takes some real skill, and you need specialists to move it, but the risk is lower.

"How many you got?" I asked him, turning the paper over in my hands, admiring the craftsmanship.

"Three point five million, you add it up."

"You know how the quick flip works, Elroy…you're looking at maybe a hundred grand your end, tops."

"That's okay. This'll be my last score. I got plans, anyway, do something else to make a living."

I put the bonds into my attaché case, walked out to the car. Barko was lying in the sun, basking in the glow of his recent triumph. Pansy's massive head was framed in the front window of the Plymouth.

"Could I look at her?" he asked.

"Tie your guy up first…just in case."

I opened the door and Pansy strolled out. I gave her the hand signal for friends, and she stood patiently while Elroy pawed all over her, even pulled back her lips to check her teeth.

"She's gorgeous, man. True Italian stock, I can tell. The Italians breed them much lower to the ground. It's good you didn't dock her tail."

I lit a cigarette, watching my dog.

"Her hips are like steel," Elroy muttered. "You work her on tree jumping?"

"No, she pretty much exercises herself."

"Burke, I got a great idea."

"What?" Shuddering inside. Elroy had this great idea in the joint once…pressurize a bunch of chemicals inside the home–brew the Prof was cooking up, turn the jungle–juice into high octane. The vat exploded, blew a big slab of concrete out of the wall in the kitchen. The Man thought it was an escape attempt and locked the whole place down for two weeks. The Prof hasn't spoken to Elroy since.

"You know what a Bandog is?"

"Not exactly."

"The newspapers, you know how they have those headlines: baby chewed to death by pit bull, Rottweiler mauls toddler…like that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, these fucking idiots, they don't understand. It's all in the way you raise them. It's not the dog, it's the owners." The maniac paused for breath, ready to make his pitch. "Anyway, you want to own a pit bull in New York now, you got to have special insurance, register it and all. Same for Rottweilers in England. See, what they really want to do is
ban
the dogs, get it?"

"No."

"You can only ban a dog if it's a particular breed, right? Like a Doberman or a collie."

"So?"

"So some breeders got the idea of
combining
breeds, you see what I mean? Like, if you cross a Doberman with a collie, you ain't got a Doberman, and you ain't got a collie."

I lit a smoke, wondering if he'd ever get to the point. If there was a point.

"So they started with pit bulls, 'cause they was the real targets. There's a lot of so–called Bandogs out there, crossing pits with Rhodesians, with bulldogs, Rotties, all kinds of crazy stuff. But the real thing, the true Bandog, you got to cross a male pit bull with a female Neo. That's the only way to go."

"What do you get?"

"They look like giant pits, man. Run maybe ninety, a hundred and ten pounds. All bone and muscle. And dead game."

"Damn."

"Yeah! Now the way I figure it, we mate my Barko and your Pansy, and we got the foundation stock for the best Bandogs in the world. Maybe get the first dogs to pull a ton and a half. What d'you think?"

"I never bred her, Elroy. Tried a couple of times, but she wasn't having any."

"Can't we at least
try
?"

"I'm not tying her up. She
wants
to do it, and you'll take all the puppies when they're weaned…

"I'll think about it, okay?"

"Yeah! Sure, I mean…only if they
like
each other, okay?"

"All right."

"Great! Let's see, okay?"

"Elroy, you psychotic, Pansy's not in heat."

"Just to see if they get along…come on, Burke."

"She's dangerous, Elroy. Big and dangerous."

"Barko's a charmer, man. Like his daddy. All the ladies love him."

He untied the pit. Barko ambled over, respecting Pansy's space. They sniffed each other. Pansy growled, but her heart wasn't in it, just testing. Barko stood his ground. They circled each other, sniffing again. Finally, Pansy lay down. Barko licked her face, lay down beside her.

"What did I
tell
you, man!"

"She gets in heat, I'll bring her back."

"Shake on it, partner," the demento insisted. He hadn't asked for any such reassurances about his bogus bonds.

I opened the door. Pansy jumped into the back seat. I climbed in, started her up. Leaned out the window.

"Elroy, this other scheme of yours…? What are you going to pull?"

"All I been through, man, I'm gonna write a book."

50

T
he trick with moving phony paper, it has to look legitimate and smell crooked. Suckers think stuff's been stolen, they
know
it's for real. Stop at any traffic light in the right part of town—somebody'll come up to your car with a camcorder or a VCR, still in the brand–new carton, all shrink–wrapped in clear plastic. The professionals, they know how much deadweight to put inside to get an exact match. When the sucker gets it home, he learns the truth. Bearer bonds, it's a little trickier. Same idea, bigger suckers.

I docked the Plymouth behind Mama's, right under the neat row of Chinese characters warning the locals the territory belonged to Max the Silent. Nobody ever parked there for long.

Snapped Pansy's lead on and approached the back door. The thugs let me in, giving Pansy a lot of room, watching her in wonder and admiration. She was too well trained to make a try for any of the food, but she slobbered her usual three quarts in anticipation.

Mama came back from her post, smiling when she saw Pansy. She won a setup bet with her cooks once, wagering on who could tell what country the dog came from. After she'd asked me first.

"Puppy hungry, Burke?"

"Sure is, Mama. She may have met her future husband today…gave her an appetite."

I brought her down to the basement as Mama was firing instructions at the cooks. One of them came downstairs lugging a steel vat by the handles, steam fogging the air around him.

I no sooner had "Speak!" out of my mouth than Pansy plunged her snout deep into the vat, making noises they'd censor out of the horror movies.

Upstairs, I sipped my hot and sour soup while Mama fingered through the portfolio of bonds, a pair of white gloves on her hands.

"This real company, Burke?"

"Sure thing, Mama. Trades on the AMEX. The bonds are issued on its international division."

"This division…?"

"Yeah, it issues bonds, some of them in bearer form." Real bearer bonds are as good as cash. Untraceable. No registration. You hold them, you own them. Like diamonds, only they don't have to be appraised.

"Some people, maybe they pay…ten percent, yes?"

"Sure."

"This take time, right? Send overseas, far away. Many people wash their hands in the same bowl, the water get cloudy."

"I understand. The manufacturer, he needs a third."

"One hundred thousand."

"A little more, I think, one–third."

"One hundred thousand. Everyone must be paid."

"Okay."

"For you?"

"Whatever you say, Mama."

She smiled her approval of my manners, ladled more soup into my bowl.

A shadow fell across the table. Max. He shouldered in next to me, bowing to Mama at the same time. She opened her mouth to yell something at the waiters, but one of them was there with a bowl for Max before she got a word out. She said something to the waiter anyway. "Smartass" sounds the same in Cantonese.

It was like old times, for a while. Yonkers had added a new feature to the evening program—some of the races were carded for an extra distance past the traditional mile…from a sixteenth to a quarter. I explained my foolproof, surefire, can't–miss handicapping system—the longer the race, the better the chance for the fillies against the colts. Class tells in the long run, and the female side of any species is built for endurance. They listened the way they always do: Max fascinated, Mama bored to narcolepsy. Mama isn't a gambler—her idea of a sporting event is a fixed fight.

Max had the racing form in his pocket and we went over it together. Mama politely excused herself, nodding toward the front door. In Mama's business, customers didn't use the front door. But every once in a while some ignorant yuppie would ignore the filthy tables, the food–splattered walls, the flyspecked menus, and the rest of the unappetizing ambiance and actually order food. It was Mama's job to make sure they never came back—people like that interfered with business. A health inspector once visited the kitchen, tried to shake Mama down. A small gratuity was expected. Otherwise, he said, they'd have to close the place down for a while until it was brought up to snuff. Maybe even publish a notice in the paper that the Board of Health had found violations. Mama gave him a blank look. When the Health Code Violation notice was printed in the paper, she pasted it in the window. The health inspector never came back.

I scanned the form the way I always do, looking for the intangibles, that combination telling me a horse was ready to break out, overcome its past. Everything important but the breeding, that's overrated. I'd like to own a trotter someday. They don't cost that much, and I've scored heavy enough to pull it off more than once. But you can't own a horse if you've got a felony record, so that lets me out. I could open a day–care center, though.

Finally, I settled on a six–year–old mare. She was shipping in from the Meadowlands, a mile track with a long stretch. She always ran from off the pace, so conventional wisdom says she'd come up short transferring to Yonkers, a half–mile oval with a real short way home. But I figured the extra eighth of a mile in the fifth race would give her all the space she'd need. Morning line was 6—1. I put a pair of fifties on the counter, pointed to Max. He matched it. I got up to call Maurice. Max can do a lot of things, but he can't telephone a bookie.

Max didn't let me pass, blocking the booth, his hands working, asking me to explain things again.

I went through it again—the Patience card is always in my deck. Caught his eyes, made the sign for "okay?" His face was expressionless, body posture relaxed. I shoved lightly against him. Good luck. Finally, he held up an open palm like a traffic cop: Stop.

I hunched my shoulders, opened my hands: Why?

He pointed at my watch—almost four in the afternoon, shook his head. Not time yet? I looked over to Mama at her register, couldn't catch her eye.

The hell with it. I lit a smoke. Max took out a deck of cards, shifted out of the booth, and sat down across from me. Dealt out a hand of gin. First card up from the pack was the ace of spades. No knock, results doubled. I made a gesture like writing something on paper. Max pulled the last score sheet from his pocket, pushed it over to me. He was into me for more money than I could steal in a lifetime. We'd been playing for years and years—the fool was going to hang in until he got even or pass the weight on to his daughter when he retired.

I got lost in the game. Like I was back inside, where killing time was an achievement. Max reached for a card. Mama came up behind him, tapped him hard on the shoulder. He turned to look at her. She shook her head side to side, emphatically. Max ignored her advice the way he used to ignore the Prof when we all jailed together. Tossed me the four of hearts. Gin.

I totaled up the score. The Mongolian was down another two grand and it was only…damn! Six–thirty.

The front door swung open. Immaculata—Lily and Storm close behind. They walked to the booth. Mac kissed Max, bowed her thanks. Max slid out of the booth, his job done.