Free Sacrifice by Andrew Vachss Page A

You and Floyd found it last night."
    "Huh?"
    "Shut up and do it. I'll talk to you two when we get back to the office."
    "We just thought we'd…" Floyd.
    He caught a warning look from Lola, cut it short.
    Rocco took the bag in his hands. An ugly low snarl came from Bruiser.
    "No!" Wolfe barked back at him.
    "I'll call you," I said to Wolfe.
    She stepped close to me. The breeze ruffled her hair. Orchid perfume. "Give me a number. I'll call you."
    I gave her Mama's number. She didn't write it down.
    "I'm not there much. Leave a message.
    "I know," she said.
    They were all still standing in the parking lot as I pulled out.

45
    I made my rounds the next few days. Patternless, like always, in case anybody was interested. Somebody left a message for me at the poolroom. Wanted to buy guns. A lot of guns, full–auto only. Probably the ATF, checking to see if I was still in business.
    Dropped by the clinic in Brooklyn where they buy blood. I buy in small lots, but I outbid the Red Cross every time. The blood goes into small clear plastic packets. The way it works is this: The team hits a bank. One guy vaults the counter to grab the money while the others hold everyone down at gunpoint. The counter–vaulter cuts his hand going over, curses real loud, like it hurt. When the cops come, they send the lab for the spot where the blood spilled. DNA fingerprinting. They ever catch the robbers, the blood sample won't match. That's why rapists are the only humans you can count on to wear condoms in this town.
    I collect matchbooks too. From restaurants I've never visited. They make good souvenirs to leave behind at a crime scene.
    I never supply ideas, just equipment. Not a middleman, never in the middle.
    There's also good money in body parts. Any part. I once saw an ad for a kidney. One hundred grand cash, jump right over that long waiting list. Sometimes, people are poor enough and cold enough to pop out a kid's eye, make him a more pitiful sight. A better beggar. Predatory anthropologists figured it out—offered the same service but with full hospitalization for the kid. Even threw in a few bucks. And they sell the eyes over here. Everybody wins. Fetal tissue is the perfect transplant material—it'll bond to anything and the body won't reject it. I wonder if the "pro–life" mob knows an abortion could save more lives than the mother's.

46
    S ome women have beautiful eyes. Their girlfriends tell them it's their best feature. So they wear a ton of eyeliner, mascara…like that.
    Bonita bent over a lot.
    She works in a joint that serves food and wine, little stage in the back, performances every night. Stand–up comics, singers, short dramatic pieces.
    Bonita's an actress. Between jobs just now.
    I found a table against the side wall. Smoking section. I wonder if they have them in prison now.
    "Hello, stranger."
    "Hi, Bonita." She was all in black: a tube skirt over a body stocking, spike heels.
    "I called you a couple of times. Didn't that Chinese woman give you the message?"
    "Here I am."
    "Why didn't you
call?"
    "I did. Got your answering machine."
    "So why didn't you leave a
message?"
    "What's the point? You already have my number."
    "But then I'd know you
called,
honey."
    The girl couldn't act but she could read an audience. Just as I was asking myself why I came, she switched away to get me some ice water, shaking it hard enough to blow out the candles on the tables.
    "I'm on my break soon," she said when she came back. "We can watch the show together."
    "What show?" I asked her, barely controlling my enthusiasm.
    "Oh, it's
so
good. It's like a play, or something. Just wait. That's why it's so full tonight."
    I crunched a flaky croissant between my teeth, sipped the ice water. She left the little glass bottle on the table. I wondered if trendoid B–girls drank tap water when they hustled salad–bar customers for drinks.
    Bonita came back. Sat down just as the lights dimmed. I could see a couple of men setting up the stage. The