Free False Allegations by Andrew Vachss Page A

hyper–vigilance that comes standard with all Children of the Secret— I shaved real close the next morning. Then I combed some of that stupid gel Michelle got for me through my hair. Put on an undertaker–black worsted suit over a cobalt silk shirt with a plain black silk tie. I stepped into a pair of soft black alligator boots with steel toes and hollow heels. One heel held ten hundred–dollar bills wrapped around a handcuff speed key; the other a little round box like women keep lip gloss in. If you pulled the tab off the top and waited about five seconds, it would blow a door off its hinges. I fitted a smuggler’s necklace around my neck under the shirt. Twenty–four one–ounce ingots of pure gold— you could pop them out one at a time, bribe your way free of damn near anything.
    A complete set of ID went into my wallet. Not the Juan Rodriguez stuff I used for my license and registration— I wouldn’t be taking the Plymouth. Arnold Haines was up to date on all his credit cards. He appeared on a few visiting lists in a couple of Upstate prisons, but, hell, a lot of legit businessmen were on those lists.
    I never thought about taking a gun. But under the bead capping the tang to my belt buckle was an alloy needle tipped with a dab of paste the Mole gave me— a little present from one of his pals in the Mossad. And the gold coin I used for a money clip had a half–moon razor I could push out with a thumb without looking.
    Pansy watched me suspiciously, somehow knowing she wasn’t coming along. “When I come back, I’ll bring you something special,” I promised her. “No Chinese this time, okay?”
    She made her snarfling noise, ice water eyes regarding me with all the mercy of a polygraph. “I promise , okay?” I said, patting her massive head, scratching behind her ears until she shifted to a purring sound, trusting me again.
    I wish it was always that easy.
     
     
    “O h be careful with it, mahn. Please , now. This is not a damn lorry you are driving, all right?”
    Max shifted the Rover into second gear as carefully as a surgeon removing a cataract— his huge hand looked like a scarred piece of old leather on the floor knob. His eyes flicked at me in the mirror, asking for sympathy for Clarence’s mother–hen attitude. The West Indian hawk–eyed the Mongolian’s every move, as nervous as I’d ever seen him.
    “He insisted on driving, mahn,” he told me. “And you know how delicate my ride is.”
    “So why’d you let him?” I asked.
    “Ah, he is my brother,” Clarence said. “And he wanted to so badly…”
    For some reason I never quite got, Max loved to drive. He wasn’t real good at it, especially in the city. It was like he expected cars to step aside for him the same way people did. He’d banged the Plymouth up more than once. But he was handling the Rover like it was a fragile child, keeping a nice cushion of air around him as we wove through the narrow streets of Chinatown. It was just past two in the afternoon— plenty of time to get to the midtown address Kite had given me.
    “It’ll be okay,” I assured Clarence. “Max knows you love your car.”
    A truck blocked the cobblestoned street ahead of us. One–way street, traffic behind us. There was almost room enough to get past. Max inched the Rover forward. Clarence clasped his hands in prayer. A parked car on our right, the outside rearview mirror of the truck to our left. We were only about four inches short of slipping by, but that still left us wedged in— no place to go.
    I signaled Max to stay put and climbed out of the back seat. Three guys were sitting on a loading platform, drinking something out of big white styrofoam cups.
    “That your truck?” I asked them.
    “Who wants to know?” the guy in the middle asked back, chin up, neck muscles starting to tighten.
    “You’re blocking the road, pal,” I told him. “Just pull over a few inches and we can get by.”
    “In a minute,” he said, dismissing me. The