Choice of Evil

pay the same price. Watch your language!

It was signed with the “Homo Erectus” tag. Nobody questioned its authenticity—the body count had wiped out any doubts.

The city reeked of fear.

I missed not paying taxes. Juan Rodriguez died in the attack on my office. Sooner or later, IRS would go looking for him. That wasn’t a problem, but the No Visible Means of Support was. Or it would be, if I got popped again. And I felt that coming—IRS wasn’t in a hurry, but the cops were. They would have paraded one of the outpatients who confessed in front of the cameras by now, doing the whole Perp Walk thing, but they knew what would happen next—the killer would show the world that it was phony. And who knows? Maybe he’d decide that promoting a bogus confession was a kind of gay-bashing too. Nobody wanted to walk into that minefield. But arresting me was no big risk. They wouldn’t have to tell the papers I was suspected of the actual murders, just recite any lame routine about “conspiracy” or “aiding and abetting” and it would take the heat off them for a while. With my record, I’d qualify perfectly for remand without bail—history of violence, no roots in the community, significant risk of flight to avoid. . .

The best way to lock in a bogus ID is to have it keep up its tax payments while you’re someplace where you couldn’t. I figured I was going down soon as the cops found me, and I wanted the new name in place first. That way, I could start the withholding and Social Security and all the other government crap rolling first, and let it build while I was Inside. Davidson would spring me sooner or later—it’s happened before—and I could get something out of it.

But I couldn’t hunt from Inside, so I couldn’t stay there too long. My plan was to have Davidson walk me in again, soon as Wolfe came through with the ID. Pansy can get her own food. I have this six-foot-high metal box with a lip at the bottom that she can shove with her snout to make the dry dog food drop. And a hundred-gallon water bottle inverted in place so she can drink, too. It’d be good for a couple of months, minimum, and there’s plenty of space for her to roam around. It’s not perfect, and I felt bad the last time it happened, but there’s nobody to leave her with. I mean, she wouldn’t go after Max, but she wouldn’t go with him either.

We talked it over once, me and him. If I ever went away for a long stretch again, I told Max to tranq her out and then move her over to Elroy’s. He’s a crazed counterfeiter who lives in a shack out in the country with a pit bull who gets along with Pansy. I know she’d stay there peacefully—she did it before. Elroy had wanted Pansy and his dog to get together, create a brand-new breed. But they were pals, not lovers, and he finally accepted it.

There was nothing else I had to worry about. Everyone in my family could take care of themselves. And each other. I didn’t have bills to pay or a landlord to worry about. My family had too much sense to come on visiting day. Crystal Beth would have come no matter what they told her, I thought. I cut that off quick, before it started to hurt.

I was ready, just waiting on the ID.

Then I got a call, and everything changed again.

“Yes, say that,” Mama told me, adamant.

“She said she was my girlfriend?”

“Yes. Say that. I ask her who this is, right? She say, Tell him his girlfriend called.”

“You recognize the voice?”

“No. Maybe. . . not sure. Hard to tell with Europeans. All sound alike.”

“She didn’t leave a number? A message?”

“Just call, okay? Ask for you, okay? I say you not here, call back, okay? Who you? She say, ‘His girlfriend,’ then hang up. No more.”

I didn’t waste time trying to figure it out. “You seen Max around, Mama?”

“Sure. Here before. With baby.”

“He coming back?”

“Always come back,” Mama said. Something was wrong—the whole song was a beat off.

“What is it, Mama?” I asked her, looking her full in the face—something you do with her only when you’re dead serious.

“What you do with these. . . people?”

“What people, Mama?”

“Crazy people. What you do with them?”

“Mama, I’m not following this, all right? I’m working.”

That should have ended it. Working was sacred to Mama. And she knew what kind of work I did. Same as hers, only I played it different. But we were both thieves in our hearts. All of us in my family were. We might have had different reasons, but nobody ever asked. Sometimes we told—I knew about Max, and I knew about Michelle— and sometimes we didn’t—the Prof never explained, he just taught. Nobody ever asked Mama. And if she told Max, he kept it to himself. I’ve known Mama forever. And the only time she was ever upset with me was when I wasn’t working. But her face was stone and her eyes were harder.

“It’s just a job,” I tried again.

“You go after that girl, right?”

“Girl? What girl? You think the killer’s a woman?”

“Not killer. The girl. The one you bring in here. The one you marry.”

“Marry? Mama, what the hell are you talking about? I never—”

“Crystal Beth,” Mama said. No description, an actual name. Very strange for her. “You live with her, yes? Love her, right?”

“Mama, I—”

“You go where she is, Burke? You go to be with her?”

“Me? Mama, no! You think this is some kind of kamikaze run, I—”

“Huh!” is all she spat back at me. I realized I’d screwed up halfway through the word. Mama hates anything Japanese, even their expressions.

“Mama,” I said, dropping my voice, going into my center for patience, calling on the credit I’d built up, “you know I don’t lie to you.”

“Uhn,” is all I got back from her mouth. But she nodded, unable to deny what I said.

“This isn’t about suicide. I know there’s nothing. . . there. Crystal Beth’s down in the Zero, right? She’s gone. I can’t find her. And people don’t come back from the dead.”

“Some people not die.”

“What does that mean? She’s dead, Mama. No question about it. Dead and gone.”

“So you look for. . . who? People who kill her? Or man killing. . . them?”

“What?”

“Your woman killed. Accident, right? I mean, not her they killing. Just hate those. . . people.”

“Homosexuals?”

“Yes,” Mama said, looking as close to embarrassed as I’d ever seen her. “Hate. . . them. Not her. Not. . . personal, right?”

“Right.”

“This other one, big killer. He kill them too, he find them, right?”

“Sure. Looks like he’d happily waste any fag-basher on the planet.”

“But you look for him, right? You find him, then he stop. No more killing, right?”

“Ah. I don’t know, Mama. That’s not my deal. The people who want me to find him, they want to help him. Help him get out of here, get safe. They sure as hell don’t want me turning him over to the cops.”

“Sure sure. But he still stop then, right?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“So the ones who kill your woman. . .?”

“Mama, I don’t know who they are. I don’t have any way to find them. And thanks to this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy, every fag-basher in the city has gone to ground. People are even afraid to talk about it,