Choice of Evil

“Yeah. Really.”

“All right, Burke. What do you want to know?”

“I guess. . . what I asked you.”

“This is a bisexual woman, then? The one you met?”

“Yeah. At least I think so.”

“And Crystal Beth was—?”

“You know what, Michelle? I never knew what she was. I mean, she said she was. And I knew she had. . . I knew her and Vyra—”

“Vyra!” Michelle spat the name out. “The one with the shoes, right?”

“Yes. But she’s gone now. Remember?”

“No, I do not remember. I had no dealings with that one. Don’t you remember?”

I didn’t know how to reel her in. Michelle was all tangents when she wasn’t working. But I tried another route anyway.

“Forget Vyra, okay? And Crystal Beth, all I know is that she said she was bi, okay? That’s why she went to that rally, even though she said the others didn’t really want her there.”

“The others?”

“Gay people. She said bisexuals were, like, caught between the two worlds.”

“I don’t think so,” Michelle said. “It’s not that. They’re caught between stereotypes, that’s all.”

“What?”

“Look, if a woman, a straight woman, if she has lots of lovers, she’s a slut, right?”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, never mind what you think,” she dismissed me. “I’m talking about. . . them,” she said, indicating the rest of the world with a sweep of her hand. “But straights, they think all gays are promiscuous, right? All they know about are the glory holes and the quick meets in the park—the anonymous stuff. You tell them a couple of gay men are together, really with each other, and they, like, can’t quite get it, see? Now, a bisexual man, what everyone assumes is he’s really gay, all right? Maybe he can close his eyes and make it with a woman, but how many times you ever hear of a gay male telling his lover it’s all over, he’s found out he’s straight and he wants to be with a woman?”

“I never—”

“Me either. But the reverse, that’s all the time, yes? Man’s been married twenty years, getting some on the side in the gay bars, but profiling straight. He tells his wife the truth, she’s busted up, sure. But the rest of the world, it just nods its head and says, ‘Sure,’ like it was going to happen sooner or later.”

“Yeah, but. . .”

“Bisexual women, it’s like there’s no such thing. Not to. . . them. So when a woman says she’s bi, the only thing they figure is she’s fucking everyone on the planet, right?”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, who cares? That’s what they think. Any married couple wants to jazz up their sex life, first thing they do is advertise for a bi girl, am I right? But what’s this got to do with anything, anyway?”

“This girl? The one I met?”

“Yessss. . .?”

“Well, she’s bi. Or she was once. I don’t know. She says she’s a lesbian now. Heavy-duty top too, the way she fronts it.”

“But she’s coming on to you?”

“Yeah. At least. . . I think so.”

“Because you’re dense? Or because. . .?”

“Because she’s. . . ambiguous. She doesn’t say anything about herself. Just about me. How I supposedly want her so bad, and I’m not admitting it.”

“Roles are. . . weird. Like it’s. . . I don’t know. . . safer, maybe, if you have a role. If you know what you’re supposed to do, you can’t make a mistake. But if she’s a top, maybe she’s just plugged into your testosterone, honey.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means every man wants to spank a dom. The ones who don’t want to take it themselves, that is. That’s what the scene-players believe—that everybody would be doing what they do if they had the guts. And if you play that way, sometimes you stay that way. You can get. . . stuck. And you never think there’s a middle. So if she does men too. . .”

“I don’t know. She only said—”

“Doesn’t matter. If she’s a top, she knows other tops. And some of them do men. Big money in it. Even over the phone. Little Sister knows that part by heart, honey.”

“So I—?”

“So you. . . what? You like her?”

“No. She’s not real. . . likable, I don’t think. But. . .”

“You want to fuck her?”

“Not even that. Michelle, look, she wants to work with me. On this. . . thing I’m doing. What I’m going to see the Mole about. Says she’s in love with this ‘Homo Erectus’ guy.”

“The one who’s killing all those—”

“Yeah.”

“In love with. . . what he’s doing, maybe. Or the. . . power thing. But she’s pushing you too?”

“It. . . feels like all she wants me to do is bite, so she can pull the apple away and laugh.”

“There’s those,” Michelle conceded. “But it wouldn’t have anything to do with her being bi.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, honey. That’s just a label. Even gays don’t really want people like her in the club. I mean, they say they want everyone, right?”

“No. Crystal Beth said they didn’t—”

“What they say, baby. Even when I was. . . Back then. Before I had the operation. There was room for people like me too. ‘Transgenders.’ Isn’t that special? Like they want us all, but they only mean the roles. And if you don’t fit one of those, they all think you got a piece missing.”

“So there’s no—”

“Baby, the only thing for sure is, this girl, whatever she wants, it’s not as simple as how she likes to play.”

Hunts Point never changes. It continues its celebration of quick violence and slow decay no matter how many times some star-gazer tries to turn the Urban Renewal trick. The development money always vanishes, swag cut up by elected thieves. And the blight stays—a permanent resident, building its strength, awaiting the next impotent assault.

Michelle went quiet as soon as we turned off the boulevard and moved deep into the prairie. She’s seen the same route a thousand times, but it never fails to make her sad. All hope has been vampired out of this place, cut down past the bone, into the desolate marrow.

But she perked up as soon as I nosed the Plymouth into the V made up of rusting cyclone-fence gates wrapped in concertina wire. The dog pack moved in even before I shut off the engine. They were more curious than dangerous—so confident they could take down any intruder that they didn’t need to put on a show. Besides, none of them would make a move until Simba showed. That beast had a lot of miles on his odometer, but he still was the pack leader, and none of the young studs had so much as tried him yet, far as I knew.

The chopped-down Jeep the Mole uses for a shuttle rolled up on the other side of the gate, its unmuffled growl blending with that of the pack. Terry was at the wheel. He took one look through the Plymouth’s windshield and jumped off his seat so fast he almost stomped on a couple of the dogs.