Choice of Evil

gets. No partners. Whatever stuff he’s using he got a long time ago. Like he’s got a warehouse full of it or something. Like this isn’t anything new.”

Her eyes flickered when I said that. Flickered, not flashed, the blue going from cobalt to cyanotic and back, switching on and off for just a split-second. If she noticed me staring, she didn’t react.

“Anyway, she can do that, right?”

“I. . . don’t know.”

“I thought you said she’d do anything you—”

“Anything she can do,” Nadine snapped back. “I’m not insane. If it’s there, and if she can get it, I’ll get it, sure. But I don’t know. . . . She told me they have, what do they call them, ‘firewalls’ or something, inside the department. ‘Access Only’ places, when they’re working on stuff. Mostly political, I guess, but she doesn’t know. And I sure don’t.”

“It’s nothing like that,” I told her, with a confidence I didn’t feel. “I even know where it probably is. NYPD has the same thing as the feds—some Organized Crime unit, whatever they’re calling it this week, I don’t know, but it would be the same thing. That’s where she has to look.”

“He would never. . .”

“He? I thought you said—”

“Not my. . . friend. Him. He would never have anything to do with organized crime.”

“Not even to kill a few of them?”

“Oh! But why would he. . .?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true. But before I can ask my questions, I need what I told you.”

She stood up and started to pace, unbuttoning her jade silk blouse, leaving the off-white blazer on over it. The black bra underneath was frillier than I expected, for some reason I didn’t focus on. “Sometimes it’s hard to breathe in all this stuff,” she said. “When it’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to think.”

There was so much truth in what she said that I focused on that, slitting my eyes as she walked back and forth. She stopped at one point, stood on one leg, and pulled off her shoe, then switched legs to do the other, so she was in her stocking feet. By the third circuit, she was down to sheer pantyhose.

“Men hate these, don’t they?” she said suddenly.

“Huh?” I’d been somewhere else. Not far away, but just. . . apart.

“Pantyhose. Men hate them, don’t they?”

“Hate? That’s a pretty strong word for clothing.”

“Okay, fine. Men don’t like them, all right?”

“I’m not following you.”

“You ever see pantyhose in a skin magazine?” she asked me. “It’s all garter belts and fishnet stockings and thongs, right? Pantyhose, it’s too. . . practical. Like shoes. You think men would wear spike heels? They hurt once you have them on for a while. But they make your legs look good, so what the hell, right?”

“What do I—?”

“That’s, of course, if they’re interested in big girls, right?” she snarled, angry beyond anything I could imagine having done to her. I couldn’t figure what had ignited all that, so I just rode it— waiting, knowing there’s always a reason in the eye of the tornado. . . if you’re around long enough to take that look.

“Some of them like little plaid pleated skirts and Mary Jane shoes and white socks. . . and white cotton panties too. A garter belt would spoil all that, wouldn’t it? The. . . image, I mean. That’s what it’s all about for. . . them. Whatever they see. Their eyes. You know even blind men are like that? I have a friend. A dancer. She says they get blind customers in there too.”

“And this is all about. . . what?” I asked her, as neutral as I could, no sarcasm anywhere near my voice.

“It’s all about. . . this!” she snapped at me. “This. . . killer, you call him. Whatever name you call him. He’s a man. But he’s not like the rest of you.”

“Because he’s gay?”

“You think that’s a difference? You think gay men don’t look at us the same way? Oh sure, maybe they don’t want to fuck us. Or maybe they do and just. . . I don’t know. But who do you think runs the damn fashion industry?”

“Frederick’s of Hollywood isn’t exactly Versace,” I said.

“It’s the same thing,” she shot back. “It’s all about what men want.”

“So. . . these women who silicone their chests out to all hell, the ones who rake in a couple of grand a night under the same tables they dance on, they’re all fashion victims?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m not saying it isn’t true, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying. . . the way things are. And any of us can feel it. We know. Some of us play along. Some of us just play. But we all know. And I’m telling you something about him. Something important, if you’ll listen. He’s not like you.”

“I already know he’s—”

“Not because he’s gay,” she said.

“Fine. Because he hates fag-bashers. Because he kills a lot of them. Because he’s a fucking superior specimen of humanity, for all I know.”

“He is,” she said, calmly. “And before I do anything more, I need to know more about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re a mercenary, aren’t you? Lincoln says you have a ‘code.’ Some bullshit he picked up from the movies. You’re a ‘professional,’ ” she sneered. “You’d never double-cross a client. Your word is your bond. So, even if you could trade this. . . man to the cops instead of helping him get away, you’d never do that, would you? Even if it would help you get out from under a bunch of trouble of your own, huh?”

“You trust this friend of yours?” I asked her. “Not Lincoln—your playmate?”

“I told you—”

“You told me she’d kiss your ass in Macy’s window. So what? I don’t mean do you believe she’d play whatever game you ordered her to—I mean do you believe her when she says something.”

That stopped her in her tracks, as if she’d never considered it. She crossed her arms under her breasts, lifted them deliberately, looked down at herself like she was thinking about how one would taste. Then she looked over at me.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“Ask her,” I said. “All you got so far is what anyone could give you, insider or not. Yeah, I got a record. A nice long one. And, yeah, the cops are always on my case—they got a bunch of Unsolveds with my name on them. I’m a thief. Been one since I was a baby. And I’ll be one until I die. Those ‘codes’. . . You’re right: it is all movie bullshit. Any one of those slimy little gangsters’ll rat out any other. Happens all the time. But me, I got no gang. No crew. No fucking ‘Mafia’ or anything like that. I’ve got a family. Not my blood, but more true than any DNA could be. Truly mine. I wouldn’t sell any of them no matter what the price was. My life? Fuck that. I don’t care that much about it myself anymore. So ask your little slave friend that. You know my name. She knows it. There’s cops been around long enough to know it too. I been the same since forever. My name is in the street. It’s fucking engraved there, you know where to look. It’s not all true. None of that stuff ever is. But stick your ear anywhere you want, you come back with anything that says I’d shop one of my own, I’ll kiss your ass, bitch.”

“Look, I wasn’t—”

“Save it,” I chopped her off. “This guy. This. . . killer. There’s people who think I know who he is already. People who think they know who he is. They’re wrong. The guy they suspect—he’s dead. Dead and gone. But if he was alive, I wouldn’t trade him either, not for anything. I came up with him, and he saved my life. More than once. I don’t judge him. . . . I know him. Hell, I wanted to be him once. But I. . . couldn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you—?”

“That’s not your business. And it never will be. I just told you the truth. You’re always telling me what a liar I