his new portable radio. You know, the giant-sized jobs the kids carry today? Anyway, a couple of punks tried to rough off the kid’s radio and one of them got himself stabbed. So they had this kid in detention and we’re working on a self-defense case. Meanwhile, they send the kid to see this Pakistani psychiatrist-to interview him and make his report to the court. When I come into the court there’s this doctor up on the stand telling the judge that the kid is sexually disturbed. He says that the kid has a fantasy that he has a woman’s vagina on his shoulder-and that his reality-testing is so bad that he keeps insisting on it. So the judge asks the psychiatrist how he came to that conclusion, and the Pakistani tells the judge that the kid keeps saying, “I was bopping down the block with the box on my shoulder…” and he goes on in that upperclass Paki accent of his:
“I am most familiar with your American idiom, sir. And it is common knowledge that the word
“Well, the judge about had a kitten. He was no legal scholar but even
“What did he do?” Flood wanted to know.
About what you’d expect-he thanked the doctor for his time and remanded the kid for another psychiatric exam.”
“You think that pimp will get a shrink like that?”
“It doesn’t make much difference-he’s sure as hell crazy by now. Anyway, Margot’s well away, and that was the deal. I pay my debts.”
“I know you do,” said Flood, bending to kiss me.
“We have to leave for the airport,” I told her.
“There’s enough time,” she said. And that was true.
61
TWO HOURS LATER I nosed the Plymouth through the parking lot at JFK, looking for a soft spot. I carried Flood’s little bag in one hand, held her waist with the other. She bumped against me softly.
“Burke?”
“Yeah?”
“The last time we made love. In my studio. I thought about having your baby-in Japan-raising him there.”
“And you decided not to, right?”
“Yes.”
“I know,” I said. And I did.
We walked to the departure lounge. I didn’t have a ticket so the JAL people said I could only go so far. I already knew that-I’ve heard it before.
I put my thumb under Flood’s square chin and tilted her lovely face up to me. I grabbed a look at those clear big eyes for the last time, the little tic-tac-toe crosshatch scar now almost invisible under the Cobra’s fading bruises. I kissed her. My heart died.
Flood looked deep into my face, said, “I’m for you, Burke,” squeezed my hand and turned to go. I watched her walk away-and I knew it was the truth.
Andrew Vachss
Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a “children’s book for adults.” His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in
The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com
