Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [79]
I looked closer. The "actives" were listed by "MOS." Rifleman, Communications, Infiltration. Every military occupation except Intelligence. Between the arcane symbols and the lavish praise for the "warriors," a collection of life's losers lurked, waiting for their flabby Armageddon.
The "affiliates" were members of other groups who occasionally came to meetings or corresponded. About half lived in southern Illinois or Indiana, the others were scattered throughout the country.
"Candidates" turned out to be humans who Matson thought had potential. One human's credential was a news clipping saying he had been arrested for spray–painting filth on a synagogue.
And the "rejects" were a clump of former "candidates" whose hostility wasn't exclusively confined to blacks. One was rejected after he fractured the jaw of one of Matson's boys in a bar. In his black Magic Marker, Matson neatly printed Unsuitable for Service across the file. Most of his other reject–reasons weren't so sweetly phrased: Jew! Suspected Homosexual. Suspected Government Agent.
I went through them again. Carefully.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Blossom came into the kitchen, face glowing from her shower. Dark purplish band across her throat. My fingerprints drew my eyes.
"It's okay, baby. I'll be pretty as a prom queen in a few days." Her voice was a sugar–edged rasp.
"Yeah."
"Yeah! Just stop it, okay? I know what happened, why it happened."
"Blossom…"
"You want a cigarette?"
"What?"
"Your time's up. A week, like we agreed. And you been such a good boy too. Not one drag, huh?"
"How would you know?"
"I can smell it. All over you. On your hands, in your hair. You've got nice thick hair for such an old man."
"It won't be a week until tonight."
"That's okay. You're off the hook. I lost. I know you could do it now. For as long as you wanted."
"I wish I could do this."
She fumbled in her purse, brought out a fresh pack of smokes. My brand. Slit the cellophane with a fingernail, struck a match, got it going. She walked over, pushed her shoulder against me, sat in my lap, her legs dangling over the sides like a kid on a boat. Held the cigarette to my lips. "Maybe this'll help you think."
141
BLOSSOM WOKE ME with a quick tap on my chest, standing her distance. "Supper's ready, honey."
I couldn't taste the food.
142
LATER THAT NIGHT.
"Blossom, can you make a list of all the names from the child abuse stuff? Just the names and dates of birth?"
"Sure."
I went back to the Nazi files, grinding at the paper with my eyes.
Blossom's list was printed in a clean, sharp hand, slightly slanted to the right.
"Can I read you some names, you check to see if any of them are on your list?"
"I should have alphabetized them."
"It's okay, it's short."
I lit a smoke. Too old to be playing long shots. Too black&white for this movie.
Quiet time passed. Name after name. Blank. No match. Rustle of Blossom's papers.
"Luther Swain."
"Burke, I swear I…yes!"
"Give it to me…not the damn list, Blossom, where's the printout?"
"Keep your pants on, boy. I'll get it."
Luther Swain. Only child of Nathaniel and Margaret Swain. Born February 29, 1968. Removed from his home by Social Services November 4, 1976. Department alerted because child had not attended school, parents had not responded to letters. No home telephone. Whip marks from an electrical cord, cigarette burns, severe eye damage from being kept in a dark basement for several months. Father committed to Logansport, the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Child kept in state institution, released to foster care, returned to institution. Finally: Released to mother, August 9, 1979. Family Reunified—Case Closed.
Blossom on her knees, surrounded by a floorful of paper. Watching me.
The Nazi file. Swain, Luther. Answered one of their ads, requested further information. Sent to a PO box in Gary. Called. Matson and two others met him. "Applicant was evasive about personal details.