Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [19]
The pedophile letters always have P.O. boxes of their own for return addresses. One was neatly typed on creamy bond paper, the monogram "CX" engraved in one corner. "I'm always interested in the real thing. Especially discipline, golden showers, and snuff. I hope we can be friends." I put the letter aside. If it wasn't from a Postal Inspector, I had a genuine freak—the kind who expected to pay for his fun. Scumbags. They always manage to get what they pay for. Sometimes I get lucky; then they pay for what they get.
The rest of the mail was replies to our new series of personal ads. We run them everyplace—from literary journals to hard–core slime–sheets. Variations on the same theme: young girl, serving a prison sentence, getting out soon. Lonely, broke, needs a friend.
Honey Blaine is the sweet young girl's name. If any of the suckers bothered to write directly, they'd find an "H. Blaine, #86–B–9757," doing time at Bedford Hills. Just the way it said in the ad. Honey would set them straight right away. She'd explain that she couldn't write the kind of letter she'd really like to: the prison censors wouldn't permit it. Honey had a secret P.O. box, though, and if a sincere man was willing to be a little patient, well…
I screened the letters. Michelle answered them. We had a few dozen different photos we used. All Polaroids ("That's the only kind they let us take here, darling"). Whatever the suckers wanted, that's what they got. Honey could be a nineteen–year–old victimized by a cruel pimp. A lesbian whose lover informed on her in a drug deal. A car thief. Anything but a scam artist. She could be the answer to an old man's prayer or the bottom of a minister's ugly fantasy. A very flexible girl, this Honey. All it took was Michelle's never–miss instincts and some creative writing. Honey would play the sucker, work the hook in deep, turning up the heat to full boil. Then the poor girl would start to have problems: a bull dyke hitting on her, demanding her body or her life; a threatened transfer to another section of the prison, where she wouldn't be able to correspond. Overdue rent on the P.O. box. A nice piece of cash needed to bribe the Parole Board. Gate money. And the money orders would start to come in.
After a while, the sucker would get his last letter returned. Unopened. An official prison stamp on the outside. Black–bordered. "Return to sender. Inmate deceased." The suckers always bought it—if it was a scam, why wouldn't sweet Honey have cashed the last money order?
H. Blame, #86–B–9757, wasn't allowed visitors. Good thing. The name and the number were legit, but Hortense Blame is a fifty–five–year–old, three–hundred–pound black woman. She raised three generations of foster kids. From babies dropped down incinerators who didn't die, to kiddie prostitutes who never lived. She never had a kid of her own, but she was mother to dozens. Her boyfriend raped one of the kids. A twelve–year–old girl named Princess.
I have a copy of the trial transcript. I got it from the lawyer who's working on the appeal. A hard–blues lyric they'll never put to music.
DIRECT EXAMINATION
BY MR. DAVIDSON:
Q: What, if anything, did you do after Princess told you about the rape?
A: I told the child he was never going to hurt her again. I carried her into my room. Put her in my bed.
Q: The same bed you shared with Mr. Jackson?
A: He wasn't going to be using it no more.
Q: And then?
A: I waited for Jackson to come home. He was out gambling someplace. He comes in the door, sits at the kitchen table. Tells me to get him a beer.
Q: Did you get him a beer?
A: Yeah.
Q: Tell the jury what happened next.
A: I asked him why he did this. I said…
Q: Excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Blame. You asked him why he raped