Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [83]
I turned full–face to the back. El Cañonero was a short, stocky Hispanic, not as dark as Pablo. He had straight, coal–black hair. Pablo once told me Puerto Ricans were a mixture of all the world's races. Looking at the two men in the back seat, I could see the African in Pablo, the Incan in El Cañonero. The shooter's face was featureless except for heavy cheekbones. But I'd seen his eyes before. On a tall, lanky man from West Virginia. Sniper's eyes—measuring distances.
The Lincoln worked its way downtown. We pulled to a stop across from the playground.
Kids were running everywhere. Little kids screaming, chasing each other, bigger kids in a stickball game. Teenagers against the fence, smoking dope, listening to a giant portable stereo. Pablo jerked his thumb. We got out, leaned against the car.
The gate to the park would be closed at midnight. Wire mesh—it wouldn't keep anybody out.
El Cañonero's eyes swept the scene. He said something in Spanish to Pablo, who just nodded.
I saw the man against the wire mesh. A medium–sized white man with a baseball cap on his head. Watching the kids play. He was wearing a yellow sweater, the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows.
I focused in on him, lighting a smoke. He had a heavy rubber band around one wrist. He pulled at it again and again with his other hand, snapping it against the inside of his wrist. I nudged Pablo, pointing at the man with a tilt of my head.
"Aversive therapy," I sneered.
His face went hard. "They should've tied the rubber band around his throat."
El Cañonero grunted a question. Pablo explained it to him. I couldn't follow the words, but I knew what he was saying. They have programs where they try "conditioning" on child molesters. The idea is to show them a lot of pictures of kids—then blast them with an electric jolt when the freaks get aroused. Nobody believes it works. When they discharge one of the freaks, they tell him to wear a rubber band around his wrist. When he feels himself getting excited over a kid, he's supposed to snap the band—reactivate his conditioning.
The shooter's eyes bored in on the man in the yellow sweater. "Maricón!" he snarled. Pablo launched into another speech. A child molester isn't a homosexual; most gays hate them too. El Cañonero listened, flat–faced. I heard my name. The shooter nodded. Then he held out his hand. I shook it. Pablo must have told him what I did.
Pablo leaned over to me. "We're going around the back, take a look. You stay here with Elena."
"I want to talk to the freak. Just take a minute."
"Si:" He gestured for the woman to move close. "Elena, that man over there, he is a molester of children. He is the wolf, stalking the baby chickens. My compadre wants to approach him, get a good look at his face, so el gusano will know he is known to us. Perhaps threaten him with violence, okay?"
She nodded. Pablo and El Cañonero moved off.
"Do you speak any English?" I asked the woman.
"I teach English," she said, nothing on her face.
"I didn't mean to offend you."
"You could not offend me. Just say what you want me to do."
I told her. I held out my hand. She took it, moving smoothly against me as we crossed the street.
Elena left me and moved off behind the freak. He stayed glued to the fence. I wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket, moving my shoulder against the freak, slipping my left hand behind his back.
"Kids are cute, huh?"
He jumped like he'd been stabbed. "What?"
I snatched a handful of his sweater, locking his belt from behind, shoving my face into his, my voice cell–block hard. "When did they let you out, freak?"
"Hey! I didn't…"
I pushed him against the fence, my face jammed into his. "Don't come back to this playground, scumbag. We've been watching you. We know you. We know what you do. You do it again, you're dog meat. Got it?"
The freak twisted his head away from me. I looked where he was looking. At Elena. Standing three feet from us in her blue jogging suit, hands buried in the pockets of the sweatshirt. She took out her left hand,