Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [107]
"Why not the cops?"
"My people wanted justice, Burke. And they knew the man would probably never be prosecuted. His victims were not important."
"What did they expect you to do?"
"The man agreed to go into treatment with us. He made a specific contract that he would cease his activity while we tried to do something about his behavior."
"Behavior?"
"Only his acts were a danger to our community—his motivations are so deep inside him that it would take years of treatment for them to surface. And even then we could probably do nothing about them. We asked only that he stop."
"Did he?"
"No. We cannot know why he made his choice—what forces were within him. We can only assume that he tried to walk the line. One day he slipped and fell."
"What did you do then?"
"Nothing. At that point, it became a matter for the police."
"I thought you said the cops couldn't do anything."
"They could in this case, compadre. When he slipped and fell for the last time, he was on a rooftop." Pablo held his glass in a silent toast to the only rehabilitation that really works.
We sat in silence for a minute—each waiting for the other. Pablo took another sip of the jungle juice. "Hermano, truth we have been talking about crime, not about psychiatry. And you know more about the behavior of such people than I do. Many times we have called upon you to predict the actions of such evil people—our paths originally crossed for that very reason, yes?"
I nodded—it was the truth.
"And you have become my brother, verdad? Do you think I call a man my brother and do not understand him?"
"No—I know you understand."
"Then maybe you should tell me why you have come to talk with me," Pablo said.
I took a last drag on my cigarette, feeling the cold wind eddying in the corners of his office, stirring the dust, making its own howling only I could hear. And I started to tell him about Strega.
80
I TOLD HIM everything. It didn't take as long as I'd thought it would—maybe there wasn't so much to tell. Pablo took off his glasses, carefully rubbed them on the lapel of his white coat, waiting to be sure I was finished.
"What is so puzzling to you, my friend? A person with a task to do uses the weapons he has, no? This woman wants you to do something—she obviously believes the money is not strong enough to bind you to her will. The sex is nothing more than a chain she tosses over your neck— a leash you put on a dangerous dog."
"It doesn't work like that. If she was working me to make sure I did the job, the sex would be a promise, right? A reward. Something to look forward to when the job was done."
"A promise, then? Not a performance?"
"It always seems like a promise…but it's not."
"The woman promises nothing?"
"Nothing."
Pablo looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. "She has already paid you some of the money, yes? If you took the money and didn't do the job, what could she do?"
"Nothing. Maybe she thinks she could, but…nothing."
Pablo shrugged. "I cannot see what makes this so difficult for you. Perhaps the woman is just covering her bets—making sure your nose is open—that you keep coming back for more. Remember when we were young men how much we would risk for a night of love with a woman?"
"I'm not young anymore," I said. I couldn't remember ever being that young.
"Listen to me, Burke. It is not reality which controls our lives, it is the perception of that reality."
"More politics?"
"You cannot dismiss truth by mocking it," Pablo said, his voice hardening. "So long as my people believe their life is acceptable, then it is acceptable. My people live on a slave island, but their chains are food stamps and welfare programs.
"This is getting away from me," I told him.
"Because you are ignoring your senses—because you will not listen to what you have already learned."
"I am listening. I told you everything, Pablo."
"You have told me nothing. You said only what you saw—and you have been precise in your reporting, like an investigator.