Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [94]
I shrugged. I should be so lucky. "Not necessarily. But I hope you can tell me about that kind of thing in general. Give me an idea where to look."
"I see. Tell me about this picture."
"A picture of a kid. Little chubby blond–haired boy. About six years old."
The man sat behind his desk, patiently waiting. I hadn't told him enough.
"A sex picture," I said.
"Um" he mumbled. "Not such an unusual picture. Little boys in love do things like that."
Something burned inside my chest. I felt the Mole's eyes on me, got it under control, took another drag on the cigarette. Who would have a picture like that?"
"Oh, just about anyone. It all depends on why the picture was taken."
"Why?"
The man made a tent of his fingers, his English accent making him sound like a teacher. "If the picture was taken by his mentor, then it wouldn't be circulated commercially, you understand?"
"His mentor?"
"A mentor, sir, is one who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems…that kind of thing."
I just looked at him, picturing a little dot of cancer inside his chest, keeping my hands still. I raised my own eyebrows—a question.
"Men who love boys are very special," the man said, his voice reverent. "As are the boys who love them. It is a most unique and special relationship. And very little understood by society."
"Tell me," I said, my voice flat.
"When a boy has a sexual preference for men, he is at grave risk. The world will not understand him—many doors will be closed to him. It is the task of a dedicated mentor to bring the tiny bud to full flower. To help nourish the growth of the boy into manhood."
"By taking pictures of the kid having sex?"
"Do not be so quick to judge, my friend. A true mentor would not take such a picture for commercial purposes, as I said before. The pictures are taken to preserve a unique and beautiful moment. Children grow up," he said, his voice laced with regret for the inevitable, "they lose their youth. Would not a loving parent take pictures of his child, to look upon in later years?"
I didn't answer him—I didn't know what loving parents did. Mine took a lot of pictures of me—they're called mug shots.
"It's capturing a moment in time," the man said. "It's a way of keeping perfect times always with you, even when the person is gone."
"You mean people…people like you…just want to keep the pictures? Not sell them or anything."
"People like me…" the man mused. "Do you know anything about 'people like me'?"
"No" I said. The deal was I couldn't hurt him—nobody said I had to tell him the truth.
"I am a pedophile," the man said. The same way an immigrant would one day say he was a citizen, pride and wonder at being so privileged blending in his voice. "My sexual orientation is toward children—young boys."
I watched him, waiting for the rest.
"I am not a 'child molester,' I am not a pervert. What I do is technically against your laws…as those laws now stand. But my relationship with my boys is pure and sweet…I love boys who love me. Is anything wrong with that?"
I had no answer for him, so I lit another cigarette.
"Perhaps you think it's simple," he said, his thin mouth twisted in contempt for my lack of understanding. "I love boys—you probably assume I'm a homosexual, don't you?"
"No, I don't," I assured him. It was the truth—homosexuals were grown men who had sex with other grown men; some of them were standup guys, some of them were scumbags. Like the rest of us. This freak wasn't like the rest of us.
He watched my face, looking for a clue. "You believe my preferences to be unique? Let me say this to you: some of the highest–placed men in this city share my beliefs. Indeed, were it not for my knowledge of such things—of powerful men with powerful drive–forces in their lives—I would not have the protection of you people," he said, nodding his head in the Mole's direction.
The Mole looked straight at him, expressionless.
"Any boy I love…any boy who returns that love…benefits in ways you cannot understand. He grows to youth and then to manhood under my wing, if you will. He is