Blackjack - By Andrew Vachss
THE LION’S full-maned magnificence filled the glass of the high-power telescopic sight. Accustomed to domination of all he sees, the beast was unaware that what he does not see was now holding him captive.
His captor dialed in with great care—only a perfectly placed shot would preserve the trophy he had paid so much to take. The lion was no menacing figure to the human cradling the rifle—he regarded himself as the king of a very different jungle, one much more vicious and far less forgiving.
To this man, the lion was a mere objet d’art: destined to become still another symbol of his elite standing, its value enhanced by difficulty of acquisition. Any man can buy things; only those of a special breed may grant themselves permission to take things. And what better way to illustrate the difference than to display those trophies they have taken with their own hands?
The title “King of the Jungle” had been reduced to ultimate irony. The lion’s multi-generational belief that he was master of all he surveyed had become an illusion. In reality, he was nothing but a mere target for an impending hostile takeover.
The sight’s crosshairs intersected on the lion’s vital organs—a head shot would destroy the trophy. The scope was mounted on a custom-built .458 Weatherby Magnum, the rifle itself bolted onto a tripod with its own click-adjustment capability. A separate range-finder–and–windage-meter combination was mounted within its housing. The rifle’s heavy, non-reflective barrel protruded through a mesh netting covering the open sunroof of a khaki-and-beige Land Rover.
If the lion knew an enemy was approaching, he would follow the natural sequence of his breed: first warn, then attack. But he had no such knowledge. Instead, he rested comfortably in the restorative sun, waiting for the female members of his pride to make a kill. The beast remained unaware that he had been reduced to a potential trophy from the moment the hunter’s kill-shot had been dialed in.
The hunter was dressed in couture jungle gear: knee-high black boots and matching cartridge belt topped with a leopard-banded bush hat. He stood frozen behind the scope, visualizing as would any artist picturing in his mind what he would create on the blank canvas before him. As always, this master artist’s preferred medium was blood.
“Isn’t he perfect?” the artist gloated. “Here, take a look for yourself.”
A woman’s head slowly emerged through the opening. A pink chiffon scarf covered her long blonde hair; another protected her throat. She was well aware that every asset she possessed was depreciating, so she guarded them all with extreme care, knowing that plastic surgery would, eventually, become self-mockery.
She slid closer to the man, calculating every movement, knowing her role was to be another of his trophies, always on display. Delicately, she peered through the scope, taking care not to let it actually touch her extended eyelashes.
“Oh, he is a beauty. I’ll bet he has his pick of the whole herd.”
“Pride.”
“What?”
“Pride. That’s what they call a herd of lions, a pride.”
“Oh.”
“You have to understand the culture of this area, Celia,” the artist pontificated. “That’s the only way you can truly appreciate the thrill of the hunt.”
“I see …” she murmured, gently placing her hand on the man’s forearm arm as she gazed adoringly into his eyes. These seemingly spontaneous moves had been practiced and polished since her early teens, and perfected well before her first marriage.
Two natives squatted on the ground, grateful for the meager shade provided by the faux-camo Land Rover. They exchanged glances but did not speak. Like the woman, they had fully internalized their role many years ago; their every word and gesture honed by constant practice.
“He’s a man-eater,” the great white hunter said.
Celia checked her husband’s face for hint of a double-entendre. Detecting none, she quickly ran her tongue over her lips, taking care not to speak.
“No question about it, he’s the one. Killed three of their people so far, and I’ve got the documents to prove it. You know why that lion is so nice and relaxed? This whole area is reserved for photo-safaris. No hunting allowed. The only exception is when the government certifies that a particular animal has become dangerous to man.”
“Aren’t they all dangerous?”
“Only if they leave the preserve. And why should they do that? They’ve got everything they need right here: plenty of food, clean water, a goodly supply of game … you name it. If you lived at the Four Seasons, why would you ever check into a Motel 6?”
“Then how is this one different?”
“He’s not,” the man said, his voice a life raft bobbing on a perfect ocean of confidence. “I am. The ‘president’ of this so-called country is actually the owner—everything inside the borders belongs to him.
“You understand?” the man continued, glancing at the woman to make certain she missed none of the implications of his speech. “This country is his property. If you own something, you can sell it. Or rent it. But there’s nothing left for him to sell anymore, not from this country. Half the population’s already dead. Natural causes, like starvation and disease. There’s no infrastructure at all, no way to distribute food or even seed. It could have been a paradise, but President-for-life Qranunto never understood even the simplest business principles. Now it’s impossible for that maniac to get his hands on hard currency.”
“He must have some—”
“Money? Sure. He did. But now it’s all gone. Sitting in banks all around the world. Billions. But he can’t get his hands on it.”
“If it’s in his name, why not just take it out?”
“Because he has no one he could trust, so he set everything up so that he’d have to show up in person to claim it. And he’s wanted by every country on the planet. The UN, the World Court, even whatever useless organization they have for Africa, they all have him under an arrest-on-sight order. If he wants any money in his hands, he has to have someone come over here and put it there.”
“Oh.”
“ ‘Oh’ is right, baby. Cost me one-point-five million. That’s in euros, not dollars. For that, I get the run of the place. That’s why we’re using the Land Rover. What we’re doing isn’t some stupid ‘safari’—in fact, it’s not about hunting at all.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” he replied, in the same smug voice he used when a casino employee kowtowed to him—as a well-known “whale,” he was courted and comped by every legal gambling establishment from Vegas to Monte Carlo. “When you hunt for trophies, there’s all kinds of stupid rules about how to do it. But when you’re hunting for food, there’s never any rules.”
“We’re not going to eat that thing, are we? I mean—”
“Just listen!” the man abruptly halted whatever foolishness was about to come out of that ripe mouth of hers. Well within his rights, was he not? A man owns what he pays for, and those top-drawer collagen injections hadn’t come cheap.
“Some trophies are food. Not the kind of food you live on, the kind of food that lets you live any way you choose. When I walk into a boardroom, why do you think the others stand up? I’ll tell you why: because they know what I can do. They know what I’m capable of. And it’s trophies like that incredible creature over there that prove it.”
CELIA REARRANGED her lips into a fetching pout. This wasn’t the first such lecture she’d endured, and she had known what a trophy wife’s role was years before she’d signed her first pre-nup. Not her fault if this Master of the Universe believed her story about how the “traumatic ectopic pregnancy” she had endured in her early teens had left her permanently scarred, both internally and emotionally. When she had tearfully disclosed her secret, the hunter had feigned some degree of sympathy. But he could hardly keep the self-satisfied smirk off his face when she explained that those endless surgeries had finally resulted in a complete hysterectomy—she could never give him children.
His lawyers had repeatedly warned that even the most ironclad of pre-nups would not protect him financially were he to father a child. With that possibility removed—“damage capped,” as his lawyers phrased it—the man acquired a new possession. A safe new possession, allowing him to happily discard his supply of condoms.
A vasectomy had been out of the question. His seed was too valuable to destroy. It would continue the line of superior beings long after his death—arrangements had already been made, and paid in full.
The possibility that Celia would cheat on him—thus exposing him to a sexually transmitted disease—was nonexistent. He did not overtly restrict her movements, but those who were paid to shadow her around the clock had never reported misconduct of any kind, much less a sexual encounter.
And they were well aware of the penalty for touching what did not belong to them.
So the hunter knew everything about Celia—what she did, who she did it with, where she did it. The mansion was fully wired for audio and video, all phone lines were set to record both incoming and outgoing, and she shopped only with credit cards, so all purchases could be monitored. And even if Celia somehow managed to build a secret supply of cash, she could not have bought a throw-away cell phone without his shadow employees noticing.
Of course, some activities could not be completely monitored. Her monthly visit to the gynecologist to check the internal scarring never took long—and keeping the wife of this man waiting was out of the question.
Her physician understood her state of mind, and always had a pre-filled prescription on hand. Celia’s fear of uterine cancer from what she always called “that butchering” required moderate daily doses of Somaso, a mild anti-anxiety drug.
The contents of those prescription bottles did not match their labels. Celia’s only actual anxiety was that she might forget her daily dose of Implan, the most powerful fertility drug on the market.
Celia’s owner was blissfully unaware of this monumental bait-and-switch. But if Celia’s plan worked out, he’d know soon enough.
The doctor had warned her about the dangers of the new drug. Hypocritical little twit, glad enough to take the stack of hundred-dollar bills Celia handed over each time, but still wanting to protect himself from malpractice lawsuits in case the child was born defective in any way. As if! Celia sneered internally. The fool apparently didn’t know that providing care for a congenitally defective child not only was extremely expensive, but, properly handled, could turn into a lifelong and very substantial annuity.
The high-priced lawyer Celia had consulted before the marriage had not charged her for the advice, or for providing the name of a physician willing to risk anything for money to feed his own addiction. No record of her visit to either man existed.
The man with the rifle was no different from so many others Celia had known, but there was a core-deep meanness about him that set her perfect teeth on edge. That cruelty surfaced when he affectionately called her “Cee” in front of company. Only in front of company, making sure they all knew that “Cee” was really “C.” And what that single letter stood for. As if she needed still another reminder that she was a possession, and where her only value resided.
Despite her best efforts at disguising it, Celia had the feral intelligence of any successful predator. Hardly a genius on any IQ scale perhaps, but crafty enough to understand that a narrow mind could also be a focused one. So she was careful not to overdo her interest every time the man she had married explained how the world really works.
Again.
“And the biggest trophy of all is a killer,” he droned on. “When you kill a killer, all his kills belong to you. That’s what makes the world go around, Celia. Numbers. Big numbers.”
Celia felt the man’s words throbbing between her legs. She always had an instantly intimate response to big numbers. Not to the concept, to the reality.
Numbers can turn into money, and money can forge a sword that can cut with either edge. After all, aren’t those of her tribe measured? Aren’t their numbers constantly monitored and compared? And, when acquired, do not such measurements enhance those of the man who owns them?
Anyone can learn to shoot relatively well. Anyone can learn to recognize targets. But only the most skillful hunters come to truly know their prey.
A PRESENCE darker than the shadow between the two natives moved, a tiny dot writhing with life. But although raised from birth to know every sight, sound, and smell of the savannah, the natives sensed no change in their immediate environment.
Over a mile away, a lone acacia tree stood, its roots reaching deep into the parched soil. It might be a trick of the blazing sun, but an indistinct blur seemed to move within the acacia’s trunk, as though the tree itself were widening. A pair of tiny crossbows poked carefully out of the blur, as if mocking the hunter’s camouflaged rifle barrel.
If the natives had been able to tune in to the blob of shadow between them, they would have heard the words “big numbers,” repeated in an ancient version of their own language. Translated, those words would form a single command:
“Hit.”
Instantly, the eye of the hunter and the sternum of his purchased yet predatory wife were simultaneously and soundlessly penetrated by trident-shaped arrows.
The kills were soundless and without impact. Man and wife never changed position, as if frozen in place by death.
The natives understood patience to be a vital part of their jobs. But after more than three hours of uncharacteristic silence from the sniper’s perch above them, they dared to sneak a look at where the hunter had been perched.
What they saw was enough for them to exchange a single glance, drop lightly to the ground, untie their sacks of provisions, strap on their rifles, and start walking.
It would take weeks for them to reach their home, and surviving such a trek was anything but guaranteed. But driving the Land Rover back themselves would create too great a mystery, and they knew exactly how such mysteries are always solved.
The long march would give them plenty of time to agree upon a story. A logical, possible story, not the impossibility of what they had actually observed.
Among their tribe, to be perceived as insane was a death sentence. Neither man spoke of the two playing cards protruding from the chest pocket of the hunter’s safari jacket: the ace of clubs and the jack of spades.
Neither ever would.
IN A part of town closed to all but those who would be regarded as outsiders anywhere else, a tall, slender Latino lounged against a freshly whitewashed wall. His pose was highly stylized, practiced in private years prior to any display in public. Years in which he had no access to the public.
The Latino spread his duster-length black coat like raven’s wings. Behind him was gang-turf graffiti, elaborately spray-painted, transforming the wall into a billboard. One with a very clear message.
The graffiti was pristine. That it had not been over-tagged was a bold proclamation that the wall stood within undisputed territory.
The Latino slouched to enable his arm to more comfortably encircle the bulging waist of an obviously pregnant chola … a lovely young girl, only a year past the elaborate quinceañera for which her parents had saved since her birth. If they had been unhappy at her choice of a date for such a special event, they never gave the slightest sign. There were many reasons for this.
The girl’s long dark hair set off a Madonna’s face, aglow with impending motherhood. The man’s cowboy hat had been custom-made from skins of the Gila monster. It both shielded his eyes and veiled their message. His long duster was casually draped over a candy-orange silk shirt buttoned only at the throat, the better to display a single heavy-linked gold chain.
Soon a diamond would be added to that chain—the baby his woman was expecting would be his first.
A candy-orange ’64 Impala stood arrogantly at the curb. A two-door hardtop with rectangular black panels inset on the hood, roof and trunk, each intricately over-painted in a delicate white floral pattern, the quintessential low-rider was fully dropped to the limit of its air-bag suspension.
The Latino’s pose was a perfect, albeit unconscious, imitation of the Great White Hunter’s. Whatever he surveyed, he owned.
Under the hat’s brim, his eyes swept the street, relentless as a prison searchlight. He registered the approach of three young men, but kept his face expressionless.
One of the trio had covered his head with a candy-orange do-rag. Another sported long black hair tied behind him in a ponytail and held in place by a headband, also displaying the gang’s color. The third was a heavily muscled individual in a candy-orange wife-beater T-shirt. His head was freshly shaven, glistening in the sun.
Let other gangs fly multi-colors, Los Peligrosos needed only one to distinguish itself. Various tattoos marked them as well, obedient to the decades-old tradition of “ink to link.”
To wear the gang’s color without its name permanently etched in one’s body would have been unthinkable. Flying gang colors might be prohibited inside the prisons which awaited them all and disgorged some, but they would carry their skin-branding to the grave. Although they never spoke it aloud, all knew that their life offered only one final alternative to incarceration—a ceremonious burial.
The tall man took a long, ostentatious toke from the cigarillo-blunt in his left hand. He did not offer a hit to his woman—she was pregnant, how would that look? As he patted the chola’s bulging belly, his left hand brushed the outline of a semi-automatic pistol in his coat pocket. Touching his future with each hand, not knowing which would come first: birth or death.
The crew formed a rough circle, standing so that they could listen to their leader and watch the street at the same time.
Time passed, as it does in such places.
“You want to roll, you got to pay the toll,” the tall man schooled the youth with the shaved head. “These streets test a man. You know this when you coming up, just making your first little baby-move. Me, now, I passed that test. I can make a life”—he bends, quickly and gracefully at the waist, to plant a showy kiss on his girl’s belly—“and I can take a life. You hear me, ese?”
“Always hear you, jefe.”
“I don’t mind dying. That’s what it takes, you want to be out here every day, walking with your head high, sí?”
“Dying comes quick out here,” the youth wearing the headband solemnly intoned.
“So?” the tall man immediately challenged. “To die quickly, that is nothing. A sheep can be slaughtered, but a sheep cannot kill. So, when it dies, it is always a quick death.
“Only when you go Inside do you face that final test of a man. Inside, that is dying slow. Every day, dying. The days pass; nothing changes. The only thing that happens fast is when it comes time to stick a pig.
“But Inside, even a blade will not always mean death. I have seen men survive thirty stab wounds—in prison, that’s the one thing the infirmary is good for. If you don’t get wheeled in DOA, you probably live.
“Not out here. On the boulevard, you point your pistol, you pull the trigger, and death follows the bullets. Inside, to kill, you must be close to el enemigo. To shoot, yes, that takes heart. But to stab, that is what takes the heart, verdado?”
“Sí, ese.” The three acolytes spoke as one.
“Inside, just being there, you get old,” their leader continued. “If you lucky. Out here, bang-bang! You live or you die. But in there, it is twenty-four/seven pain.”
“I been Inside—” the youth with the headband started to speak.
“I know you have, hermano,” the leader said. Although still young, he had learned that a vital part of his role was to provide support and encouragement. “I ain’t downing you. But the Walls, it ain’t like the kiddie camps. Only one game gets played in the Man’s House. War. Race war. And there ain’t no neutral ground. No place to get out the way.
“Out here, we fight among ourselves. Like fools, perhaps. But that is how it has always been. But in there, it does not matter—even united, we would never be strong enough. This ain’t the West Coast, you feel me? It ain’t even Chicago. So we outnumbered, very bad. Downstate, you look around, you see nothing but wrong colors. Blancos y negros. Nazis and Zulus. How you gonna ever be safe between those psicópatas? They try and wolf-pack you on the way back from Commissary, you expect that, no? So you never go to that window alone. But how can you protect yourself when you get jammed right in your own cell? Some of them, they so loco they even take you out standing on the mess line.
“And the yard … pantano de la muerte! They do their drive-bys walking! When that black-white thing gets hopping, even if we ever could outnumber them, there ain’t no place for us but the middle—we still too busy fighting each other to see the truth. And you know what happens if you get caught in the middle: crunch!
“Body counts, that’s like status for some of them maniacs, specially those Nazis. They already under a load of Life Withouts, so there’s nothing to hold them in check. Even Ad Seg—fancy name they use for Solitary—that’s always all full up, so what those psychos got to lose, a little yard time?
“No place to stash them all, so the COs just let them cruise around and do their thing. Which is making other people dead. They got, like, contests, man. One Nazi dude I heard about when I was in there, he had, like, thirteen kills. Confirmed kills.”
A micron-thin shadow rippled faintly inside the elaborately painted panel on the hood of the low-rider. As in another jungle, on another continent, its presence was undetected.
If any of the group had been able to tune in to that throbbing shadow, they would have heard a faint whisper:
“Asesinatos confirmados.”
From a rooftop several blocks away, a shape similar to that which had emerged from the acacia tree formed itself from a pile of debris.
Suddenly, the girl twitched as if from a cold chill, her mother-to-be senses picking up … something. The leader patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, mi amor. I am here. With me, you always be safe.”
The girl nodded as if reassured, but her hands remained clasped defensively across her stomach.
From the shadow, another one-word sentence, now in an Aztec language no longer spoken anywhere on earth. Translated, it would have been:
“Stay.”
Unaware of his reprieve, the leader continued his lecture.
“Out here, a man don’t be talking about who he took out, but it gets known. We not Los Peligrosos for nothing. You want to carry the brand, you got to take that stand, hear me?”
Unnoticed by all, the infamous “dead man’s hand”—aces and eights—depicted on the white wall behind them incorrectly as a full house—had morphed: all the cards were now arranged correctly, but as duplicates, not pairs: the aces and eights, all in hearts.
THE INTERIOR was a scaled-down version of a Pentagon war room: maps, charts, and graphs, blinking computer terminals, two long conference tables, angled so they formed a V, at the apex of which was a giant-screen LED monitor. On one side of the monitor was a series of Insta-Graph meters; on the other, a larger row of instruments with read-out dials. Next to the graphs and meters on each side stood a stack of CDs, all neatly labeled by the same process that slid them out every few minutes.
The room itself was underground and windowless. The only sound was the whisper of the machines used to keep the computers at a constant temperature.
On the monitor: projected views of crime scenes, all slaughter-homicides.
Five people were present, their eyes fixed on the screen.
“What makes those Pentagon pussies so sure this guy knows any more than they do?” The speaker was a double-wide male—not especially tall, but almost frighteningly massive. His body lacked sharply defined muscle; it looked more like extruded power, stretching the man’s skin to its limits. Even his black-and-gray hair appeared to be a tightly plastered cap.
The man was wearing a T-shirt, with a hard-plastic shoulder holster hanging under his left arm. The MAC-10 it carried looked like a toy against its bulky human backdrop.
“It won’t hurt to hear him out. Just let him take a look at what we’ve got, Percy.” The speaker was a slim, blond man, neatly dressed in agency-issue standard. Every aspect of his appearance was bland.
“He’ll go along with our conditions?” a thickly built but very shapely woman with a mane of tiger-striped hair asked. She was wearing a one-piece spandex outfit, a pair of long, thin knives strapped to the outside of one thigh. That same thigh’s muscle-flex was clearly visible as she swung one booted foot up onto the table.
“He’s already on his way, Tiger,” said a doll-faced Asian woman in a white lab coat. She held a clipboard in one hand, studying it closely through oversized round glasses. “That’s confirmed, Tracker?”
The man she addressed simply nodded. He was an American Indian, with high, prominent cheekbones, red-bronze skin, jet-black hair, and dark, hooded eyes.
“Excellent, Wanda,” the blond man said. “He’s supposed to be the leading authority on serial killers. Not only solved a number of significant cases, but predicted their moves as well. The FBI wants nothing to do with him. Probably because he’s publicly mocked their alleged ‘profiles.’ ”
“This has got nothing, nothing to do with serial killers, damn it!” Percy barked out. “What the hell’s wrong with these wimps? They want to study this thing? That ain’t the answer to the problem.”
“What is the answer?” Wanda asked, a wisp of a smile playing across her lips.
“The answer?” Percy grunted his disgust. “Same as it always is. We find it; we kill it. No different from what it’s been doing all over the world. Am I right?” he demanded, opening his arms in a gesture meant to involve the whole room.
Only Tiger nodded in agreement.
A light glowed on a console in front of Wanda. “He’s here,” she said. “Everybody ready?”
Only the blond man responded. To Wanda, only the blond man mattered. She leaned forward, her mouth close to a tiny microphone, and whispered, “Bring him down.”
THE FOUR-INCH-THICK, bunker-style door opened slowly and silently. A short, husky man entered. He was in his fifties, with close-cropped hair, wearing slightly tinted glasses. His stride was that of a man heavily endowed with “no need to prove it” self-assurance.
Everybody in the room had been told what to expect: a top-tier professional, the best at what he did.
Tracker scanned for egotism; Tiger for her version of the same weakness. Percy performed a lightning-quick threat assessment, all three warriors operating on autopilot.
The blond man and Wanda simply waited.
The man did not enter alone—he was air-sandwiched between two others. One stepped ahead of him, the other close behind. Both were dressed in simple gray jumpsuits and matching watch caps. One carried a submachine gun in a sling, the other held a short-barreled semi-auto, blued against glare. Their faces were so alike they could be twins—human robots who would respond to only one source of orders, acting as a single unit.
At a nod from Wanda, they walked the man between them over to a waiting chair. He took the intentionally unsubtle hint and sat down, still not having said a word.
As if on cue, the two men backed out of the room, their weapons trained on the now seated man up to the moment the door closed.
“Thanks for coming, Doctor,” the blond man said, not offering his hand.
“Glad to be of help.”
“We’ll see,” Percy muttered, obviously unconvinced, and not disguising his skepticism.
Tiger gazed at the new arrival with measured intensity; Wanda consulted her clipboard. Tracker remained motionless.
Finally, the new arrival spoke. “You said you had something you wanted me to see.…”
“That is correct,” the blond man responded. “Wanda?”
Wanda walked briskly to the giant monitor, prepared to hit a switch, and asked, “You’ve been briefed …?”
“I believe I have,” the consultant replied. “This is about the Canyon Killings, right?”
“Yes. You’ve seen the crime-scene photos?”
“Uh-huh. Same as these blowups over on that wall,” he said, nodding at the poster-sized photos of demolished human remains.
Nobody made a sound.
“Roll it already,” Percy snapped.
Wanda’s long, lacquered nails floated over the console. On the ring finger of her left hand was the rarest of star sapphires: white, with a black star, set in platinum.