"Andrew Vachss is a contemporary master." -- Constitution

"Many writers try to cover the same ground as Vachss. A handful are as good. None are better." -- People

"Vachss’s reverence for storytelling is evident in the blunt beauty of his language." -- Times

"The books of Andrew Vachss are much more than great entertainment. They are a fierce crusade for all victims who can’t fight back, especially the imperiled children to whom Vachss has devoted his considerable talent and his life." -- Carl Hiaasen

"Vachss is in the first rank of American crime writers." -- The Plain Dealer

"There’s no way to put a [Vachss book] down once you’ve begun . . . The plot hooks are engaging and the one–liners pierce like bullets." -- Detroit Free Press

"The best detective fiction being written . . . Add a stinging social commentary [and] a Celinesque journey into darkness, and we have an Andrew Vachss, one of our most important writers." -- Martha Grimes

"I'm not the client," the ferret seated across from me said. He was as thin as a garrote, with a library-paste complexion, the skin surrounding his veined-quartz eyes as papery as dried flowers. He was always room temperature. "You know me, Burke. I only work the middle."

"I don't know you," I lied. "You knew—you say you knew—my brother. But if you did—"

"Yeah, I know he's gone," the ferret said, meeting my eyes, the way you do when you've got nothing to hide. With him, it was an invitation to search an empty room. "But you've got the same name, right? He never had any first name that I knew; so what would I call you, I meet you for the first time?"

It's impossible to actually look into my eyes, because you have to do it one at a time. One eye is a lot lighter than the other, and they don't track together anymore.

A few years ago, I was tricked into an ambush. The crossfire cost me my looks, and my partner her life. I mourn her every day—the hollow blue heart tattooed between the last two knuckles of my right hand is Pansy's tombstone—but I don't miss my old face. True, it was a lot more anonymous than the one I've got now. Back then, I was a walking John Doe: average height, average weight…generic lineup filler. But a lot of different people had seen that face in a lot of different places. And the State had a lot of photographs of it, too—they don't throw out old mug shots.

I'd come into the ER without a trace of ID, dropped at the door by the Prof and Clarence—they knew I was way past risking the do-it-yourself kit we kept around for gunshot wounds.

Since the government doesn't pay the freight for cosmetic surgery on derelicts, the hospital went into financial triage, no extras. So the neat, round keloid scar on my right cheek is still there, and the top of my left ear is still as flat as if it had been snipped off. And when the student surgeons repaired the cheekbone on the right side of my face, they pulled the skin so tight that it looked like one of the bullets I took had been laced with Botox. My once-black hair is steel-gray now—it turned that shade while I was in a coma from the slugs, and never went back.

The night man sitting across from me calls himself Charlie Jones—the kind of motel-register name you hear a lot down where I live. A long time ago, I'd done a few jobs he'd brought to me. The way Charlie works it, he makes his living from finder's fees. Kind of a felonious matchmaker—you tell him the problem you need solved, he finds you a pro who specializes in it.

Charlie pointedly looked down at my hands. I kept them flat on the chipped blue Formica tabletop, palms down. He placed his own hands in the same position, showing me his ID.

The backs of his frail-looking hands were incongruously cabled with thick veins. The skin around his fingernails was beta-carotene orange. The tip of the little finger on his right hand was missing. I nodded my confirmation. Yeah, he was the man I remembered.

Charlie looked at my own hands for a minute, then up at me. The Burke he knew never had a tattoo, but he nodded, just as I had. Charlie was a tightrope dancer—perfect balance was his survival tool. His nod told me not to worry about whether he believed the story that I was Burke's brother. By him, it was true enough. Where we live, that's the same as good enough.

"It's a nice story," I said, watching as he lit his third cigarette of the meet. Burke was a heavy smoker. Me, I don't smoke…except when I need to convince someone out of my past that I'm still me.

"It's not my story," Charlie reminded me. "Your brother, he was an ace at finding people. Best tracker in the city. I figure he must have taught you some things."

Charlie never invested himself emotionally in any matches he made. He was way past indifferent, as colorless as the ice storm that grayed the window of the no-name diner where we were meeting. But Charlie had something besides balance going for him. He was a pure specialist, a middleman who never got middled. What that means is, Charlie wouldn't do anything except make his matches.

Everyone in our world knows this. And for extra insurance, Charlie made sure he never knew the whole story. So, if he got swept up in a net, he wouldn't have anything to trade, even if he wanted to make a deal. Sure, he could say a man told him about a problem. And he might have given the man a number to call. He had liked the guy, even if he'd only met him that one time. Felt sorry for him. In Charlie's vast experience, drunks who babbled about hiring a hit man were just blowing off steam. You give them a number to call—any number at all, even one you remembered from a bathroom wall—it helps them play out the fantasy, that's all. "What!? You mean, his wife's really dead? Damn! I guess you just never know, huh, officer?"

"This guy, he must not be in a hurry," I said.

"I wouldn't know," Charlie replied. His mantra.

"It's been three weeks since you reached out."

"Yeah, it took you a long time to get back to me. I figured, with the phone number being the same and all…"

"Most of those calls are people looking for my brother. I can't do a lot of the things he used to do."

"Yeah," he said, an unspoken I don't want to know woven through his voice like the anchor thread in a tapestry.

Copyright © 2006 by Andrew Vachss.