Authors: Andrew Vachss
Shella
ACCLAIM FOR
Andrew Vachss’s
SHELLA
“Vachss is a contemporary master.”
—
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Shella,
Vachss’ latest excursion to the American underbelly, is his darkest yet…. Vachss’ characterizations are so strong, so immediate, that it’s impossible to brush them easily out of mind …. And
I
defy anyone to remain untouched by the climax, which manages to be horrific, touching, tragic and strangely hopeful.”
—
Arkansas Democrat & Gazette
“Terse, intense and brilliantly written,
Shella
is a body-blow of a book delivered by an emerging literary heavyweight.”
—
Flint Journal
“Next to Vachss, Chandler, Cain and Hammett look like choirboys.”
—
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“A book so icy it can freeze your fingers as you turn the pages, and numb your soul in the process.
Shella
is as lean and mean—but also as literate and deeply felt—as crime fiction, or
any
fiction, gets.”
—
Cemetery Dance
“Vachss distinguishes himself as a writer with an assurance of words and experience that has a discomfiting ring of truth.”
—
Austin Chronicle
Andrew Vachss
SHELLA
Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a “children’s book for adults.” His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in
Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times,
and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.
The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is
www.vachss.com
.
Andrew Vachss
Flood
Strega
Blue Belle
Hard Candy
Blossom
Sacrifice
Shella
Down in the Zero
Born Bad
Footsteps of the Hawk
False Allegations
Safe House
Choice of Evil
Everybody Pays
Dead and Gone
Pain Management
Only Child
The Getaway Man
for:
Doc Pomus
and
Iceberg Slim
truth, still shining
down
The first time I killed someone, I was scared. Not scared to be doing it—I did it because I was scared.
Shella told me it was like that for her the first time she had sex.
I was fifteen that first time. Shella was nine.
We bumped paths in Seattle. I was in a strip bar, looking for a guy. She was dancing there, taking off her clothes to the music, humping something that looked like a fireman’s pole in the middle of the runway.
After her number, she came over to my table in the back, just a gauzy wrapper on over her G-string. I thought she was working as a B-girl between sets, but it wasn’t that. Like blind dogs, we heard the same silent whistle. Recognized each other in the dark.
After that, we worked Badger together, riding the circuit. I’m not real big—Shella’s as big as I am, taller in her heels. She works out regular, a real strong girl. I don’t do muscle—I just talk to the marks, tell them the truth. Most
of them get it then—they pay the money and go away. In L.A., a guy didn’t listen. Big guy, bodybuilder. Flexed his biceps, came right at me. I stopped his heart, left him there.
We kept moving. Denver, Houston, New Orleans. Shella took a mark home after work one night in Tampa. Back to the motel room just off the strip. I sat near the connecting door, waited for her signal. Nothing. Couldn’t even hear her voice. When I let myself in, moving soft, the room was dark. Shella was face down on the ratty bed, lashed spread-eagle with wire coat hangers, a gag in her mouth. Her back was all bloody.
He never saw me coming. In his coat I found his works—a pair of black gloves, a wad of white cheesecloth, and a little bottle with a glass stopper. He had a plastic jar of Vaseline too. I smeared it all over Shella’s back so her blouse wouldn’t stick to her. Told her to get going, take the car, I’d meet her later, when I got done wiping down the rooms.
When the cops kicked in the door a few minutes later, I was still there.
They threw down on me, pistols and shotguns. Three in the room, probably had backup outside. I went easy. They’d been tracking the freak—he’d done three women in the last month. Same pattern. I told them my story. A drifter, passing through. I heard the noise, went inside—he was working on a girl. We fought, she ran away. He died.
The cops did their tests. Blood tests, DNA. I wasn’t the guy who did those other girls—the dead guy was. One of the detectives said they should give me a medal. He wasn’t
stupid—kept asking me if I might know the girl who’d taken off. The one whose blood was all over the bed. Asked me about who might have been staying in the connecting room next door.
Shella had the car, all the money, everything. I was indigent, they said, so they got me a lawyer. He wasn’t much—said the only way I could help myself was if they could find the girl who’d been in the room. I told him what I told the cops.
When we finally got to court, I looked straight ahead in case Shella was dumb enough to show up. Nobody said much to me—the lawyers all talked together up at the front, where the judge was. This lawyer they got me, he came back, told me they had the death penalty in Florida, said I could plead to manslaughter, how did that sound?
I asked him how much time I’d have to do—I didn’t care what they called it.
After a while, I said what the lawyer told me to say and they took me down.