Choice of Evil by Andrew Vachss

said, crossing his arms over his chest.
    Pansy took my hand signal and stood rock-steady. She watched the bouncer with disdain, her ears slightly perked in case I told her to sit. If I did, she’d nail the muscleman before he could scream—high-thigh chomps are her specialty. And then all he’d
do
is scream until he passed out from pain or blood loss—Pansy’s a one-bite beast.
    “I’m supposed to meet someone here,” I said mildly. “He’ll okay it.”
    “Who would that be?” the bouncer asked, arms still crossed, flexing hard, unable to keep his gaze away from Pansy’s ice-water eyes, and wishing he could.
    “Lincoln’s all he told me.”
    “You mind waiting outside?”
    “Me? No. I don’t mind
where
I wait, pal. I just mind how
long
I wait, understand?”
    I made another hand signal. Pansy wheeled and followed me outside. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the outside of the one-story black-walled building. The traffic was all gay, mostly leather, a few tourists in business clothes. Some looked at me; none spoke. I wasn’t sporting a handkerchief in a back pocket, wasn’t pierced, not even a lousy earring, and I was dressed in what people went to work in when they got paid by the hour. Pansy lay down at my feet. She doesn’t like concrete much at her age, but the sidewalk was still warm from the day’s heat and it probably felt good against her arthritis.
    I wasn’t halfway done with the smoke when the bouncer came outside. “You mind going around the back way?” he asked. Polite now, not like before.
    “Nah.”
    “Okay. You just walk toward the corner. You’ll see an alley. You turn left and—”
    “Ah, that sounds complicated,” I told him. “Maybe you’d better show me the way, huh?”
    “I can’t leave my—”
    “Sure. I understand. Tell this Lincoln guy that I came by to see him, okay?”
    I gave an imperceptible tug on Pansy’s leash. She lumbered to her feet. “Wait a minute,” the bouncer said.
    I stopped.
    His face looked like he was making up his mind. “I’ll show you,” he finally said.
    “Lead on,” I told him.
    He started walking in the direction he’d told me to go. Suddenly he stopped, turned, looked at me: “You gonna walk behind me all the way?”
    “Sure,” I said; meaning, “What else?”
    He nodded, as if confirming a deeply held suspicion, but he started up again. When he turned into the alley, I unsnapped Pansy’s lead and she trotted ahead of him. He practically slammed himself into the alley wall to get out of the way as her dark-gray shadow flitted past. He whirled around and said: “Wha—?”
    And then he saw the pistol I was holding. “Just a simple precaution, pal,” I reassured him. “You’re taking me someplace nice, I’m gonna thank you for it. Otherwise, you’re not gonna need to look up ‘crossfire’ in the dictionary, understand?”
    He put his hands up.
    “Put ’em down,” I told him. “Relax. Just do whatever you were gonna do.”
    He walked down the length of the alley, fast now, Pansy trotting alongside him like she was heeling. I could barely make out her shape, but I knew the hair was up on the back of her neck, ears flattened, tail whipped between her legs to protect her genitals. Ready to deal out a more certain death than anything I was holding. Guns jam. Shooters miss. Pansy never did either one.
    The bouncer rapped a couple of times on a bright-yellow door. It opened immediately. There was light coming from inside. I could see maybe half a dozen people. Except for the guy answering the door, they were all sitting down.
    “All right?” the bouncer asked me over his shoulder.
    “Sure, pal. Thanks for your help.”
    I stepped inside, Pansy’s bulk against my leg. I could feel her vibrating, still ready.
    “My name is Lincoln,” the man said as he closed the door behind us. “I’m the one who called.”
    He was medium height, early thirties; his body looked trim in a pastel T-shirt and white pleated pants,