Strega (27 page)

81

T
HE LINCOLN was standing out in front of the clinic as if it had never moved. The driver's door was open, the engine running. I can take a hint. I was off the block in seconds.

It was deep into the hours past midnight—still not too late to go to Mama's joint, but I wasn't hungry. The Lincoln turned itself north toward the Triboro—I was going to loop around and head back to the office. But I found myself on the long span heading for Queens instead. The bridge was quiet. I passed the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway, my last chance to head back downtown. But the Lincoln kept rolling, past LaGuardia. By then I knew where I was going.

Strega's house was still and dark as I let the Lincoln drift to the curb—maybe her husband and her daughter were allowed to return to the castle after midnight. I hit the power window switch, leaving the engine running. Lit a cigarette and watched the red tip in the darkness like it was a book I wanted to read, listening to the night sounds. A Yellow Cab rattled past—a late–arriving passenger from the airport going home to the wife and kids.

I threw my cigarette into the street, watching her house. A tiny light came on in an upstairs window, barely visible behind a gauzy curtain. I looked hard, trying to fix the exact location. The light went out.

I pushed the gas pedal down, letting the big car take me back to where I was safe. It felt as if she was playing with me in that upstairs room—letting me go. This time.

82

T
HE NEXT morning was no better. Strange days. The big part of staying off the floor is knowing how to wait. When you hit the floor in my neighborhood, there's no referee giving you time to get your brain back together. I knew how to stay off the floor, but this case was all bent and twisted. I had money in my pocket, nobody was looking for me—I should have been golden. Julio's weak threats wouldn't make me lose sleep. I could just wait a few weeks, keep my head down—tell Strega I came up empty. And walk away.

But when you spend your life lying to everyone from streetside suckers all the way to the Parole Board, you learn that lying to yourself is a self–inflicted wound.

I drove over to one of the post–office boxes I keep around the city in various names. The one in Westchester County is the one I use for kiddie–sex freaks. It's in Mount Vernon, just over the border from the Bronx, maybe forty–five minutes from the office. All I found were some "underground" newsletters and a magazine. The newsletter never quite crosses the line—just some pictures of kids mixed with whining about this repressive society. One even had a column supposedly written by a kid himself—bragging about how his life was enriched by his "meaningful association" with an older man. That dirtbag the Mole had brought me to would have approved. Most of it reminded me of the stuff the Klan puts out—who got arrested recently (and why he was innocent), what politicians are trying to make a name for themselves with "anti–kid" legislation…that kind of crap. Some freaks burn crosses, some burn kids. The feature story was about some priest in Louisiana doing time for sodomizing a bunch of altar boys—the newsletter said the real issue was freedom of religion.

It was a waste of time. I knew it would be. Someone once said people in hell want ice water. If that's all they want, maybe they deserve to stay there.

I pulled the car over on the West Side Highway, near 96th Street. It was peaceful there–a few guys working on their cars, one crazy bastard casting a fishing line into the oil slick, a young woman throwing a stick for her dog to fetch. The dog was an Irish setter. His coat gleamed coppery red in the sunlight as he dashed in and out of the water, chasing the stupid stick. The woman called to the dog—time to go. The dog stopped and shook himself, water flying from his coat in a fine spray. I threw away my cigarette. That was what I needed to do—shake off this witch–woman and get back to myself.

I spent the next two days asking soft questions in hard places. Marking time until the week was up and I could return Bobby's Lincoln. I called him from a pay phone on Twelfth Avenue, near Times Square.

"It's Burke. My car ready?"

"Yep. Running like a watch. When's the last time that thing had a decent tune–up?"

"I don't know—didn't think it needed one."

Bobby made a growling sound in his throat—abusing good machinery made him crazy.

"You have any luck with that other thing?" I asked him, heading off a lecture on auto mechanics.

"Sure. No problem. Pick up your car this afternoon. About four, okay? We'll talk then."

"I'll be there."

"By yourself," he reminded me.

"I'll be the only person in the car," I told him. Pansy was going to get a ride in a Lincoln.

83

T
HE MASTIFF sniffed the Lincoln like it was an enemy dog—circling around a couple of times, pawing at the tires, burying her giant snout in the front seat.

"It's okay," I told her, but she took her time, getting it right. Finally, she climbed into the back seat, growled a couple of times, then flopped down. She was half asleep by the time I wheeled onto Atlantic Avenue.

It was just past four o'clock when I pulled up. This time it was Bobby himself sitting on the crate in front of the garage. He raised a fist in greeting, hitting a switch to open the door so I could pull the Lincoln all the way in. My Plymouth was parked just inside, nose aimed at the street.

"I could've painted it while it was here, but I figured you'd rather keep it the way it was," Bobby said.

"That's right, Bobby. Thanks."

But I wasn't getting off that easy. He insisted on taking me through everything he'd done to the car—piece by piece. "What you got here is a
complete
tune–up, Burke. Valves adjusted, points and plugs, carb cleaned and rejetted, timing reset. And we aligned the front end, rotated and balanced the tires. Changed all the fluids—power steering, transmission. Had to bleed the brake lines—you got silicon fluid in there now. Had to adjust the bands in the tranny too. It runs perfect now."

"What do I owe you, Bobby?"

Bobby waved my offer away.

"Let's hear how it sounds," I said with an enthusiasm I didn't feel.

Bobby twisted the key—it was so smooth it sounded like a turbine. Pansy recognized the sound—her monster's head appeared in the windshield of Bobby's Lincoln. He heard something, looked.

"What the fuck is
that
?" he asked me.

"It's just my dog, Bobby." I went over and opened the Lincoln's door, slapping my hip for Pansy to come to me.

"Jesus H. Fucking Christ!" Bobby said reverently. "How much does it weigh?"

"I don't know—maybe one forty or so.

Bobby made a full circuit around Pansy, checking her lines. He didn't try and kick the tires.

"Could I pat it?" he asked.

"Pansy, jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the deck, lying prone, her murderer's eyes the color of the East River, watching Bobby the way she watches food. "Go ahead," I told him. "She won't do anything now.

Bobby had enough sense to squat down so Pansy wouldn't think he was trying to dominate her. He scratched behind her ears. "I never saw anything like this outside of a zoo," he said. Pansy made a gentle rumble in her throat—like a subway pulling into a station. "Is he mad?" Bobby asked, still scratching.

"No," I told him. "That's when she's happy."

"It's a girl?"

"Sure is," I said.

Bobby got to his feet. "The other guys are out back, Burke. Okay?"

"Okay. You want me to leave Pansy out here?"

"Fuck no," Bobby said. "She might eat one of the cars."

Bobby led the way, me following, Pansy taking the point position to my left and just slightly in front of each stride. She knew what to do now—she was working.

There was only one car in the back this time—the Mustang. And three men—two a few years older than Bobby, the other more like my age. They all had prison–faces. The older guy had a regular haircut and was wearing a dark sportcoat over a white shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The other two were much bigger men, flanking the guy in the sunglasses like they were used to standing that way. One was blond, the other dark, both with longish hair, wearing white T–shirts over jeans and boots. The blond had tattoos on both arms—in case anyone could miss where he got them, he had chains tattooed on both wrists. Black leather gloves on his hands. The dark one had calm eyes; he stood with his hands in front of him, right hand holding his left wrist. On the back of his right hand were the crossed lightning bolts—the mark of the Real Brotherhood.

I stopped a few feet short of the triangle. Pansy immediately came to a sitting position just in front of me. Her eyes pinned the blond—she knew.

Bobby stepped into the space between us, speaking to the older guy in the middle.

"This is Burke. The guy I told you about."

The older guy nodded to me. I nodded back. He waved his hand back toward himself, telling me to come closer. I stepped forward. So did Pansy.

The blond rolled his shoulders, watching Pansy, talking to me.

"The dog do any tricks?" he asked.

The hair on the back of Pansy's neck stood up. I patted her head to keep her calm.

"Like what?" I asked him.

The blond had a nice voice—half snarl, half sneer. "I don't fucking know…like, shake hands?"

"She'll shake anything she gets in her mouth," I told him, a smile on my face to say I wasn't threatening him.

The older guy laughed. "My brother says you're okay. If we can help you, we will."

"I appreciate it," I said. "And I'm willing to pay my way.

"Good enough," he said. "What do you need?" "I know you," the blond suddenly blurted out. I looked at his face—I'd never seen him before. "I don't know you," I said, my voice neutral. "You were in Auburn, right? Nineteen seventy–five?" I nodded agreement.

"I was there too. Saw you on the yard." I shrugged. Auburn wasn't an exclusive club.

"You mixed with niggers," the blond said. It wasn't a question.

"I mixed with my friends," I said, voice quiet, measured. "Like you did."

"I said
niggers
!"

"I heard what you said," I told him. "You hear what I said?"

The blond rolled his shoulders again, cracking the knuckles of one gloved hand in the fist he made of the other.

"B.T., I told you what Burke did for me," Bobby put in, no anxiety in his voice, just setting the record straight.

The blond looked at me. "Maybe you just had a personal beef with
those
niggers?"

"Maybe I did. So what?"

"Maybe you
like
niggers?" It wasn't a question—an accusation.

No point keeping my voice neutral any longer—he'd take it for fear.

"What's your problem?" I asked him. That wasn't a question either.

The blond looked at me, watching my face. "I lost money on you, he said.

"What?"

"I fucking lost money on you. I remember now. You was a fighter, right? You fought that niggerI forget his name…the one that was a pro light–heavy?"

I remembered that fight. The black guy had been a real hammer in the ring before he beat a guy to death over a traffic accident. I don't remember how it got started, but it ended up with a bet that I couldn't go three rounds with him. I remember sitting on the stool in my corner waiting for the bell to start the first round, the Prof whispering in my ear. "Send the fool to school, Burke," he was saying, reminding me how we had it worked out. I was a good fifteen pounds lighter than the black guy, and quite a bit faster. Everybody betting on whether I could last the three rounds was expecting me to keep a jab in his face, bicycle backward, use the whole ring. Make him catch me. That's what he expected too.

When the bell sounded, he came off his stool like he was jet–propelled. I threw a pillow–soft jab in his general direction and started back–pedaling to the ropes. The black guy didn't waste any time countering my little jabs—he pulled his right hand all the way down to his hip, trying for one killer punch that would end it all. That was the opening. I stepped forward and fired a left hook—caught him flush on the chin coming in, and down he went.

But then the plan came unglued. He took an eight–count, shaking his head to clear it. He got to his feet so smoothly that I knew I hadn't really hurt him. The black guy waved me in and I charged, pinning him to the ropes, firing shot after shot at his head. But he wasn't just a tough guy—he was a pro. He blocked everything with his elbows, picking off my punches until I realized I was running out of gas. I leaned against him to get a breath—he buried his head in my chest to guard against an uppercut. I collapsed all my weight on his neck, stepping on his toes, not giving him an inch of room to punch. The guard in charge of the bell rang it early—he'd bet on me too.

I let him chase me through the second round, still a step faster than he was. He wasn't going to charge again—just taking his time, punching so hard my arms ached from blocking. He caught me good at the beginning of the third round—I felt a rib go from a right hook. He doubled up, catching me on the bridge of the nose with the same hand. "Grab him!" I heard the Prof scream, and I brought my gloves up over his elbows, pulling his hands under my armpits until the referee forced us apart. He butted me on the break, aiming for my nose. I staggered back, letting my knees wobble to get closer to the ground, letting him come in. I threw a Mexican left hook—so far south of the border that I connected squarely with his cup. The black guy dropped both hands to his crotch and I threw a haymaker at his exposed head—missed by a foot and fell down from the effort. The referee wiped off my gloves, calling it a slip, killing time.

He came at me again. I couldn't breathe through my nose, so I spit out the mouthpiece, catching a sharp right–hand lead a second later. I heard the Prof yell "Thirty seconds!" just before another shot dropped me to the canvas.

I was on my feet by the count of six, with just enough left to dodge his wild lunge. He went sailing past me into the ropes—I fired a rabbit punch to the back of his head, moved against him, pinning him to the ropes with his back to me. He whipped an elbow into my stomach and spun around, hooking with both hands, knowing he had to finish it. I grabbed his upper body, feeling the punches to my ribs, driving my forehead hard into his eyes, not giving him room to punch. If I'd had to let go of him I would have fallen for good.

I was out on my feet when I heard the bell. It took four men to pull him off me. We won almost six hundred cartons of cigarettes that day. The prison even threw in a free bridge for my missing teeth.

"If you lost money that day, you bet on the other guy," I told him. "The bet was that I couldn't last the three rounds."

"I bet on you to
win
," the blond said.

I shrugged my shoulders—it wasn't my problem that some true–believer couldn't get with the program.

"You didn't even try and beat that nigger," the blond said, like he was accusing me of treason.

"I was trying to survive," I told him reasonably. Just the way I was trying to do now. "Look, pal, it's not a big deal. How much did you lose?"

"Three fucking cartons," he said. Like it was his sister's virginity.

"Tell you what I'll do. It was a few years ago, right? Figure the price has gone up a bit—how about a half–yard for each carton? A hundred and fifty bucks, and we'll call it square?"

The blond stared at me, still not sure if I was laughing at him.

"You serious?"

"Dead serious," I told him, slipping my hand into my coat pocket.

The blond couldn't make up his mind, his eyes shifting from Pansy to me. The guy with the sunglasses finally closed the books. "Let it rest, B.T.," he said. The blond let out a breath. "Okay," he said.

The blond started over to me for the money—Pansy went rigid. Her teeth ground together with a sound like a cement truck shifting into gear.

"I'll give it to you when I leave," I told the blond. Even a genius like him understood. He stepped back against the fence, still flexing the muscles in his arms. Pansy was real impressed.

"Can we do business?" I asked the guy with the sunglasses.

He waved me over to the side, against the fence by the Mustang. I flatted my hand against Pansy's snout, telling her to stay where she was, and followed him over. I lit a cigarette, feeling Bobby against my back.

"One of your guys did some bodyguard work. Delivered some money to a day–care center—money was in a little satchel—like a doctor's bag."

I couldn't see the guy's eyes behind the sunglasses; he had his hands in his pockets–—waiting for me to finish.

"There was a woman with the bodyguard. Maybe he was protecting her, maybe he was guarding the cash—I don't know."

"Anything else?" he asked.

"The woman, she's no youngster. Maybe my age, maybe older. And she has a house somewhere outside the city. Big house—nice grounds. Has a guy who works with her—a big, fat guy. And maybe a schoolbus–type vehicle."

"That's it?"

"That's it," I told him.

"And you want to know what?"

"All I want to know is who this woman is—where I can find her."

"You got a beef with her?"

I thought about it—didn't know if the bodyguard work was a one–shot deal or if the Real Brotherhood had a contract with her. "She has something I want," I told him, measuring out the words as carefully as a dealer putting cocaine on a scale.

He didn't say anything.

"If you've got a contract with her…then I'd like to ask you to get this thing I want from her. I'll pay for it."

"And if there's no contract?"

"Then I just want her name and address."

He smiled. It might have made a citizen relax; I kept my hands in my pockets. "And for us to get out of the way?" he asked.

"Yeah," I told him. "Exactly."

The blond moved away from the guy in the sunglasses, his back to the fence. Pansy's huge head tracked his movement as if she was the center of a big clock and he was the second hand.

"B.T.!" Bobby said, a warning in his voice. The blond stopped where he was—a slow learner.

"What is this thing you want?" the leader asked.

"That means you have a contract?"

"No. And I don't know where her stash is either."

"It's not dope I'm after," I told him.

The leader took off his sunglasses, looked at them in his hands as though they held the answer to something. He looked up at me. His eyes had that soft, wet glaze only born killers get—after they've fulfilled their destiny a few times. "You're a hijacker, right? That's what you do?"

I held my hands together and turned my palms out to him—cards on the table. "I'm looking for a picture—a photograph."

"Who's in the picture?"

"A kid," I told him.