Strega (3 page)

"Yes," the freak said.

"Oh, just one more thing," I told him, "I got to make sure you don't forget, Mark. And, like I told you, pain goes away. So I'm going to leave you something permanent as a souvenir of your little war–games today."

The freak's eyes turned crazy when I pulled the butcher knife from my coat, watching his one hand resting on the tree stump.

"Don't move," I told him, but he whipped back his hand and tried to run. You can't run on a broken leg. This time we let him scream.

Max hauled him back to the chopping block, holding the freak's forearm down like an anvil on a feather.

"Now, see what you did to yourself, Mark?" I asked him. "You turned a nice clean broken leg into a compound fracture. You jump around too much now and you're liable to lose an arm instead of just a hand, okay?"

The freak's slimy smell mingled with his urine as he lost all control. He was making sounds but they weren't words. Max grabbed the freak's fingertips, stretching the hand out for me. I raised the butcher knife high above my head and brought it flashing down. The freak gasped and passed out.

I pulled the knife short, looked back at Max. He immediately grabbed the freak's hand and stretched it again, but I waved him away. If the freak hadn't learned from what had happened to him already, he was past anything we could do.

Time to go. Max picked up the two cartons of filth in one hand and we worked our way back to the blind. I pulled out the screen and carried it to the hidden Plymouth. Another two minutes and we pulled out of the forest onto the pavement. I left Max in the car and used some branches to sweep away the tire tracks.

Another five minutes and we vanished onto the Inter–Boro, heading for Brooklyn.

3

I
T SHOULD have been over then, except for picking up the money. You don't get cash in front from a man like Julio—it's disrespectful. Besides, I know where he lives, and all he has for me is a pay–phone number in Mama's restaurant.

I gave him three weeks and then I called the gas station from a pay phone near my office. You have to call early in the mornings from the phone—it belongs to the trust–fund hippies who live in the loft underneath me. They generally stay up all night working on their halfass stabs at self–expression, and they usually fall out well past midnight, dreaming of a marijuana paradise where all men are brothers. Good thing they never ride the subways. I don't pay rent for the top floor and I never expect to, unless the landlord sells the building. His son did something real stupid to some people a few years ago, and I passed the information only as far as the landlord. Like I told him one time, the top floor has lots of room to store information like that, but if I had to move to a smaller place…you never know.

I don't abuse the privilege—never stay on the phone for more than a minute, no long–distance calls. I put a slug into the pay phone—another slug answered.

"Yeah?"

"It's Burke. Tell your boss I'll meet him tonight on the third shift."

"I ain't got no boss, pal. You got the wrong number," he said, slamming down the phone. The Strike Force is making all Italians nervous these days.

The "third shift" means eleven at night to seven in the morning, just like it is in prison. When you're doing time, you learn that each shift has its own personality. The first shift, the joint is on its best behavior; that's when the visitors are allowed in and that's the only time the Parole Board comes around. The jerkoff therapists and counselors and religious nuts all make their appearances on the first shift too. The second shift is where you settle all your disputes, if you're serious about them. Prison fights only last a few seconds—someone dies and someone walks away. If the guy you stab lives, he's entitled to a rematch. And the third shift is where you check out of the hotel if you can't stand the room—that's where the young ones hang up in their cells. Prison's just like the free world: bullshit, violence, and death—only in prison it's on a tighter schedule.

Maybe you never really get out of prison. I don't have bars on my back windows—the fire escape rusted right off the building years ago except for the stairs to the roof—and Pansy was ready to discuss the ethics of breaking and entering with anyone who might show up—but it was another day coming on and my only goal was to get through it.

Inside the walls, they don't leave you with much. That's why the body–builders treasure their measurements more than any fashion model.

You can die for stepping on another man's little piece of the yard—or on his name. You either stand up to what they throw at you or you go down—it's that simple. In prison, you go down, you stay down.

The redhead was a standup broad. She didn't like doing that number in the park, but she went the route for her kid. She did the right thing—it made what I did right too. I'd never see her again. I didn't want to—the whole thing made me think of Flood.

Until Flood came along, I had survival down to a science. Like the redhead, she had a job to do, and I got brought in. She took her share of the weight and carried it right to the edge.

Flood was a state–raised kid, like me. "I'm for you, Burke," she told me just before she went back to another world. I was okay before I met her—I knew what I had to do and I did it. You don't miss what you never had. But ever since Flood, the pain floats around inside me like a butterfly. When it lands, I have to do something to forget. A piece of that song Bones used to sing in his cell late at night came to me:

       I wish I had a dollar,

       I wish I had a dime.

       I wish I had a woman,

       But all I got is time.

"Maximum Security Blues," he used to call it. Bones wasn't used to big–city jailing. He'd done most of his time down in Mississippi, on the Parchman Farm, a thirty–thousand–acre prison without walls. They didn't need walls—a man can't run faster than a bullet. Bones said he got his name years ago when he was working the dice circuit, but we called him that because that's all there was of him—he was about a hundred years old, as sharp and skinny as an ice pick. Bones did things the old way—he'd be so respectful to the guards with his thick Southern voice that they'd never listen to what he was really saying.

One of the young city blacks didn't listen so good either. Bones was sitting on a box on one of the neutral courts in the Big Yard, playing his battered six–string and singing his songs. The young stud came up with his boys, all dressed in their bullshit back–to–Africa colors, "political prisoners" one and all. I didn't know mugging old ladies for their welfare checks was a revolutionary act, but what the hell do I know? The only Marx who ever made sense to me was Groucho. The leader insisted everyone call him by his tribal name, and the new–breed guards went along with it. He rolls up and tells Bones that he's a fucking stereotype— a low–life Uncle Tom ass–kissing nigger, and all that. And Bones just strums his guitar, looking past the punk to someplace else.

The only sounds on the yard were the grunts of the iron–jockeys and the slap of dominoes on wood—and Bones's sad guitar. Then we heard a loud slap; the guitar went silent but the rest of the joint started to hum. The cold gray death–shark was swimming in the prison yard, but the guards on the catwalks didn't know it yet. Men were getting to their feet all over the yard, drifting over to where the punk was standing over Bones, holding the old man's guitar in his hands.

"This thing is nothing but an instrument to play slave music with, old man," the punk leered at him, holding the neck in one hand and the body in the other. "Maybe I'll just snap it over my knee—how you like that?"

"Don't do that, son," Bones pleaded with him.

The punk looked back at his friends for approval, all alone in his power–world now, never seeing the human wall closing around him. I looked past Bones to where Virgil, my cellmate, was closing in. Virgil wasn't raised to take up for blacks, but he'd back my play like he was supposed to when it went down. I hated Bagoomi—or whatever the fucking fool called himself—anyway. His revolutionary mission didn't stop him from raping fresh young kids when they first came on the cellblock.

But I was too late. The ancient guitar snapped across his knee as easily as a toothpick and he held one piece in each hand, his gold–toothed mouth grinning down at Bones. The old man's hand flashed and the fool's smile died along with the rest of him. By the time the guards smashed through the dense clot of prisoners, all they discovered was one more weasel who'd found the only true path to the Promised Land, a sharpened file sticking deep between his ribs. The guards paid no attention to Bones holding the pieces of his guitar and crying to himself. Their investigation determined that someone had settled a gambling debt with the punk, prison–style, and that the old man's guitar had been a casualty of the collection method.

I didn't know Flood when I was doing time—I didn't know there were women like her on this earth. I should have known that when love came to me, it would only be for a visit.

When the blues come down on you this hard, you don't want to be locked up. In prison, I had no choice. But in prison, I never had the blues like this. It was time to hit the streets.

4

I
CALLED Pansy down from her roof, locked the place up, and climbed down the stairs to the garage. Sometimes when I get the blues I sit and talk with Pansy, but she was being a real bitch lately. She was in heat again—I didn't want to have her fixed—and every time she went into heat she'd rip up pieces of the office until she got over it. It didn't change the look much, and my clients aren't the particular type anyway.

The docks were quiet—a few sorry hookers hiding empty faces behind cheap makeup, a leather–laced stud hustler not smart enough to know the action didn't start until it got dark, a few citizens late for work. I was looking for Michelle, but I guess she'd taken the day off.

I thought about going up to the Bronx and scaring up the Mole, but I wasn't in the mood for a conversation about Israel today. The Mole loved the
idea
of Israel, but he'd never go.

Then I thought I'd find Max and go on with our gin game. We'd been playing almost a dozen years now, and he still had every single score–sheet. I was about forty bucks ahead. But the warehouse was empty.

The light at Bowery and Delancey held me up—long enough for one of the bums to approach the Plymouth with a dirty rag in one hand and a bottle of something in the other.

"Help me out, man?" the bum asked. "I'm trying to get together enough to get back home."

"Where's home?" I asked him.

"Used to be Oklahoma—I don't know."

"This is home now, brother," I told him, handing him a buck and watching his face light up. Maybe I'll never buy the world a Coke—although I know some Colombians trying to do just that—but at least I can buy a man a drink. Even so, the blues were still winning.

Across Fourth Street near Avenue C, another light, another stop. Paul Butterfield was singing "I've got a mind to give up living" through my car's speaker and the music wafted out into the thick city air. I had lit a smoke, and was thinking my thoughts, when I heard her voice—"You like that sad old music,
hombre
?"—and my eyes were pulled to a Puerto Rican flower: glossy raven hair hanging loose and free, big dark eyes, lips as red as blood before it dries. She was perched on a stoop near the curb, a shiny white blouse tied just under her heavy breasts, creamy skin tapering to a tiny waist and flaring out dramatically in pink toreador pants. One spike heel tapped out a rhythm on the hot sidewalk.

"The blues are the truth, little girl," I told her—and she swivel–hipped her way up to the Plymouth to hear what else the stranger had to say.

She was fifteen years old—or thirty—I couldn't tell. But she'd never again be as beautiful. Every eye on the street followed her. I looked over to the stoop where she'd been sitting and I saw four men sitting. Watching.

The Puerto Rican flower was no whore—she was a fire–starter. She bit into her lower lip, making it swell against the pressure, leaning one perfect hip against the Plymouth.

I only had a minute to make up my mind, but it was no contest—she was for sale all right, but the price was a war with at least one of the watching young bloods. I wasn't buying—young blood gets hot, and hot blood gets spilled.

"What's your name, honey?" she wanted to know. And I knew she never would. I took one of her hands in mine, the red–lacquered nails gleaming in the sun. "Make today last, beautiful girl," I told her. I kissed her hand, and drove off.

It wasn't going to be my day—I knew the feeling. I drove aimlessly, the music playing, getting it under control. It wasn't nice, but I'd do the time—I'd done it before.

I went back across the bridge, past the House of Detention, telling myself that being depressed on the street was better than being depressed in jail, but it only worked for a couple of blocks.

I parked on Nevins Avenue to get some smokes, sat on the hood of the Plymouth, and lit one up. In no hurry to go nowhere. Right across from me were three old black guys—impossible to tell how old—wearing winter coats in the warm weather, sitting on some milk crates, passing around a bottle of wine, talking to each other about something. Minding their own business, sitting in the sun. Not all clubhouses have doors and windows.

Then I saw the pack of punks bopping up the street on the same side as the old men. Four white kids; they all had those weird haircuts, short and spiky in front, long in back, streaks of bright color and sticking up. They were dressed in short–sleeved leather jackets. One sported a long black cane with an eagle's head on top and probably a sword inside. Another one had a collar around his neck that looked like it belonged on a bulldog. They all were wearing black half–gloves, the kind that leave your fingertips out and knuckles bare. The punk with the cane came first, the others fanning out behind him. Then the biggest one moved up on the outside wing of the flying wedge, bouncing up the street throwing left jabs at anyone who came by—the others laughing as people fell over themselves to get out of the way.

As they passed by the old men, the big one fired a vicious jab square into the chest of one of them, knocking the old–timer right off his crate. I stepped off the hood of the Plymouth, reaching into my pocket for the roll of quarters I always keep there to pay tolls—but before I could move, the old man shook his head violently and struggled to his feet. He rubbed his face with both fists, drew a deep snarfling breath through his nose, and shuffled forward, suddenly hooking with both hands. The big kid threw up his own hands in some feeble imitation of boxers he'd seen on television, but he never had a chance. The old man drove the kid back against the side of a van like it was the ropes in the ring he must have fought in years ago, firing punch after punch to the kid's unprotected face and stomach—hard, professional punches, coming unpredictably from both hands. The big kid dropped to the street; the old man turned and went to a neutral corner, running on automatic pilot.

The street was quiet, but you could feel the joy swelling out of the bodegas and the bars. The big kid lay where he dropped—I scanned the street, but his running buddies were nowhere in sight. About what you'd expect. And the old man was back on his milk crate, being with his friends.

When the old man heard the bell, he knew what he had to do. Maybe he was past talking about it, but he could still do it. When I looked around again, the big kid was gone. And so were my blues.