Strega (33 page)

96

I
MADE the call the next morning. "You have my money?" I asked her when she answered the phone.

"Was that you…?"

"You have my money?" I asked her again, cutting her short. "I'll have it tonight. Do you have…?"

"Tonight. Midnight, right?"

"Yes. I'll…"

I hung up on her. A dry run.

97

I
WAS THERE on time. Fear was strong in me; I couldn't put a name to it. Nobody wants surgery, but when the disease is fatal, even the knife looks good.

The back of the house was soft, sly darkness. Shadows played their games. There was no music.

"I have you in me now," Strega said once. I called to Flood in my mind, telling her Strega had lied. Telling myself.

I had Scotty's picture in my pocket. It was enough to get me into the house—I wasn't sure it was enough to get me out. The garage was standing open, a space ready for my Plymouth. I left it outside, nose pointing toward the drive.

I walked up the stairs to the living room. It was empty. I fired a wooden match, looking for a light switch. I couldn't find one—settled for a lamp that flowed gracefully over the couch. I bit into a cigarette, watching the match flare with the first drag, waving my hand to put it out. I put the match in my pocket, waiting.

She came into the room wearing a red slip, her feet bare. Her face was scrubbed and clean. Sat down next to me on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. She looked like a young girl.

I took the picture from my pocket, gave it one last look, and put it in her lap. An offering—take this from me and go haunt someone else. She ran her finger lightly over the surface of the picture. "This is the one," she whispered.

I didn't want a ceremony. "You have my money?" I asked her.

"I'm going to burn this in front of Scotty," she said like she hadn't heard me. "And it will all be gone."

"It won't be gone—only the people at SAFE can do that," I told her.

"You know what I mean," she said.

She had her magic words—I had mine. "Where's the money?" I asked her again.

"It's upstairs," she said, flowing to her feet. "Come on."

A woman's hatbox was in the middle of her bed. I could see it through the canopy. A diamond floating on quicksand. She pointed to it, one hand on her hip.

I reached through the lacy fabric and pulled it out. The top came off—inside was the money, all neatly stacked. And the thick gold chain on top of the pile.

"Touch it," she whispered against me. "It's warm. Just before you came, I took a nap. I slept with it inside my body—it's warm from me."

"I don't want it," I said.

"Don't be afraid—take it."

"I don't want it," I said again, hearing my voice go hollow, holding on.

She pushed me to the chair in the corner. I stood hard against her, not moving. "It has to be in a chair," she whispered. "It's the only place I can do it. You have to be sitting down."

"I just want the money," I told her.

She grabbed the front of my coat with both hands, pulling at it with all her weight, her devil eyes firing both barrels at me. "You're mine," she said.

I met her eyes—something danced in there—something that would never have a partner. 'I did my work," I told her, staying where I was safe. "I'm done."

"You can't walk away from me," she whispered, holding on.

"Forget it, Strega."

"You call my name—you think you know me. You don't know me."

"I know you. And don't waste your time running to Julio—there's nothing he can do."

Strega knew an exit line when she heard one. She let go of my coat, turned her back to me, one hand holding a bedpost.

"Yes, Julio," she said. "My precious uncle Julio—the great and good friend of my father."

She turned to face me. "Who do you think taught me to make nice while he sat in a chair—be a good little girl?"

"What?" I said. I've had a lifetime of keeping my thoughts off my face, but it didn't work with Strega. She answered the question I never asked.

"Julio. I was Peppina then. I loved everybody. Especially Julio—he was so good to me. When he started with me, I told my father on him," she said, her voice that of a little child.

"What did he do?"

"What did he do? He beat me with a strap for telling evil tales about Julio. Julio the Saint. He was a saint to my father…because of the money and the fear. And I went back to Julio."

I just looked at her, watching her eyes. Cold fire. Hate.

"They taught me—money and fear. They taught me good. One day I wasn't little stupid happy Peppina anymore.

I saw Julio in my mind, the last time we talked. I knew why he looked like that now. "That's why Julio wanted me to do this get the picture for you?"

"Julio does what I want now. They all do what I want. Money and fear."

"Jina…"

"Strega. To you, Strega. And when you come back to me, Strega still."

"I'm not coming back," I said, putting the hatbox under one arm, holding the money against the cold.

One tear escaped her eye, ran down her cheek. "I have my Mia," she said, her voice as dead as the clown in the big white house, "and I have myself. I will always have myself."

"I've got more than that," I thought, walking out, the cold wind swirling at my back. Guarding its child.

Andrew Vachss

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 a 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

BOOKS BY
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

Copyright © 1987 by Andrew H. Vachss

All rights reserved under International and Pan–American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, 1987, and in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1996.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the Knopf edition as follows:

Vachss, Andrew.

Strega.

I.Title

PS3572.A33S7

1987

813'·54

86–46019

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-0-375-71902-8

v3.0