He had a powerful grip, but he wasn't trying to impress anybody with it. His eyes were clear and direct, his stance respectful.
"And this here is Max the Silent. The life–taking, widow–making wind of destruction," the Prof told the kid, indicating Max. The Mongol warrior bowed. The kid had one hand stuck out but he quickly pulled it back, imitating Max's ceremony with a bow of his own. I didn't know if he could fight yet, but he was no dummy.
"Heavy bag's free," the Prof said to the kid. "Come on."
The kid followed the Prof over to the now–vacant bag, slipping on a pair of training gloves as he walked. He stepped up to the bag like a man going to work, started pounding it with alternating hands, left–right–left, a steady stream of hooks, breathing through his nose, well within himself. He had a perfect boxer's body—you couldn't see any muscle development until he moved.
The Prof stood to the side, watching the kid like an air–traffic controller with too many planes on the radar screen. The kid kept working the bag, steady as a metronome. When the Prof finally called a halt, the kid didn't look winded.
"We need a hundred punches a round. Hard punches. Every round," the Prof told the kid, tossing an old terry–cloth robe over his fighter's shoulder. "This whole game is about conditioning, remember what I said? You get tired, you get weak. You get weak, you go down." The kid nodded—he'd obviously heard all this before.
"What you think of our boy?" the Prof asked me.
"Don't know yet," I told him. The Prof knew what I meant. The world's full of good gym fighters—it's when they get hit that you find out the truth.
Max stepped forward, shaking his head in a "No!" gesture, pointing at the kid. He bowed to the Prof, pointed at the kid, then at himself.
"Forget that!" the Prof snapped at him. "Ain't no way in the world you gonna spar with my boy."
Max ignored the Prof, stepped close to the kid, guided him back toward the heavy bag. I pulled the robe off the kid's shoulders as Max turned him so he was facing the bag again. Max stepped behind the kid, put one hand on each side of the kid's waist, fingers splayed around to just below the kid's abdomen. When he nodded, the kid started to throw punches, slowly at first, then harder and harder. Max stepped away, bowed again, and changed places with the kid.
"Put your hands where Max had them," I told the kid. He tentatively put his gloved hands on either side of the Mongol, confused but going along.
Max ripped a left hook, a jet–stream pile driver that actually rocked the bag.
"Look at your hands," I told the kid. The kid's left hand was dangling in the air, his right still on Max's waist. He put his hand back, bent his shoulders forward so he was closer to Max. The warrior fired several shots with each fist. The kid lost his grip again. Max stepped away, pointed to the kid's hips, made a maitre d's gesture, inviting the kid back to the bag.
Frankie got it then. He took his stance, started slowly, driving each punch by torquing his hips, increasing the tempo as he felt it working. The heavy bag danced, the blows much heavier than when the kid first worked it. When he stopped, he was smiling.
"I never realized…" he said, turning to Max, bowing his thanks.
"Yeah, yeah—the mope can smoke," the Prof said, reluctantly acknowledging Max's expertise, guarding his own territory. "But fighting's a mind game. It's all in the head, Fred."
"When's he gonna go?" I asked.
"Friday night," the Prof said. "We got this showcase gig. Over in Queens. Exposure's good, and the purse could be worse."
"How much?"
"One large."
"That's not a whole lot to get beat on," I said, dubious.
"Look here, schoolboy. It ain't about bucks, not at first. Way I hear it, one of the cable scouts'll be there—it's their show. National, get it? There's a big–time shortage of heavyweights. And white heavies…hell, you can write your own ticket. They so desperate for white, they settling for some of those Afro–mocha, too–much–cream–in–the–coffee brothers. The heavyweights? I tell you, there ain't no bop in that crop. The ones they got, they just nursing them along. You see these clowns, records like thirty–two and oh. But they never fight each other, see? They got to have that undefeated record to get a shot. Then they score, but there ain't no more. One fight, that's right. And then it's over, Rover. We not going that route. Frankie's gonna fight anybody wants to play, all the way. So when he gets his shot, he drops the hammer."
"But for a first fight…"
"Look, Burke. Frankie got a whole bunch of fights before this. Amateur, sure, but plenty of fights."
"How'd he do?"
"Ah, he was jobbed most of the time. He fights pro–style. Body punches, chopping down the tree, see? But the amateurs, it's all about pitty–pat. Slap each other like bitches in a pillow fight. That wasn't Frankie."
"That's where you found him? In the amateurs?"
"Nah. He was in this club over to Jersey. Fighting smokers. In the basement, you know how it works. You get paid to cook, but it's off the books. Don't go on your record, neither."
I looked over to where the kid was skipping rope under Clarence's watchful eye. "Speaking of records…" I let it trail away.
"Down twice," the Prof came back. "One in the kiddie camps, once upstate. Assault, both times. Kid's got a real nasty temper."
"Who's he been…?"
"Anybody, babe. He was a brawler. Half–ass burglar too. Booze was his beast. But now that's all done, son. My man don't touch a drop, and that's a Medeco lock."
I watched the kid spar for a while. Nothing spectacular—steady and dedicated, learning the fundamentals. I slipped the Prof the five grand from Mama, told him she was in. Then I signaled Max it was time to split. He would have happily stayed there all goddamn day, but I had work to do.
I pulled the Plymouth into the garage of the warehouse where Max lives. He pointed up, making a "come on" gesture, inviting me to say hello to Immaculata and the baby, Flower. I tapped my watch, held my thumb and forefinger close together, showing him I didn't have time.
I stood on the sidewalk, watched the Plymouth disappear behind the descending garage door. As soon as it disappeared, I walked over to the subway on Chrystie Street and dropped into the underground, heading uptown.
A small group of people clustered near the middle of the platform. Timid rabbits—knowing one of the herd would be taken, praying it wouldn't be them, never thinking that together they could have a fox for breakfast. I walked away from them, toward the rear. The end of the platform was deserted. I stood there quietly, settling into myself. A bird flew past my face, almost too quick to see. I was used to rats in the subway, but I'd never seen a bird before. I trained my eyes on where the bird had vanished. Nothing. Then I heard a chirping noise and refocused. A nest was neatly tucked into the hollow part of a crossbeam. The mother bird hopped about anxiously, trying to quiet them down. I walked a few feet back toward the center of the platform, turning my back. In a minute, the mother bird swooped by again. A sparrow, she looked like. Down here, the squatters aren't all humans.
The train finally rolled in. It wasn't crowded at that hour. I found a two–person seat at the end of the car. Two stops later, a pair of black teenagers got on, doing the gangstah strut. One of them sat next to me, bumping my shoulder slightly. I stiffened my left arm, ready for a move, but the kid said, "Excuse me, sir," in a polite voice. His pal took the seat facing us, and the two started a rapid–fire conversation.
"Ain't no way the bitch gets away from me," the kid next to me said. "My game is too strong."
"Why you gotta be referring to sisters like that?" the guy across from us said.
"What you mean?"
"I mean, man, what is all this bitch thing with you? You not showing no respect. Why you call your own woman a bitch?"
The kid next to me considered the question for a minute, then he leaned forward, said, "Well, what else I gonna call the ho'?"
His pal gave me a "What can you do?" look. I nodded to show
I understood his dilemma. When the train rolled up to my stop, they were still going at it.
The private clinic was housed in a discreet brownstone on a quiet East Side block. I rang the bell, standing so the video eye could pick up my image easily. In a minute, the door was opened by a young woman in jeans and a white T–shirt. "You're Mr. Burke?" she asked. I nodded to tell her she had the right man but she had already turned her back to me and was walking away. I followed her into a small room just past a receptionist's desk, took the seat she indicated. She walked out without another word.
Doc showed in a couple more minutes. Medium height with a husky wrestler's chest, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses he always wears.
"Thanks for coming, hoss," he said.
"I owe you one," I told him. It was the truth. Hell, more than one, maybe. "Besides, I wanted to see how your new setup was working out."
"So far so good," he said.
"It's a long way from Upstate," I told him. Upstate—the prison—where we first met. I was a convict, Doc was the institutional psychiatrist. Later, they put him in charge of all the institutions for the criminally insane. I'd heard he packed it in. Quit cold. Moved down here to the city to open up this clinic for damaged teenagers.
"I'm still the same," Doc said, just a faint trace of Kentucky in his voice.
"Me too," I assured him.
Something shifted behind the lenses of his glasses. A microscope, focusing. "Heard you might have bought yourself a bit of trouble a while back."
"That wasn't me," I said.
Doc just nodded. I lit a cigarette. "I used to—" he started.
"I heard this before," I interrupted. It was self–preservation.
Doc's a great storyteller, has a real narrator's gift. But it doesn't work so well from a soapbox—I'd heard about his heroic triumph over evil cigarettes too many times already.
"Okay, hoss. Whatever you say. Here's the deal: we have a client who's expecting—"
He stopped talking when a teenage girl burst into the room. A brunette with long, thin hair flowing all the way down past her shoulders. Her face was a skeleton, her body too scrawny to cast a shadow. Her skin was that dull–orange color starvation freaks get from a heavy carrot diet—there's some bullshit going around about how carrots fill you up but have no calories—every teenage girl in the world seems to believe it.
"I'm not going to—" she started.
"Susan, I'm with somebody," Doc said mildly.
"I don't care! They can't make me—"
"Nobody is going to make you do anything, Susan. But if you don't—"
"I won't. I know what I'm doing. I…"
Doc held up a hand, palm out like a traffic cop, but it was no good. The girl just charged ahead. "Just let me explain, all right? Let me tell you why. Please?"
"As soon as I'm finished with—"
"No! Now! I don't care if another shrink hears—"
"Burke isn't…" Doc started to say. He caught my eye. I nodded, He went with it, settling back in his chair, spreading his arms, palms out and open. "Tell me," he said.
"There's a reason for it," the girl said, standing with her hands on what should have been her hips. "I don't have anorexia. I mean it's not an addiction or anything. I'm not like Aurora."
"Tell me the reason," Doc said, gently.
The girl's face contorted. She shook off the spasm, wrapped her arms around herself, whispered: "I don't want to look sexy."
"Susan…" Doc tried.
"I won't!" the girl lashed out. "You can't make me."
"How old were you when it happened?" I asked.
Her face whirled around toward me. Only her head swiveled—her body was still facing Doc. "What?"
"How old were you when…?" I repeated, holding her close with my voice, cutting off the exit roads.
Her eyes screamed at me, but her voice was low–pitched. "Nine," she said.
"You have a lot of curves then?"
"What?"
"Did you look sexy then, Susan? Like a woman?"
"No…"
"You keep starving yourself, you end up looking like a child again. No curves, no shape. All flat lines, right? Like a skinny little girl again."
"I…"
"They don't want grown women," I told her, sharing the truth—we both knew who "they" were. "They want little girls," I said quietly. "You're not keeping them away, Susan—you're playing your old tapes."
"I hate you!" she shrieked at me. Then she started to cry. Deep, racking sobs. Her bird's–wing ribs looked like they were going to snap from the pressure and Doc was on his feet in a split–second, arms around the girl, crooning something soft in her ear, patting her back until she stopped holding herself so rigid, walking her out the door.
I finished my cigarette, looking around the office, someplace else in my head. But I wasn't that far gone—I used the time to slip a couple of Doc's Rx pads into my pocket.
Doc was back in a few minutes. If he noticed the missing pads, he didn't say anything. "You should have been a therapist, hoss. We've been discussing how we could confront Susan with her real agenda for weeks now."
"I'm sorry. I—"
"Don't be sorry. I wasn't kidding you—that was what she needed. I guess it was better hearing it from a stranger. She was sent to us for anorexia, but we weren't getting anywhere. Another week and she'd have had to go on IV."
"Who sent her?"
"Her dad."
"The same one who…"
"No. It was her grandfather. Happened maybe ten, twelve years ago. They never did anything about it. Oh sure, they kept her away from him, but that was it. They thought everything was fine until she just stopped eating."
"The weight she's trying to lose, it's got nothing to do with calories, huh?"
"Right on the money, hoss. But now we got ourselves jump–started. And Susan got herself a chance." Then he leaned back in his chair and told me what he wanted.
I told Doc I couldn't handle a 24–7, but he promised that his client's daughter would be on the midnight bus out of Cincinnati. That was the job—a runaway. At least that's what she thought. The kid's parents made the arrangements with Doc. She'd go right into his clinic. And she wouldn't have to go home if she didn't want to. If you wanted Doc to treat your kid, you had to sign that last part. Notarized.
I didn't ask Doc anything else. I got up to leave but he stopped me, using the same traffic–cop gesture he'd used on the girl with the carrot skin.
"You know, Burke…the way you handled that thing with Susan…I don't understand why you live the way you do."
"You don't know how I live," I told him, trying to shut this off.
"I've got an idea," Doc replied. "Look, I know you —I know you a long time. Even back…inside…you were always studying something. Reading, asking questions. You've got an amazing vocabulary—it's almost like you're bilingual—sometimes you sound like a mobster, sometimes you sound like a lawyer, sometimes you—"
"I do have a great vocabulary," I interrupted. "It's so fucking big, I even know what the word 'patronizing' means.
Doc nodded—like he'd tried his best, but the case was hopeless.
When I walked in the Eighth Avenue entrance everyone was in their places. The Prof was sitting on his shoeshine box, industriously working over a pair of alligator loafers. Clarence was in the loafers, eyes sweeping the terminal. Max was slumped on a bench, his body disguised under a filthy old raincoat, a battered felt hat shielding his eyes.
I was wearing one of the suits Michelle had made me buy. Gray silk, fall weave. Carrying a black anodized–aluminum attaché case in my left hand.
I strolled past a bank of pay phones, listening to a United Nations babble—all kinds of people, calling home. Calling home is a big business in this city. You can find special setups in any heavy ethnic neighborhood—phone centers, they're called. They set them up almost like tiny apartments—nice comfortable chair to sit in, couple of spares in case you want to crowd the whole fam
ily in too. Some of them have desks, shelf space, writing paper. And their rates are cheaper than you could get on your own phone, because the guys who run it buy blocks of trunk time to specific locations. In Flushing, it's Korea, India, Southeast Asia: two seventy–nine for the first minute, then seventy–five cents for each additional minute. In Jackson Heights, it's Colombia: a buck twenty–six for the first, forty–nine cents after. People who use the centers, they're not thinking of a quickie call—some of them stay for hours.
Down in the Port Authority, they have the low–rent version—you make your call with someone else's credit card. Thieves rent the credit–card numbers—all you can use for twenty–four hours, one flat fee. The Port Authority is the best place to use them—plenty of pay phones always available, impossible to stake out, anonymous.
My watch said it was eleven–forty. Plenty of time even if the bus was on schedule. The Port Authority cops were all around, watching for runaways. No shortage of pimps either, trolling for the same fish, using different bait.
It went so smooth I almost didn't trust it. While the predators hovered, I walked straight on through. I met the bus, told the girl I was with Project Pride, a safe house for runaways. Promised her a nice private room, free food, and counselors to help her find a job. She told me she was going to be an actress. I told her lies of equal weight. She got into my Plymouth. I drove her to the clinic, half–listening to her stream of chatter, hating how easy anyone could have gotten this little girl to come along with them.
I found a place to park, rang the bell. The door opened. I left the kid there.
The next morning, I went back to work. Ever since I got back from Connecticut, I've been bottom–feeding, picking at carrion. I run my scams in the Personals—promising whatever, delivering never. I also use my P.O. boxes—offering losers a real pipeline to "mercenary opportunities." The only mercenary they'll ever meet that way is me. Kiddie–porn stings don't have much bite to them today—the freaks all want to sample the merchandise over a computer modem before they buy. Or they want you to fax a teaser. And even the pedophiles who want hard copy insist you use FedEx so the federales can't bust you for trafficking through the U.S. mail. But that's okay—there's never a shortage of targets who can't go crying to the cops when they get fleeced.
Footsteps of the Hawk Page 2