Footsteps of the Hawk

by Andrew Vachss

  I slid the Plymouth to the curb, hit the power–window switch for the passenger side. She leaned into the open window, said, "You looking for a date, honey?"

  "Mojo Mary said you wanted to talk to me," I answered.

  "You're…"

  "Yeah."

  She opened the door, climbed inside. A white girl, maybe twenty–two, already sagging from The Life. The combination of cheap overdose perfume, body powder, and stale sweat was overpowering. I turned the AC up a notch as I pulled away. Noticed the blonde standing hip–shot, watching over her shoulder.

  "Where do you—?" I asked her.

  "There's a parking lot on Thirty–seventh," she said. "Just pull in near the corner. The guy lets us use it."

  I found the spot, backed in so the nose of my Plymouth was facing out. Roxanne curled up on the front seat. "This way, if anybody's watching, they'll think it's a head job," she said.

  "Okay," I told her, impatient with all this. "What's the deal?"

  "What did Mojo Mary tell you?"

  "Girl, you think I'm gonna sit here and play games with you? Your time is money, right? So's mine."

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told Mary that I was having trouble with my man, okay? I know you…do that kind of thing. So I figured, I could get to meet you that way, like with her introducing us."

  "Okay, it worked. Now tell me the rest."

  "My man, he's into all kinds of stuff. Powder, mostly. He works me hard, and he treats me hard too."

  "So?"

  "So he's in jail now. For a little while, then he'll be out. I got to make my move. Now, while he's still inside."

  "Talk straight," I told her. This broad could have gangbanged every liar in Congress in the time it took her to get to the point.

  "I heard you could get it done…inside. You got friends there. I want you to…take him out, okay?"

  "No, it's not okay. I don't do that."

  "Listen to me," she whispered harshly, her voice urgent, "he does kids too. Little kids. And he gets money for it. Lots of money. If you do it, it's all yours."

  "You've got the wrong man, girl. The wrong man on both ends, it sounds like."

  "How much would you want? Up front? If I paid—"

  "It's not me," I told her. "I don't know what you heard, but you heard wrong. And you damn sure didn't hear it from Mojo Mary either."

  "Look, it'd be easy. I know exactly where he—"

  "Not now, not ever," I told her, starting the engine. She was still gabbing away when I pulled over at the same spot where I picked her up. The same two hookers were there. As she walked over to join them, the one with the Dolly Parton wig put her arm around Roxanne's shoulders, pulling her close, and walked off with her. The way it looked, soon as Roxanne found someone man enough to snuff her pimp, her next one wouldn't be a man at all.

  It wasn't my problem. I cranked the wheel over, headed back downtown.

  It was only late afternoon, but already I felt tired—like I'd worked all night. I closed my eyes at a traffic light—I could always count on some impatient swine waking me up with a horn blast when it turned green.

  I drove quietly, trying for smoothness, calming my center so I could think. A guy in a blue Camaro cut me off—I let him go, ignoring the middle finger he saluted me with. There's a lot of other things I could have done, but the Plymouth was a pro—nothing for fun, anything for money.

  The Camaro almost T–boned a white Ford Taurus at the next intersection. The driver was already wearing one of those foam cervical collars they give you in the Emergency Ward when you have whiplash—I guess he was related to a lawyer.

  Pedestrians crossed against the light, right in front of me, just about begging to get hit, every one on full ready–to–lie alert…"I crossed on the green, officer. I had the Walk sign all the way. That maniac just swooped down on me. I never saw him coming."

  Down here, you show some politeness, they think you're intimidated. Down here, mercy is rarer than honesty.

  New York may be a woman, the way some writers say. If she is, she's a low–class evil bitch. She wouldn't care if you killed yourself. Probably giggle at it. And sell the suicide note to the newspapers.

  I hate it all so much—more now than ever.

  Pansy was waiting for me, ice–water eyes watchful in her massive skull. She's a Neapolitan mastiff: a hundred and forty pounds of brick–brained muscle in her salad days, the beast was probably pushing one seventy by now.

  "Glad to see me, girl?" I asked her. Pansy was probably the only living female on this planet who would answer me the same way every time—her tail wagged out of control as she made happy sounds deep in her throat. I walked over to the tiny refrigerator and took out a quarter–pound of raw hamburger. I patted the hamburger into a round ball. Pansy watched me steadily, drooling quarts but not moving. I finally said "Speak!" and tossed it in her direction. She snapped it out of the air with the immaculate precision of a striking cobra. It was gone in one gulp, and she looked at me pleadingly. "You've had enough, you fat pig," I told her.

  If her feelings were hurt, she didn't show it, padding over to the back door and knocking against it with a raised paw. I once thought about installing a dog door so she could go in and out herself whenever she wanted, but when I measured how big a cut it would take I realized there wouldn't be anything left but the frame.

  I opened the door and she worked her way up the fire escape to the roof, where she'd dump another load. I don't go up there much—the smell would gag a mortician.

  When Pansy came back down, I made myself something to eat from one of the takeout cartons from Mama's restaurant, heating the concoction up on my hot plate. I spooned it down, mixing swallows with some ice water from the refrigerator. What I didn't finish, I dumped into Pansy's bowl, right on top of the dry dog food she can get for herself anytime she wants by pushing a lever with her snout. I don't use plates much—everything has to be washed in the bathroom sink. Anything Pansy won't eat, I just throw into a thirty–gallon plastic bag. When that gets near full, I wrap it up, take it downstairs. First Dumpster I pass, in it goes. I keep the place squeaky–clean, like I did my cell when I was inside—you let New York roaches establish a beachhead, it's the beginning of the end.

  I walked around the office for a few minutes until I realized I was pacing. I'd taught myself not to do that—it makes you tense, exaggerates the limits of your surroundings. That's what you are in jail, surrounded. And it's not the locks and bars that make you feel so hemmed in, it's the lack of choices. It basically comes down to two in there—you live or you die.

  Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

  It's safe up here. Besides Pansy, I've got all kinds of security systems. The Mole fixed it up for me. He arranged it so I could use the telephone line of the aging hippies who live in the big loft just below me too. He even has my electricity wired into their line. Only thing he couldn't pirate was the cable TV—Con Ed doesn't care what's going on so long as it makes its money, but the cable TV people get big–time serious about piracy. I make do with a wire coat hanger for an antenna on my old B&W set,

  I found a Mets game on TV That collection of egotistical maladroits was blowing still another opportunity to climb out of the cellar. Somebody must have put a curse on them—no team is as bad as they were playing. They say baseball is a game of inches, but those suckers were a couple of yards off the mark.

  Pansy growled her disapproval—baseball bores the hell out of her. I played with the dial until I found some pro wrestling. She snarfled her approval, settling down into a huge lump on the floor next to me. I closed my eyes, one hand absently patting her sleek head.

  When I came around, it was dark outside. I let Pansy out one more time, promised I'd bring her a treat when I got back.

  Rain slanted down through the polluted air, dirty–dancing in my headlights. The blue–dragon tapestry was in Mama's window I drove right on past, found a pay phone, called in.

  "It's me. You have visitors
?"

  "All gone now. Lady."

  "Lady cop?"

  "Yes."

  "Anything else?"

  "Man call. Say he from Targets. Say somebody looking for you there."

  "Lady too?"

  "No. Man. Angry man."

  "Thanks, Mama. I'll see you later."

  "Lady cop, she not have uniform."

  "How'd you know, then?"

  "I know," Mama said, and broke the connection.

  I was on the move early the next morning. I felt boxed. Not trapped yet, but close. I needed a place to think things through. Not my office—if they came there, the best I could do would be to hold them off for a while—I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

  I aimed the Plymouth north and let it roll toward the Mole's junkyard, sensors on full alert. When I was in prison, when I was studying all the time, I learned about artifacts. When psychologists do a series of interviews with the same guy, they sometimes insert a piece of false information and wait to see if the guy feeds it back to them. That would mean the guy's faking the symptoms. Malingering, they call it. What else would you expect from a business where they say you're "in denial" instead of just calling you a fucking liar.

  Artifacts work like verbal trip–wires. Doc told me about them. He was doing a pretrial screening interview with a guy they'd dropped on a couple of dozen rapes. This guy, he said he was a multiple personality. You know, it wasn't him who did it, it was the other one. So what Doc did, he left some of his notes lying around on top of the desk. He gets an emergency phone call and he runs out. The guy, naturally, takes a look. Doc's notes said the guy sounded like a multiple all right, but one thing was missing—all male multiples complain of bad toothaches even when there's nothing wrong. Some mumbo–jumbo about the nerve endings in the lower jaw. Pure bullshit.

  Anyway, a couple of days later, the guy starts screaming in his cell. When the guards come, he tells them he's got this incredible pain in his back teeth. They give him a couple of painkillers, stand there and make sure he swallows them. Next morning, he goes out on Sick Call. Sees the dentist. They take X–rays. Nothing shows. They mark the guy down for a hustler, send him back to his cell. So the next time he sees Doc, he doesn't want to talk about the rapes—all he does is complain that his teeth are killing him and begs Doc to make the dentist look at him again.

  The guy went from NGI—Not Guilty by reason of Insanity—to NFG—No Fucking Good—in that session. Last I heard, he was still Upstate.

  That's where I got the idea. What I do is carry these matchboxes around. The fancy kind you get in some joints—wooden matches in shiny little boxes. Free advertising, I guess it's supposed to be. Only I've never been in Targets except for one time. It's a tiny joint over on the West Side—only open from six at night to two in the morning. The guy who works the bar, he's actually the owner. But he's got a felony fall on his sheet, so he can't be listed that way. I know him from Upstate. He knows how things work. We made a deal—if anyone comes around asking for me, he drops word to Mama. I call him back, get a description. It costs me five yards each time, but it's worth it for the safety net.

  I didn't need the description this time—it had to be Morales.

  Morales on one end, Belinda Roberts on the other. I went back far enough with both of them so it couldn't be an accident—I was in a vise.

  Hunts Point—a giant open–air discount market, from slightly used car parts to very used whores. I stopped for a red light on Bruckner, glancing to my left, toward the shantytown squatting below the overpass. Even out there, in the middle of a war zone, the homeless felt safer than they ever would in one of the city shelters. They weren't wrong, either.

  As soon as traffic stopped for the light, the street was filled with young Latino men, all brandishing some form of sign. AUTO GLASS was the most common. They're all commission salesmen, shilling for one of the nearby body shops. You need a new windshield for your Chevy? Why pay four bills when you can get it done at the Point for one and a half, tops. The Point is an all–cash economy, everything's negotiable.

  Everything. The Point is so dangerous, it can kill clichés. Down here, things are as bad as they seem.

  I drove through slowly, staying smooth at the wheel—erratic movements in this neighborhood, they're like a fish going belly–up…the predators are always next on the scene. The Point—where the feral dogs fear the feral children, and even the STOP signs are bullet–pocked.

  You get a flat tire around here, you just keep driving on the rim until you're over the border.

  Terry opened the back gate at the junkyard. I docked the Plymouth in the space he pointed to. We walked back to the Mole's bunker together. Terry was getting his growth. Filling out some too. No point in wondering who he'd look like when he was done—his bio–parents sold him to a kiddie pimp when he was small—all he remembered from them was the pain. He was the Mole's son now. The Mole's and Michelle's.

  That's the way it happens down here. Somebody always picks up the strays. Most of the time, they're just table scraps for freaks. Terry, he got lucky. But he paid heavy for that luck before it came to him.

  I half–listened to the kid going on about some experiment he and the Mole were doing—I already knew from experience I wouldn't understand it even if I focused on every word. The dog pack swirled around us, not herding so much as flowing along with us.

  "Where's Simba?" I asked Terry. Simba was the pack leader, a mixed–breed murderer who'd held his position against all comers for years. Usually, he'd be the first one up when a stranger came through the gate.

  "He's down at the other end," the kid said. "With a girl…Remember Orchid? The white pit bull? The one who had puppies last year?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, the next batch of puppies, Simba's going to be the father," Terry told me proudly.

  The Mole's deck chair was standing by itself in the afternoon's slanting sunlight, a cut–down oil drum with a cushion on top. But there was no sign of the Mole himself.

  Terry saw me looking, asked: "You want me to get—?"

  "No," I interrupted. "I'm okay. I just wanted a quiet place to be by myself for a bit, all right?"

  "Sure," the kid said. He turned around and started back the way we d come.

  I sat on the Mole's chair, lit a cigarette, eyes half–closed, centering myself, dropping down in my mind to where I could do the work. I finished the smoke, breathing shallow. After I tossed it away, I swept the grounds until I saw a piece of chrome bumper from a derelict car. It was glinting in the sun, a spark in shadow. I focused on the spark, narrowing my vision, converting all the street sounds to white noise. I got quieter and quieter inside. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the spark of light. I went into it.

  Morales hated me. Hated me for scamming McGowan—had me marked for that house of freaks in the Bronx too. Maybe some other stuff. He was a grudge–loving dinosaur pit bull. He'd stay on the case forever. And once he got his jaws locked, he'd never drop the bite.

  If it was an accident that he ran across my path, why would he muscle over to Targets? What did he want to know?

  That was one gap.

  Belinda. She'd been on my case for a long time now. Calling, leaving messages. But she wasn't pushing it. Until now Coming by Mama's joint, letting me know what she knew. Why? Why now?

  Another gap.

  The gaps were too big for me to fill with logic, so I let my other side work, trying to feel what I couldn't calculate.

  What it felt was bad. Treacherous bad.

  The Mole has a super–safe phone down in his bunker. He tried to explain it to me once…something about a blue box into the 800 loop and then back out. I never did understand it.

  I walked over to the entrance of the bunker, called "Mole" softly. The Mole looks harmless but he's so smart that he's crazy with it—you don't want to spook someone like that.

  After a minute or so, he appeared at the top of the stairs, his skin as underground–pale as always, eyes unrea
dable behind the thick Coke–bottle lenses, his form shapeless under a dirt–colored jumpsuit. He answers people who call his name the same way he answers his phone—with silence.

  "I need to use the phone for a few minutes, okay?"

  He didn't answer. Just turned his back and started down the stairs. I followed. The underground bunker was illuminated with diffused lighting, like an aquarium. The Mole went to his workbench, started fumbling with some small vials of liquid. The phone was near the wall. I picked it up, got a dial tone, tapped out the number for Targets. The phone made a whirring sound, then a series of rapid–fire beep–tones as it worked its way into the loop and then back to Manhattan. It rang four times before it was picked up.

  "Targets," a woman's voice said.

  "Can I speak to Nate, please?" I asked the voice.

  "Who should I tell him—?"

  "A friend. From Upstate."

  It was maybe half a minute before I heard Nate's voice. "What?"

  "It's me," I said. "I got your message. About somebody asking for me."

  "Yeah. Right. So when do I get—?"

  "It's on the way. You'll have it tonight. What can you tell me about the guy?"

  "Big man. Not tall, he walked big, understand?"

  "Yeah."

  "Latino. P.R. maybe, who can tell? Big chest. No neck. Growls when he talks."

  "What'd he want?"

  "Do I know you? You been around? You come there a lot?"

  "He say my name?"

  "Yeah. He flashed the tin, didn't make no secret of it."

  "He leave any kind of message?"

  "Yeah. Said he'd be back. I told him I take care of the captain—I'm not supposed to get no street rollers coming around. He just laughed. Only not 'ha ha,' you understand?"