"Yeah. Thanks, Nate."
I hung up on his "When do I—?"
I called Mama's. "It's me," I told her when she picked up my pay phone in the back of the restaurant. "Can you tell Max I need him to drop off five small at Targets? The guy's behind the bar. Named Nate. Fat guy, going bald."
"Where Targets?" she asked.
I gave her the address. Then asked, "Mama, this lady cop, what did she say?"
"Say very, very important. You call her."
"The same number she's always leaving?"
"Yes. Same number. Say anytime after four o'clock."
I looked at my watch. Seven–fifteen already. "Four o'clock when?" I asked.
"She not say. Walk out, fast."
"Thanks, Mama."
I crossed back over the Triborough into Manhattan, thinking how badly things had changed. Used to be, when I was leaving a place like Hunts Point, I could feel the muscles in the back of my neck relax as I crossed the border into safer territory. No more. Now the muscles stay tight—all the time. There's no safe harbor in this city, no neighborhood where anyone really feels secure. There's a thin vicious mist over the city, the whole place poisoned by that red–zone aggression–terror mix. That's another reason I don't carry a gun anymore—it makes you too brave. I know what being brave costs—I'd emptied that account the same time I emptied that last clip…in the basement of blood I walked away from in the Bronx.
I took the FDR downtown, darkness coming now. I found a parking spot on Lex, walked a couple of blocks until I got to the building I was looking for. The entranceway was deserted. I pushed the button for 11–G, my mouth near the intercom in case they were going to screen the clients. Nothing came out of the intercom, but the main door buzzed open.
I took the elevator to the eleventh floor, walked the length of the threadbare carpet to the last apartment on the right. The door was painted matte black, its flatness broken only by the letter "G" in gilt and a heavy steel plate surrounding the lower lock, protecting the deadbolt. I pushed the tiny pearl–white button on the door frame, heard chimes ring inside.
I stood back a couple of feet to give whoever was working the peephole a good look at me. The door was opened by a short, skinny man wearing a black suit with red suspenders over a white shirt. A wispy mustache made him look even more weasely.
"Can I do something for you?" he asked.
"I'm here to see Mojo Mary," I answered.
"You have an appointment?"
"No."
"She know you?"
"Yes. Name's Burke."
"Chill," the man said, closing the door in my face.
He was back in another minute. This time he stepped aside, waved me to a white Naugahyde couch in the front room, facing the door. I sat down, waited. The man disappeared to my left. A tall brunette in a peach–colored teddy walked across the room on my right, heading for another door. She winked at me, gave her hips an extra shake—a reflex action. I knew her—by reputation, anyway Word is she was fired from her job as a porno actress because she couldn't memorize the lines.
The man came back with Mojo Mary in tow. She's half Cajun, half Lao—on any given day, she'll tell you a different story about how that happened. Her skin is a rosy bronze color, her glossy black hair long and straight; her teeth are so white they don't look real. She was wearing a man's red pajama top with the top buttons undone. It fell to mid–thigh, showing off the fishnet stockings she wore with red spike heels.
"Hello, stranger," she said, smiling.
"How you doing?" I responded, getting to my feet.
"Come on with me—I'll tell you all about it," she said, holding out her hand,
I took it, followed her down a carpeted corridor. All the doors were closed except the one we went in. It was a bedroom, all pink and white, dominated by a king–size bed with an elaborate headboard. A bathroom door stood open to my left.
Mary closed the door behind us, stepped around me and sat on the bed, crossing her legs.
"It's seventy–five for a half–hour—a buck and a quarter for an hour. You feeling strong today?"
"I just want some answers," I told her, taking a roll of bills out of my jacket. "Here's the seventy–five—I'll be out of here in a few minutes. And here's your tip," I said softly, handing her another hundred.
"Ummm," she said, licking her lips. "Money makes me hot. You sure you don't want me to—?"
"Roxanne. That girl working the West Side, near the Javits Center—how'd you meet her?"
"Roxanne….? I don't know if…"
"She gave your name. When she called me. Said she had a problem. White girl. Looks kind of used."
"All those tire–biters look used, honey—that's a rough life out there."
"She used your name, Mary. I know you got paid. Just tell me what you know and I'm out of here."
"Square business?"
"Square business. I got no beef with you. Just run it down—where, when, like that, okay?"
She looked up at me, dark eyes glinting over high cheekbones. "Look, honey, all I did was what I do, okay? I mean, I figured she had a job of work, she pays me to get word to you. After that, you're on your own, right?"
"Right."
"And, the way I figure it, if you make out good on the job, maybe you'll come by, take care of Mary."
"I just did that, take care of you. You don't like the way I did it?"
"Come on, honey. You know that isn't what I meant. It's just…you sound like you're mad at me for something."
"Mary, I came to your place, didn't I? I was mad at you, I wouldn't come here, give everybody a good look at me, would I?"
"I…guess not."
"And I came alone, didn't I? Showed you respect?"
"Yes…"
"So give it to me, girl."
She got up off the bed, walked over to a night table, knocked a cigarette out of a pack, tapped the filter against one long thumbnail. "You got a match?" she asked, coming over to where I was standing.
I cracked a wooden match into flame. She cupped my hand in both of hers, taking the light. "Sit down," she said. "You're making me nervous."
I took an easy chair near the foot of the bed, lit a smoke of my own. Mary walked in little circles, gesturing with her cigarette. "This Roxanne chick, she called me. Here. We're not supposed to get personal calls here, but Rudy—you know, the guy who let you in—he doesn't ride too hard. Anyway, she wanted to meet me. Said there was good money in it. I met her in Logan's. You know that bar on—?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Anyway, that's a safe place. I mean, I picked it and all. And Rudy went with me. This Roxanne, I never saw her before. Not her friend either."
"Her friend?"
"Blonde girl. I think it was a wig…like too much hair for her face, you know? Kind of fat, you ask me. Too much makeup."
"She tell you her name, the blonde girl?"
"No. She didn't say much of anything. But I could tell it was her pulling the strings—this Roxanne, her motor's not hitting on all cylinders, you understand?"
"Yeah," I said, making a "get on with it" gesture with my right hand.
Mary took a deep drag from her cigarette, buying herself a little time. "Anyway, she said she was having trouble with her man. She wanted to jet, but she was scared of him. Happens all the time, right?"
"Sure."
"So I asked her, does she want to hire Rudy, take care of it? And—"
"Rudy? The skinny guy who answered the door out there?"
"Oh yes, honey. Rudy maybe can't bench–press fifty pounds, but he's quick as a snake with that blade of his. Quiet too."
"Okay. So…"
"So she says no. She wants you. Burke, she said. She knew your name. Said she heard you was real good at this. I told her, everybody on the street has peeped your hole card a long time ago—if it don't have nothing to do with kids, you not gonna do any heavy work."
Wesley flashed across my mind. Wesley, the maybe–dead ice–monster. The p
erfect killer, good for nothing else, but better at it than any man alive. Wesley telling me I had a bull's–eye on my back. A weakness. Kids. Get rid of it, he told me in his deadman's voice. I wish I'd listened then. I put the cigarette to my lips, making a smoke screen for my eyes. "So what happened after that?" I asked Mary.
"She said it was about kids, kind of. Anyway, she'd pay me to get word out to you."
I raised my eyebrows.
"Five yards," Mary said. "I figured, it must be big, she was gonna pay that much for just a message. Figured, you were gonna get paid big too."
"So she paid you how much up front?"
"The whole thing. Only, she didn't actually pay me—it was the blonde chick."
"And that's all you know?"
"That is all I know, honey. I even told her—I can get word to you, but I can't promise you'll do anything about it. She just told me where her stroll is, told me to tell you that."
"You'd know the blonde girl if you saw her again?"
"I…think so. Like I said, she didn't say much. And it's dark in there, so—"
"Okay, Mary. Thanks." I got up to leave.
Mary opened another button on the pajama top, flashing a smile. "You paid for some time, honey. You want me to earn it?"
"If you told me the truth, you just did," I said, reaching behind me to open the door, watching Mojo Mary all the time.
I drove back downtown, working it over in my mind. Coming up short again. That last bit stunk worse than aged sushi. Mojo Mary has a hooker's soul. She's all whore in her heart—no way she gives up pussy for free. But she didn't seem scared, the way she would if she thought she'd sold me out and I was still walking around. She was guilty all right, but lightweight guilty—figured she could work it off. Just didn't add up.
Only the white dragon was in Mama's window. I pulled around to the back, walked through and found my booth. Mama came over, clapping her hands for soup. This time, she didn't wait for the ceremony, just sat down across from me.
"What is all this?" she asked me, gesturing in a wide circle.
"I don't know, Mama. Mojo Mary gave my name to a street girl. Girl wanted me to ice her man, take him off the count. Mary knows I don't do that kind of work…"
"Mary is street girl too?"
"Yeah. Only she works inside."
"So! Maybe she…hear something. From long ago…"
I kept my mind away from that, away from the past. Too many "Father Unknown" birth certificates—too many unmarked graves. Who knows what the pimps gossip about in their after–hours joints, where flash counts heavier than cash? Who knows what Mojo Mary heard? "Maybe you're right, Mama," is all I said.
I sipped my soup in silence, expecting Mama to go back to her cash register. But she stayed where she was, face composed, watching me.
"What?" I finally asked her.
"Why you not ask about lady police?"
"I already know her," I said. "Belinda. The same one who's been calling here all along, remember?"
"Short girl, kind of…"
"Plump?"
"No, not plump. Like…solid. Strong."
"Yeah, that's her."
"Blue eyes?"
"I don't remember," I told her. It was the truth.
"Blond hair?"
I looked up from my soup, paying attention for the first time. "No. It's kind of reddish–brown."
"This one blonde."
"You sure?"
Mama gave me a look of intense pity, clearly wondering how I got to be as old as I am despite being so stupid. "Yes," she said. "Sure. Blonde."
"Maybe she dyed her hair. Women do things like that, right?"
"Not dye hair," Mama said. "Blond wig."
I felt a hammer drop somewhere in my head. Maybe I was getting too old for this. Who strips a blow–job whore looking for a wire? That blonde girl, the one on the same corner as Roxanne…I tried to replay the image, but I couldn't get the screen to clear. Belinda? Belinda getting me on tape, agreeing to kill a man for money?
But I hadn't gone for it.
I was in a long corridor. A long mirrored corridor. I couldn't see the end. Just reflections. Images. I couldn't see, so I listened.
And all I heard was that special–ugly slammer–sound when the jailers rack the bars closed at night.
"Mama," I asked, "you still have that loft over on Mott Street?"
"Sure."
"Anybody staying there now?"
"No. Nobody till next month."
"Can I borrow the key?"
Mama reached in one of her kimono pockets, handed it over. "Take Max," she said.
I used the phone in the back to reach out for the Prof, came up empty. He wasn't at the gym. Not at any of his usual spots either. I left word.
Mama's is a good place for waiting. It's quiet and peaceful, the food is great…you can make a call or get one, read the racing form, take a nap if you want. Mama always keeps a stock of English–language international newspapers around. I opened one idly, glanced through it, enjoying the soup the waiter had poured into a thick coffee cup for me.
The paper had two full pages of escort services. One place said all their girls spoke at least three languages. Sure—French, Greek, and Missionary.
The classifieds were more interesting. An offshore bank was offered for sale: ten thousand, cash. Somebody was advertising a kidney for sale. His own. Cost you a hundred grand plus expenses, but if you needed a transplant, you wouldn't have to wait in line.
I dropped the international stuff and shifted to the local tabloids. A human on the Holy Coast fixed up his basement for his stepdaughter—soundproofed walls with a videocam set up on a tripod. Called it his War Room. He tortured the girl down there. When they busted him, he said he was trying to teach the girl right from wrong. That's what's wrong with kids today—they have no discipline. He was willing to plead guilty to child abuse, but not to any sex crimes.
It might have worked if the jury hadn't seen the tapes.
I turned the page. A man and woman—a male and female anyway—got all embarrassed about the woman's condition. She was about to give birth, but the baby wasn't his. So they took the baby home from the hospital and buried it in their back yard. Nobody knew anything about it until the woman got pregnant again…by the right man this time. A nurse asked her if she'd ever been pregnant before, and the woman said she had, but the baby had died. It didn't take them long to find the baby's body—the cops locked them both up.
When the man was produced for his arraignment the next day, his face was badly swollen. Some sanctimonious columnist wrote the story, smirking self–righteously about "jailhouse justice." Every time I read wishful–thinking garbage like that, I want to puke. I did time with a guy once—Mestron, his name was—he was a sex killer, and proud of it. None of the girls was over seven years old. The miserable freak would snatch the poor little things, take them back to the basement where he lived…grab their ankles, hold them upside down, then use his powerful arms to crack the little girls like wishbones…so he could slide in on the blood. I know the details because he told them to anyone who would listen. Over and over, doing it again in his mind.
Mestron was a short guy, maybe five foot six, tops. He weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds, all of it muscle. He was good with his hands and better with a shank. And he wasn't in population two weeks before he raped a bank robber—hundred–and–twenty–pound bank robber who couldn't bring his gun to prison with him. And Mestron? That baby–killer did good time—righteous indignation doesn't stack up too high against homicidal muscle. You want to see jailhouse justice? Just spend some time in a jungle…and pray you're not the prey.
The scumbag on the Coast, the one who tortured his stepdaughter—my hope for him was that he'd have something worth killing for in prison. It wouldn't take much.
I stopped reading the paper—I don't know why they call it "news." I got up from my booth, bowed a goodbye to Mama, and got back out into the world.
The next da
y was Friday. Still no sign of the Prof. I figured I could catch him at the fights, so I picked Max up and we drove over the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, exited on Queens Boulevard and motored along, watching for the turnoff. All along the strip, the topless bars and storefront churches coexisted, each crew deluding itself it was competition for the other. I found the turnoff, followed the Prof's directions. The joint was off Skillman Avenue, an old arena that hadn't been big–time since World War II. We circled the area half a dozen times before Max spotted a parking place. I pulled in, secured the Plymouth.
"We're with one of the fighters," I told the guy at the door. "Where's the dressing rooms? I got a boy going tonight."
"Him?" the guy at the door said, nodding his head in Max's direction.
"Not this time," I told him.
"You're not gonna work the corner, you gotta pay like everybody else," he said.
I gave him a fifty for two ringside seats. "First come, first served," the guy said, gesturing toward the ring standing in the middle of the auditorium surrounded by rows of folding chairs.
One of the cable networks was setting up a trio of heavy cameras on massive tripods. I saw the lights had already been strung, the network's logo was firmly in place near the ceiling. They tape all the fights, but the four–rounders only make it to the screen if the main event ends early.
We walked around the perimeter until I found the entrance to the back rooms. The locker room was crowded with fighters—they were all in the one room, but separated by invisible lines, surrounded by handlers and hangers–on. The place smelled of fresh sweat and stale hopes. I spotted the Prof standing over to one side, saying something to Frankie as Clarence carefully wrapped the fighter's hands in tape.
"It's the first bout for the other guy too," the Prof was saying to Frankie, "but he's a Golden Gloves winner—they looking for you to be a sheep for the creep. But ain't the way it's gonna play, okay?"
Frankie nodded attentively, not speaking.
"You got to be quick, babe," the Prof continued. "Get off fast—don't let it last. On TV, KO is all they know. You ready?"
Footsteps of the Hawk Page 5