"One hundred thousand dollars. In cash. For you."
She had my attention, but I didn't say anything.
"One hundred thousand dollars," she said again, like she was promising me the most erotic thing in the world. Maybe she was.
"Where?" I asked her.
"I have it," she said. "And it's yours if you find me that picture."
"And if I don't? I mean, if I look and come up empty?"
"How long will you look?"
"If I look, I'll look four, five weeks. After that, there's no point. You could run some ads, shake some trees…but if it's around, still local, that's all the time there is."
"How do I know you'll really look?" she asked.
"You don't," I said, "and that's the fucking truth."
"Five thousand a week?"
"Plus expenses.
"For a hundred grand, you can pay your own expenses.
"If I find the picture," I said, "the hundred grand covers it all, okay? But if I don't, you pay five grand a week for a max of five weeks, plus expenses.
The redhead stroked her own face, soothing herself, thinking. Finally she said, "Ten grand up front and you start tonight."
"Twenty–five up front and I start tonight," I shot back.
"Fifteen," she offered.
"Take a walk, lady," I said. "I shouldn't have started this in the first place."
"You walk with me," the redhead said. "Back to my house. I'll give you the twenty–five."
"And a picture of the kid?"
"Yes. And all the other stuff I put together."
"And then you're out of it? I do my work and I let you know the result?"
"Yes."
"And then you forget you ever saw me?"
"Oh, I'll do that," she said, "but you'll never forget you saw me.
Even in the car I was still cold. "You have the money at your house? Your husband?"
"Don't worry about it. He won't be home tonight. Is it a deal?"
"No promises," I told her. "I'll take my best shot. I come up emptythat's all, right?"
"Yes," she said again. "Follow me."
She got out of the Plymouth and into her car. I let the engine idle while she started up. She pulled out and I followed her taillights into the night.
43
THE REDHEAD drove badly, taking the BMW too high in the lower gears, backing it off through the mufflers when she came to a corner, torturing the tires. The Plymouth was built for strength, not speed—I drove at my own pace, watching to see if she attracted attention with her driving.
The BMW ducked into the entrance for Forest Park. I lost sight of her around a curve, but I could hear tires howling ahead. I just motored along—there was no place for her to go.
She turned out of the park and into a section of mini–estates—not much land around the houses, but they were all big bastards, set far back from the street, mostly colonials. The redhead took a series of tight, twisting turns and stopped at a flagstone–front house with a wrought–iron fence. She got out and walked to the entrance, never looking back. Something from her purse unlocked the gate. She waved me around her car and I pulled into the drive. I heard the gate close again behind me and then the BMW's lights blinded me as she shot past me, following the curve of the driveway around to the back of the house—it opened as we approached—it must have had some kind of electronic eye. The light came on inside the garage. Only one stall was occupied—a Mercedes sedan.
I watched her slam the BMW into the middle space. I brought my car to a stop, and reversed so the Plymouth's rear bumper was against the opening of the garage. She motioned for me to pull all the way inside. I shook my head, turned off the engine. She shrugged the way you do at an idiot who doesn't understand the program and pointed for me to follow her inside.
The redhead pushed a button against the garage wall and the big door descended from the ceiling and closed behind us. She opened a side door and started to climb some stairs, flicking her wrist at me in a gesture to follow her.
The stairs made a gentle curve to the next floor. Soft light came from someplace but I couldn't see any bulbs. The redhead's hips switched almost from wall to wall on the narrow staircase. I thought about the magnum I'd left in the Plymouth.
She took me into a long, narrow room on the next floor. One whole wall was glass, facing the backyard. Floodlights bathed the grounds—there was a rock garden around a patio in the back; the rest faded into the shadows.
"Wait here," she said, and moved into another room.
She hadn't turned on a light in the big room but I could see well enough. It looked as if her interior decorator had a degree in hospital administration. The whole room was white—a low leather couch in front of a slab of white marble, a recliner in the same white leather. There was a floor lamp extending over the recliner—a sharp black stalk with a fluted wing at the top. A black glass ashtray was on the marble slab. Against the far wall was a single black shelf running the full length, the lacquer gleaming in the reflected light. I saw four floor–standing black stereo speakers but no components—probably in another part of the house. The floor was black quarry tile and there were two parallel strips of track lighting on the ceiling—holding a series of tiny black–coned spots. The room was a reptile's eye—flat and hard and cold.
I sat down in the recliner and lit a cigarette. My mouth burned with the first drag. I pulled the butt away—there was blood on the filter. I wiped my mouth on my handkerchief and sat there waiting. I heard the tap of her heels on the tile, turned my head without moving. I tasted the blood on my lip again. She was wearing a black silk camisole over a pair of matching tap pants. The whole outfit was held up with a pair of spaghetti–straps—they made a hard line against her slim shoulders. The redhead had a pair of black pumps on her feet—no stockings that I could see. She was all black and white, like the room.
"You want a drink?" she asked.
"No."
"Nothing? We have everything here."
"I don't drink," I told her.
"A joint? Some coke?" she asked me, an airline stewardess on a flight to hell.
"Nothing," I told her again.
She crossed in front of me, like a model on a runway for the first time, nervous but vain. She sat down on the couch, crossed her long legs, folded her hands over one knee. "We have a deal?" she asked.
"Where's the money?" I said in reply.
"Yeah," she said absently, almost to herself, "where's the money?"
She flowed off the couch and walked out of the room again, leaving me to my thoughts. I wondered where her kid was.
The redhead was back in a minute, a slim black attaché case in one hand. She looked like she was going to work. In a whorehouse. She dropped to her knees next to the recliner in a graceful move, crossing her ankles behind her on the floor, and put the attaché case on my lap. "Count it," she said.
It was all in fifties and hundreds—crisp bills but not new. The serial numbers weren't in sequence. The count was right on the nose. "Okay," I told her.
She got to her feet. "Wait here. I'll get you the pictures," she said, turning to go. "Play with your money.
As soon as she was out of the room I got up and took off my coat. I transferred the money from the attaché case to a few different pockets, closed the case, and tossed it on the couch. Lit another cigarette.
She was back quickly, her hands full of paper. She came over to the same place she'd been before, kneeled down again, and started putting the papers in my lap, one piece at a time, as if she was dealing cards.
"This is Scotty like he looks today. I took this last week. This is Scotty like he was a few months ago—when it happened. This is the drawing he did—see the swastika? This is me and Scotty together—so you can tell how big he is, okay?"
"Okay," I told her.
She handed me one more piece of paper, covered with typed numbers. "These are the phone numbers where you can reach meand when you can call. Just ask for me—you don't have
to say anything else."
"Any of these answering machines?"
"No. They're all people, don't worry.
I took a last drag of my smoke, leaning past her to snub it out in the ashtray, ready to leave. The redhead put her face next to mine again, whispering in a babyish voice, more breath than tone, "You think I'm a tease, don't you?"
I didn't say anything, frozen there, my hand mechanically grinding the cigarette butt into tobacco flakes.
"You think I'm just teasing you, don't you?" she whispered again. "Dressing like this .
I pulled back to look at her but she hung on, coming with me. "You do what you want," I told her.
"I will if you close your eyes," she said in my ear. "Close your eyes!" she said, a baby demanding you play a game with her.
I was still so cold. Maybe it was the room. I closed my eyes, leaned back. Felt her stroke me, making a noise in her throat. "Sssh, ssh," she murmured. She was talking to herself. I felt her hands at my belt, heard the zipper move, felt myself strain against her hand. I opened my eyes a narrow slit; her red hair was in my lap. "You promised!" she said in the baby voice. I closed my eyes again. She tugged at the waistband on my shorts, but I didn't move—she was rough and clumsy pulling me through the fly, still making those baby noises in her throat. I felt her mouth around me, felt the warmth, her tiny teeth against me, gently pulling. I put my hands in her soft hair, and she pulled her mouth off me, her teeth scraping the shaft, hurting me. "You don't touch me!" she whispered, the voice of a little girl.
I put my hands behind my head so they wouldn't move. And she came back to me with her mouth, sucking hard now, moving her mouth up and down until I was slick with her juices. My eyes opened again— I couldn't help it. She didn't say anything this time. I opened them wider. The redhead's face was buried in my lap, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. My eyes closed again.
I felt it coming. I pushed my hips back in the chair, giving her a chance to pull her mouth away, but she was glued to me. "Just this!" she mumbled, her mouth full, a little girl talking, a stubborn little girl who made up her mind and wasn't giving in. My mind flashed to a girl I met once when I was on the run from reform school. This was all she'd do too—she didn't want to get pregnant again. Somehow I knew this wasn't the same.
It was her choice. She shook her head from side to side, keeping me with her. I felt the explosion all the way to the base of my spine, but she never took her face away—never reached for a handkerchief—I could feel the muscles in her cheeks work as she took it all.
I slumped back in the chair and she let me slide out of her mouth but kept her head in my lap. Her little–girl's whisper was clear in the quiet room. "I'm a good girl," she said, calm and smug. "Pat me. Pat my head."
My eyes opened again as I brought my hand forward, stroking her red hair, watching her hands twist behind her in the handcuffs she'd made for herself.
Her head came up. She was licking her lips and her eyes were wet and gleaming. Her hands came forward, taking one of my cigarettes and lighting it while I pulled myself in and zipped up. She handed me the lit cigarette. "For you," she said.
I took a deep drag. It tasted of blood.
"I have you in me now," she said, in her own voice. "Get me that picture."
I had to get out of there. She knew it too. I put on my coat, patting the pockets, putting the pictures and the other stuff she gave me inside.
"Come," she said, taking my hand, leading me back to the garage.
The Mercedes had a regular license, but the one on the BMW said JINA. "Is that the way you spell your name?" I asked her. "I thought it was Gina—G–I–N–A."
"They named me Gina. I didn't like it. When I have something I don't like, I change it."
"Who's Zia Peppina?" I wanted to know.
"Me. Auntie Pepper, you capisce? When I was a little girl, I was a chubby, happy child—always running, getting into mischief. With my red hair, they used to call me Peppina. Little Pepper. But when I got older, when I got to be myself, they stopped calling me that baby name. I only let Scotty call me that because he's special to me."
"People call you Jina now?"
"No," the redhead said, "now they call me Strega."
The side door slammed behind me and I was alone.
I drove too fast getting out of her neighborhood, cold speed inside me, rushing around like cocaine. Even the twenty–five grand in my coat couldn't keep out the chill. Strega. I knew what the word meant—a witch–bitch you could lust after or run from. You could be in the middle of a desert and her shadow would make you cold. And I had taken her money.
44
I SLOWED the Plymouth into a quiet, mechanical cruise when I hit the Inter–Boro. A dark, twisting piece of highway, paved with potholes. Abandoned cars lined the roadside, stripped to the bone. I lit a smoke, watched the tiny red dot in the windshield, feeling the tremor in my hands on the wheel. Not knowing if I was sad or scared.
The blues make a rough blanket, like the ones they give you in the orphanage. But they keep out the cold. I shoved a cassette into the tape player without looking, waiting for the dark streets to take hold of me and pull me in, waiting to get back to myself. When I heard the guitar intro I recognized the next song, but I sat and listened to the first call–and–answer of "Married Woman Blues" like the fool I was.
Did you ever love a married woman?
The kind so good that she just has to be true.
Did you ever love a married woman?
The kind so good that she just has to be true.
That means true to her husband, boy,
And not a damn thing left for you.
That wasn't Strega. She wasn't good and she wasn't true—at least not to her husband. I popped the cassette, played with the radio until I got some oldies station. Ron Holden and the Thunderbirds singing "Love You So." I hated that song from the first time I'd heard it. When I was in reform school a girl I thought I knew wrote me a letter with the lyrics to that song. She told me it was a poem she wrote for me. I never showed it to anyone—I burned the letter so nobody would find it, but I memorized the words. One day I heard it on the radio while we were out in the yard and I knew the truth.
I never had to explain things like that to Flood. She knew—she was raised in the same places I was.
There was too much prison in this case—too much past.
I tried another cassette—Robert Johnson's "Hellhound on My Trail" came through the speakers. Chasing me down the road.
45
BY THE next morning, the magnum was back in my office and all but five thousand of the money was stashed with Max. I told him most of what happened the night before—enough so he could find the redhead if things didn't work out. I couldn't take Max with me on this trip—he was the wrong color.
I took Atlantic Avenue east through Brooklyn, but this time I rolled right on past the Inter–Boro entrance, past the neighborhood called City Line and into South Ozone Park. In this part of Queens, everybody's got territory marked off—the gangsters have their social clubs, the Haitians have their restaurants, and the illegal aliens have their basements. When you get near J.F.K. Airport, you move into the free–fire zone—the airport is too rich a prize for anyone to hold it all.
I pulled into the open front of a double–width garage. A faded sign over the door said "Ajax Speed Shop." A fat guy sat on a cut–down oil drum just inside the door, a magazine on his lap. His hair was motorcycle–club–length; he had a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He was wearing a denim jacket with the arms cut off, jeans, and heavy work boots. His arms bulged, not all from fat. He'd been a body–builder once; now he was slightly gone to seed.
A candy–apple–red Camaro stood over to my right, its monster rear tires filling the rear tubs under the fenders. The garage specialized in outlaw street racers—guys who made a living drag racing away from the legal strips. The back of the joint was dark.
I didn't wait for the fat guy. "Bobby around?" I as
ked.
"What do you need, man?" he wanted to know, his voice still neutral.
"I want to try a nitrous bottle. Bobby told me he could fix me up.
"For this?" he wanted to know, looking at the Plymouth's faded four doors. Street racers use nitrous oxide—laughing gas—for short power–bursts. You need a pressurized tank, a switch to kick it in, and enough cojones to pull the trigger. They're not illegal, but you want to fix things up so your opponent won't know you're carrying extra horses. The Plymouth didn't look like his idea of a good candidate—or maybe it was the driver.
I pulled the lever under the dash and the hood was released—it popped forward, pivoting at the front end. The fat guy went around to the passenger side as I got out, and we lifted the entire front end forward together. The whole front–end assembly was Fiberglas—you could move it with two fingers.
The fat guy looked into the engine bay, nodding his head.
"Three eighty–three?" he wanted to know.
"Four forty," I told him, "with another sixty over."
He nodded sagely. It was making sense to him now. One four barrel?" he asked—meaning, Why just one carburetor for so many cubic inches?
"It's built for torque—got to idle nice and quiet."
"Yeah," he said, still nodding. The Plymouth wasn't for show—just the opposite. He walked around the car, peering underneath, noting that the dual exhausts never reached the bumper. The rear undercarriage puzzled him for a minute. "It looks like an I.R.S. Jag?"
"Home–built," I told him. Independent rear suspension was better for handling, but it wouldn't stand up to tire–burning starts—drag racers never used it.
And that was his next question. "Whatta you run with this…thirty–tromp?"
You can race from a standing start or side–by–side at a steady speed and then take off on the signal. Thirty–tromp is when each driver carries a passenger—you reach thirty miles an hour, make sure the front ends are lined up, and the passenger in the left–hand car screams "Go!" out the window and both cars stomp the gas. First car to the spot you marked off is the winner.
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