A smile flickered across the boy's face, as fleet as a memory. He handed the pack back to me.
The side streets crossing lower Lexington were so clogged with whores that the Lincoln had to creep its way through. I knew Michelle wouldn't be running up to a car—it wasn't the way she worked. The Prof knew it too. "A racehorse don't run with the mules," he said. "Racehorse" was the ultimate compliment for a working girl, reserved only for the very best.
It took us another half–hour to find her, lounging against a lamppost, a tiny pillbox hat on her head, a half–veil covering her face. She had a black–and–white–checked coat that came halfway down her hips over a black pencil–skirt. Ankle straps on her spike heels. Like a bad girl from World War II.
I pulled the Lincoln up to the lamppost, but Michelle never moved. She brought a cigarette lighter to her face, letting the tiny flame show off her perfect profile. If you wanted a ten–dollar slut, you were in the wrong neighborhood.
I hit the power window switch. "Michelle!" I called to her.
She sauntered over to the Lincoln. "Is that…?"
"Don't say my name,' I told her, before she could finish. "I've got company.
She kept coming, leaning into the car, kissing me on the cheek, looking past me to the front seat.
"Hello, Prof," she said, "who's your friend?"
"This is my man Terry," he said. The kid's eyes were round. Even for him, this wasn't a regular night.
"Get in the back, Michelle. We got work."
I climbed out, pulling the kid along with me by his wrist. I found the release lever and the driver's seat slid forward. I put the kid in the back, moving my hands so Michelle could follow him, like I was holding the door for a countess.
"Hi, baby," Michelle said to the kid.
"Hello," Terry said, not a trace of fear in his voice for the first time that night. I don't know how Michelle does it, and I'll never learn.
By the time the Lincoln was halfway to my part of town, they were whispering together in the back seat like the Prof and I weren't there.
54
I NEEDED to set things up for later on. Michelle was the only babysitter I could trust. Someone had to watch the boy, and I didn't want him to see my office or anything else. I tooled down to the pier we always use for private conversations, off the Hudson just before the Battery Tunnel turns Manhattan into Brooklyn. I pulled over, cut the engine. A working girl detached herself from a small group and started to saunter over to the Lincoln. She stopped in her tracks when the Prof and I got out. Whatever we were, we weren't the customers she wanted.
"Be right back," I said to Michelle, motioning for the Prof to follow me.
I lit a smoke, handed the pack to the Prof, and looked at the dark water, thinking of the dark water in Flushing Meadow Park. Thinking of Strega. I was getting off the track.
"What's going down?" the Prof wanted to know.
"I'm looking for a picture. Kiddie porn. My client is concerned that a picture was taken of a certain kid. She wants it back."
"Why don't you just look for a fish out there?" he said, pointing at the silent Hudson.
"I know it's odds–against, Prof. I said I'd try, okay?"
"Where do I come in?"
"I hit the Square, asking around. The kid in the back seat with Michelle? He's hustling. I spoke to his pimp, told him I wanted to buy some pictures. He's going to meet me by the big ships around midnight. I'm supposed to bring a grand in cash, buy four pictures."
"Of who?"
"Who the fuck knows. The freak probably has some pictures. If he figures me for a customer, I'll buy the pictures, ask him for some more. Tell him what I'm looking for."
"And if he figures you for a tourist?" the Prof asked.
"That's where you come in. The Lincoln has one of those power trunk releases, okay? Michelle holds the kid in the front seat, keeps her head down. I climb out, she slides over where I was sitting. Any trouble—she pops the trunk and you come out. I got a scattergun you can use.
"I ain't dusting nobody, Burke," he said, trying to convince himself.
"I didn't say you had to take him out, Prof. Just keep me from getting stomped on, okay? Show him the piece, maybe break a cap in the airthat's all."
The Prof sucked cigarette smoke into his chest. "You going to play this one square.
"If he's got real pictures, I'll buy and I'll ask him some questions. But if he moves on me and you have to brace him, we'll see what's he got on him. Okay?"
"What if he has backup?"
"He's driving a 'vette. Easy to check. And Michelle will be keeping the peek from the car."
"It sounds like a job for Max," he said.
"It's a job for us, Prof. You in or out?"
"I may talk some jive, but I never took a dive," he snapped, insulted.
I patted him on the back. "We'll get Michelle to drop us off near my office. Get the stuff we need, hang out a bit. Okay?"
"Right on," said the little black man, "but if the hound is going to be around…"
"Pansy's cool, Prof. You just have to get to know her."
He looked dubious, but he wasn't arguing. We walked back to the Lincoln—Michelle and the kid were still rapping away in the back.
"Michelle, how about you drop me and the Prof off? Take the car and meet us back around eleven?"
"Terry and I need to get something to eat anyway," she said. "Give me some money.
I handed her two fifties. The way Michelle ate she probably wouldn't bring back any change.
I drove to within a couple of blocks of the office and pulled over to the curb. Michelle climbed out to stand next to me, leaving the Prof inside the car with the boy.
"Walk a bit with me," I told her. She took my arm and we strolled out of earshot.
"The kid's hustling…" I began.
"I know," she snapped. "We talked."
"I'm supposed to bring him back around midnight. Do a deal with his pimp. Cash for merchandise. The pimp might get stupid—the Prof's going to ride shotgun in the trunk. You handle the kid—keep him with you for a couple of hours till you pick us up. Okay?"
"Burke," she hissed, her eyes flaming, "you're not giving that boy back to a pimp!"
"Michelle, I'm not giving him back to anyone, okay? No matter what goes down tonight, you leave with the kid. Take him to the cops. Let him find his home."
"The only cop I'm dealing with is McGowan," she said. McGowan is a detective with the Runaway Squad. By me, most cops would have to step up in class to be garbage, but McGowan plays it fair. You could drop off a kid with him and he'd never put the deliveryman in his report.
"Any way you want, babe. It's up to you. Just make sure the little bastard doesn't take off while he's with you. He's the reason I'm sure the pimp is going to show."
"Any money in this?" she wanted to know.
"If the pimp plays it square, I'm going to pay him and that's all. If he gets stupid, we'll take what he has. Split it three ways. Deal?"
"You think I was standing under that streetlight because I lost something, honey?"
I threw up my hands in surrender, reaching for my shirt pocket.
"Honey, I have told you time and time again not to carry cash in your shirt pocket—only dice players do that. It's bad enough you dress like a bum."
"Hey!" I said. "This is a good suit."
"Burke, it was a good suit. It's yesterday's news, darling. Like your haircut," she said, a smile playing with her painted lips.
"We can't all be on the cutting edge of fashion, Michelle."
"Don't I know it," she retorted, taking the wad of bills and counting off a few fifties for herself. If I ever paid taxes, Michelle would be one hell of a deduction. She reached up to kiss me on the cheek. "Thanks, baby. That's one step closer to Denmark for me."
"Sure," I said. I'd heard it before.
Michelle climbed behind the wheel of the Lincoln as the Prof got out. She turned and said something to the boy. He scrambled over the back
seat to sit next to her. She was saying something to him as they pulled away—probably telling him to keep his feet off the upholstery.
55
WHEN THE Lincoln wheeled around the corner, I was waiting. The kid was sitting next to Michelle on the front seat, eating an ice–cream cone. I climbed in and Michelle slid over, changing places with the kid so he was between us. I found the release lever, popped the trunk, and waited for traffic to pass.
As soon as it got quiet, I climbed out like I was getting something out of the trunk. "Okay," I hissed into the darkness. The Prof came out, dressed in one of those padded suits guys wear for working in meat lockers. He was carrying his own coat in one hand, the shotgun wrapped inside.
The light went on inside the trunk when I lifted it up. I took a roll of quarters out of my pocket and put it against the light. When I smacked it with the flat of my hand, the light went out. It wouldn't come on again.
The Prof checked out the interior—it was clean and new, covered with carpet. Even the spare tire was buried under the flooring. "I lived in worse places," he said, and climbed in without another word.
I worked my way back to the West Side Highway. Michelle sat with her arm around the boy, listening to me explain the deal.
"The kid sits straight up in the seat, okay? You lay down, below the windshield. When I get out, you slide over and put your hand on this release. You hear me raise my voice for any reasonno matter what I'm saying…you pop the lever."
"Terry is coming back with us," she said. Her voice was calm—just stating a fact. I glanced over at the kid—if this wasn't okay with him he was a hell of an actor.
"There won't be any problem," I told them both, the magnum heavy in my coat. "This guy doesn't try and hurt me, he won't get hurt."
"I hope he does try and hurt you," Michelle said, her voice soft.
I shot her a dirty look, but she wasn't paying attention. "Do you know what he did to Terry? You know what he makes…"
"I know," I told her.
When we crossed 14th Street I told Michelle to get down. "You just stay in the car no matter what happens," I told the kid.
"Terry knows what to do," Michelle snapped at me, sliding into position. The boy held her hand.
I nosed the Lincoln into a dark spot in the shadows cast by the big ships. No sign of the pimp. I hit the window switch, waiting.
It didn't take long. Headlights on high beam flashed behind me—the red Corvette. I climbed out of the car, walked around toward the trunk. Where I'd stash the pictures if I got any.
The Corvette hit the brakes, sending the machine into a controlled skid across the back of the Lincoln, blocking me in. The pimp revved his engine before he shut it down, climbing out in almost the same motion. The passenger seat looked empty. I walked over toward him to get a better look.
The pimp stood next to his car, hands balled into fists. I walked right up to him, stepping in his space, looking down like I was afraid. The inside of his car was empty. Good.
"The pictures?" I asked him.
He reached in a shirt pocket, coming out with a pair of sunglasses. He took his time adjusting them on his face, making me wait.
"The money?" he said.
I took out the thousand from my coat pocket, handed it to him. Put my hand back in the same pocket like I was guarding the rest of my money. Felt the magnum waiting there.
He handed me four Polaroids, watching me turn my back to him so I could catch some light. They were all of the boy. Terry. Three had him naked, sucking on another little boy who was doing the same thing to him. The last picture was a side view of a kid being penetrated in the rear—you couldn't see his face. My hands shook.
"You only take pictures of your own boys?" I asked him.
"That's the best way, man. From me to you—no problems and no complaints."
He took a leather notebook from his pocket. Flipped it open and pulled out a gold pen. Started writing.
"What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Writing down your license number, man. Just in case I want to get in touch with you again." His eyes were hidden behind the glasses.
I quickly looked around. Quiet as a graveyard. "Don't do that!" I yelled, and the trunk of the Lincoln popped open. The pimp grabbed a fistful of my coat, drawing back his other hand to shut me up. I hooked him deep in the belly with the hand holding the magnum, trying to drive it through him and scratch the finish of his red Corvette. He grunted and doubled over, catching a kick on the temple from my steel–toed shoe. The pimp's glasses flew off—he was reaching for something in his jacket when the Prof put the scattergun in his face.
The pimp just lay there while I checked his equipment. A little .32–caliber automatic, a pretty silver color. A diamond ring, a wafer–thin watch. A tiny leather address book. A key ring with a bunch of keys. A wad of bills in a wallet so thick it was almost a purse. A silver vial with a screw–on top. No identification. I pocketed it all.
He was gasping for breath by then, but watching me closely. Wondering what the game was.
I went around to the Corvette, shoved the lever into neutral, and put my shoulder to it. It moved forward a few feet—more than enough to get the Lincoln out. I pulled the keys from the ignition, walked back, and held them in front of the pimp's face.
"I'll leave these under the streetlight over there," I told him, pointing to my left. It was about a hundred yards away.
The pimp was still quiet—the shotgun was his whole world.
"You fucked with the wrong kid," I told him, and walked to the Lincoln. I started it up, backed it out, spun around so the passenger door was at the Prof's back. Michelle opened it from the inside and the Prof jumped in as I took off.
The Lincoln shot toward the streetlight. I hit the brakes hard. "He's still down," the Prof called out. I threw the vial out the window.
If the maggot remembered the license number of the Lincoln, he could ask the Real Brotherhood for his car keys.
56
I WANTED the Lincoln off the streets in case the pimp decided to make a phone call.
"Can you call McGowan from your place?" I asked Michelle.
"I'll handle it," she said from the back seat. The boy was quiet. I glanced in the mirror—he was trembling, Michelle's arm around him, his face in her chest.
I tossed the pimp's wallet into the back seat. "Have to throw the rest of his junk away," I said. The Prof nodded agreement.
The Lincoln rolled north on the highway, heading for 125th Street, where I'd make the sweep and head back to our part of town.
"Almost six thousand," Michelle said, a happy note in her voice. The wallet came sailing over the seat, landing on the dashboard.
"Take your cut," I told the Prof. The scattergun was stashed under the seat.
"Cash from trash," he said, sounding religious, "cash from trash."
He pulled a pair of cotton gloves from the freezer suit and started to work on the pimp's little gun, wiping it clean. He pulled out the clip, then jacked the slide, catching the unfired slug in his hand.
"One in the chamber," he said. The little automatic had been ready for work.
"One piece at a time," I said. The Prof nodded, hitting the switch to lower his window. First the bullets, then the clip. The silver gun was the last to go.
The Prof handed me my share of the pimp's money, softly clapping his hands together to say all the work was done. I let him off on Second Avenue in the Thirties, opening the trunk to let him take his cart and leave the freezer suit. The Prof strapped his cart to his back like it was a knapsack.
"Watch yourself, Prof," I told him.
"The street is my home, and that ain't no poem," he said. The pimp might see him again, but nothing would register. We pressed our palms together, chest high. The way you say goodbye in the visiting room in prison. Through the bullet–proof glass.
I rolled up outside Michelle's hotel, opened the door to let her out as if I was a chauffeur. The little boy was holding on to her ha
nd like a lifeline. Maybe it was.
Michelle kissed me on the cheek. "Keep the change, honey," she said, and started up the steps.
I had the Lincoln back inside my garage in another fifteen minutes.
57
THE PIMP'S watch had some fancy engraving on the back. "L to R. All ways." Probably from the freak who turned him out the first time. No point trying to sell it. I opened it up, keeping only the timing mechanism—the Mole could always use something like that—pushing the rest to the side of my desk. The diamond ring was another story—a heavy white–gold base holding what looked like a two–carat stone. I screwed the loupe into my eye socket and took a closer look—no blemishes that I could see, nice fire. I pried the stone loose, pushing what was left of the ring over next to the wreckage of the watch.
The key ring was useless to me, but I took my time with the little leather address book. All first names or initials, with phone numbers next to them. In the right–hand column there was a single–digit number next to each name. Some kind of code for what the customer usually wanted? I copied everything from the book onto a yellow pad. I'd keep the book itself—it might turn into a poker chip sometime.
I went out to the metal stairs leading to the roof, calling for Pansy. The moon was a crescent, clear against the night sky. I lit a cigarette, watching the moon hang up there, a million miles from this junkyard we live in. I like to look at the moon—you never get to see it in prison.
Pansy lumbered downstairs. She saw me standing on the iron landing and put her paws on the railing. Standing like that, her face was almost level with mine. I scratched the back of her ears absently, trying to get a grip on my search for the picture. In the morning I'd see a guy who would get me the names and addresses to go with the phone numbers from the pimp's book, but it wasn't likely to give me anything. I had to wait on the Mole and Bobby, couldn't push them to move any faster. The only way to get more information was to talk to the kid myself.
I'd need Immaculata for that.
And Strega.
58
THE NEXT morning I went to work. First to Mama's, where I called Strega.
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