"It's your room," I replied.
Strega slipped the straps of the green slip over her shoulders, pulling it down to her waist in one motion. I heard the silk tear. Her small breasts looked hard as rocks in the pink light. "You like my room better now?" she asked.
"The room is the same," I said.
She took a breath, making up her mind. "Sit over there," she said, pointing to a tube chair covered in a dark suede—it looked like something growing out of the carpet. I shrugged out of my coat, holding it in one hand, looking toward the bed. "Put it on the floor," she said over her shoulder as she walked out of the room.
She came back with a heavy piece of crystal, kneeling in front of me to put it on the carpet. Whatever it was supposed to be, it was an ashtray then. She was as self–conscious about being topless as two dogs mating—you wanted to look, that was your problem.
"You want something besides that cigarette?"
"I'm okay," I told her.
She was putting a smoke together for herself, loading a tiny white pipe—tiny brown pebbles mixed with the tobacco. "Crack," she said. Super–processed, free–based cocaine—too powerful to snort. She took a deep drag, her eyes on me. It should have lifted her right off the carpet, but she puffed away, bored.
"You wanted to talk to me?" she asked.
I watched her walk back and forth in front of me, the green slip now a tiny skirt just covering her hips, her heels blending into the carpet. The tube chair had a rounded back, forcing me to sit up very straight.
"I need the boy," I told her. "I need to have him talk to some people. Experts. He knows more than he told you—he might have the key in his head."
Strega nodded, thinking. "You're not going to use drugs on him?"
"You mean like sodium amytal—truth serum? No. It's too dangerous. It could get him to where it happened, but we might not be able to get him back."
"Hypnosis?" she asked.
"Not that either," I said. "There's people who know how to talk to kids who've been worked over by freaks. It doesn't hurt—might make him feel better."
"He's okay now," she said. "All he needs is that picture."
"He's not in therapy…not getting treatment from anyone?"
"He doesn't need any of that!"
"Yeah, he does. Or at least someone who knows what they're doing should make the decision."
"Not about this," she said, her voice flat.
"Look," I said, "you don't know anything about this, right? Treatment could make all the difference."
"I know about it," she said. Case closed again.
I took a deep drag of my smoke. "I need to have somebody talk to the boy, okay?"
"I'm going to be there when they do."
"No, you're not. That's not the way it's done. Nobody's going to be there."
She puffed on her little crack–laced pipe, flame–points in her eyes.
"He wouldn't trust you."
"He would if you said it was okay, right?"
"Yeah. He'd do whatever I said."
"You bring him to a place, okay? I'll meet you there. I'll have the therapist with me. You hand him over—tell him to be a good boy, okay? I'll bring him back in a couple of hours."
"That's it?"
"That's it," I said.
Strega rubbed her eyes as if she didn't like what she was seeing. "What if I don't do it?"
"You do what you want," I told her. "But you're paying me money to get something done—you don't bring the boy, it makes it harder. And it's tough enough already. It's up to you.
She took a last drag on her pipe, came over to me, and sat in my lap. She put one slim arm around my neck and leaned down to drop the pipe in the ashtray. "I'll think about it," she said, grinding her butt deep into my lap. Heat flashed below my waist but my shoulders stayed cold.
"When's your husband coming home?" I asked her.
"He can't come back here until after midnight."
"Can't?" I asked her, looking the question into her little face.
She buried her face in my chest, whispering so softly I could barely hear her. "We have a deal. I do him good. I'm what he needs. I know his mind. On his last birthday I brought a girlfriend of mine over for him—we did a threesome." She was wiggling frantically in my lap, whispering in that little–girl's voice. "All men are the same," she purred, reaching for my zipper, pulling it down, slipping her hand inside, stroking me, scraping a long thumbnail down the shaft. "A hard cock makes a soft brain."
The big house was quiet as a tomb. "Do I get the boy?" I asked her.
"Pull up my dress," she whispered, lifting her butt from my lap. It slid up to her waist as if it was oiled—the green silk made a thick band around her waist; only her dark stockings showed underneath.
She fit herself around me, never changing her position, her face still buried in my chest. She contracted the hard muscles in her hips, pushing back against me. "Say my name!" she whispered into my hair.
"Which name?" I asked her, my voice not as flat as I wanted.
"You know!" she cried, her voice years younger than her body.
"Strega," I said, holding one of her breasts gently in my hand, feeling myself empty into her. She ground herself hard against me, groaning like I was hurting her. In another couple of seconds she was quiet, still welded to me, leaning her head back, letting a long breath out with a sigh.
I rubbed my hand softly over her face. She took a finger in her mouth, bit down hard. I left my hand where it was. She shifted her hips. I popped out of her with a wet sound. She twisted in my lap, her face buried in my chest again. "I'm the best girl," she said. I patted her head, wondering why it was so cold in that pink room.
65
WE STAYED like that for some time. I couldn't see my watch. "Have another cigarette," she said, climbing off my lap and walking into her bathroom. She closed the door. I could hear the tub filling.
She came out wrapped in a white terry robe, her red hair tousled above the thick collar. She looked thirteen years old. "Now you," she said.
When I came out of the bathroom the bedroom was empty. I heard music from downstairs. Barbra Streisand. Too bad.
Strega was sitting on the white couch, now dressed in a black pleated skirt and a white blouse. I walked past her to the steps. She came off the couch and held my arm, grabbing her mink with her free hand. I went down the steps first, feeling her behind me, not liking the feeling. We got into the BMW without a word.
She pulled into the bus stop, hitting the brakes too hard. "The boy?" I asked her, one more time.
"I'll do it," she said. "Give me one day's notice." Her eyes were somewhere else.
"Good," I told her, getting out of the car, looking back at her.
Strega made a kissing motion with her lips to say goodbye. It looked like a sneer.
66
IT WAS STILL a half–hour shy of midnight when I grabbed the subway heading back to Manhattan. The day–shift citizens were gone but the same rules applied—look down or look hard. I alternated between the two until the train screeched to its last stop under the World Trade Center. I stayed underground, following the tunnel a few blocks to Park Place, found the Lincoln just where I'd left it, and drove back to the office.
I let Pansy out to the roof, searching the tiny refrigerator for something to eat. Nothing but a jar of mustard, another of mayonnaise, and a frozen roll. I poured myself a glass of cold water, thinking of the mayonnaise sandwiches we used to make in prison, stuffing them inside our shirts to eat in the middle of the night. Sometimes it was hard to keep my mind from going back to doing time, but I could control my stomach anyway. I'd eat in the morning.
The pictures of Strega's boy Scotty were on my desk—a happy little kid. Like she had been, she said. There's a big slab of corkboard on one wall of my office, just over the couch. There was plenty of room for the boy's pictures. I tacked them up to help me memorize his face—I didn't want to carry them around with me. I lit a cigarette, my eyes sliding from the
burning red tip to the boy's pictures.
Working on it. Drawing a blank.
The back door thumped—Pansy was tired of waiting for me to come up on the roof. I let her in, turned on the radio to get the news while I put some more food together for the monster. Then I lay back down on the couch. The radio was playing "You're a Thousand Miles Away" by the Heartbeats. A song from another time—it was supposed to make you think of a guy in the military, his girl waiting for him back home. It was a real popular song with the guys doing time upstate. I thought of Flood in some temple in Japan as I drifted off.
67
I WOKE UP slowly to the smell of dog food. Pansy's face was inches from mine, her cold–water eyes unblinking, waiting patiently. Something was floating around at the top of my brain—where I couldn't reach it. Something about the boy's pictures. I lay there, ignoring Pansy, trying to get it to come back to me. No good. Lots of dreams never come to you again.
I took a shower and went out to get some breakfast, still trying to figure out what was bothering me. Whatever it was would have to get in line.
Pansy ate her share of the cupcakes I brought back. It wasn't until I put down the paper that I realized I hadn't even looked at the race results. Depression was coming down as surely as the Hawk—what people around here call the winter. They call it that because it kills. I had to get word to Immaculata that I was going to have the boy for her to interview. And after that, I had to wait.
I stopped at a light at the corner of the Bowery and Delancey. A big black guy with a dirty bandage over half his face offered to clean my windshield for a quarter. A used–up white woman with a cheap wig riding over her tired face offered to clean my tubes for ten bucks. I paid the black guy—V.D. isn't one of my hobbies.
The alley behind Mama's joint was empty, like it always is.
I slumped down at my table in the back, catching Mama's eye. One of the waiters came out of the kitchen with a tureen of soup. I waved him away—I wasn't hungry. He put the tureen down in front of me anyway. Bowed. If Mama told him to bring soup, he was bringing soup.
Mama came back in a few minutes, hands in the side pockets of her long dress. "You no serve soup?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry, Mama," I told her.
"Soup not for hunger. Not food—medicine, okay?" she said, sitting across from me. I watched her work the ladle, giving us each a generous helping. Women don't listen to me.
"I have to call Mac," I said.
"I do that. You want her to come here?"
I just nodded. "Good," said Mama. "I want to talk to baby."
"Mama, she won't have a baby for months yet."
"Too late—talk to baby now—prepare baby for everything, okay?"
"Whatever you say," I muttered. I wasn't in the mood for her voodoo that morning.
I ate my soup, keeping quiet as Mama loaded the bowl again, smiling her approval. I lit a cigarette, looking at Mama. "You going to call Mac today?" I asked.
"Call soon," she said. "You get call here. Last night."
I looked at her, waiting. "Man say he has name for you. Say to call the Bronx."
The Mole. "Thanks, Mama," I threw over my shoulder, heading for the phones in the back. I dialed the junkyard—he picked up on the first ring.
"You have a name for me?"
"Yes."
"Can I come up?"
"I'll meet you. At the pad."
"When?"
"Day after tomorrow," the Mole said, and cut the connection. I walked back inside the restaurant. The Mole would be at the helicopter pad just off the East Side Drive past Waterside Towers in two hours. With a name. It was a stupid place to meet, but there was no point arguing. The Mole loved helicopters.
Mama was still at the table. "I get Immaculata now?" she asked.
"Sure. Thanks, Mama."
"You feel better, Burke?"
"Yeah," I told her. And I did.
68
I WAS HALFWAY through a platter of roast duck, spare ribs, and fried rice when Immaculata came in. I got up from my seat, bowed to her, and indicated she should sit down and have something to eat. I was piling some of the fried rice onto her plate when Mama appeared over her shoulder. She shoved in next to Immaculata, pushing the plate away from her, barking something in Chinese. Another of the waiters came on the run. I don't know what Mama said to him, but he immediately started taking all the food off the table except for the plate in front of me. He was back in another minute, carrying a couple of plates with metal covers on top. Mama served Immaculata ceremoniously, arranging the food on her plate like an interior decorator.
"What was wrong with my food?" I asked her.
"Okay for you, Burke. You not mother, right?"
Immaculata smiled, not arguing. "Thank you, Mama," she said.
"Only eat best food now. For baby. To be strong, okay? No sugar, okay? Plenty milk."
I polished off the rest of my food, pushed the plate away, lit a cigarette.
"Smoke bad for baby too," Mama said, glaring at me.
"Mama," I told her, "the kid isn't here yet."
"Be here soon enough," Mama replied, "yes, baby?" she said, patting Immaculata's flat stomach.
I ground out the cigarette. "You think it will bother the baby if I talk to Mac?" I asked Mama.
"Talk in soft voice," Mama said. "And pay baby respect when you talk, okay?"
"What?"
"You talk to mother—first you tell baby hello, right? You finish talk, you tell baby goodbye. Very easy—even for you, Burke."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, looking back at Immaculata for sympathy. She looked back, her eyes clear. It apparently made sense to her too.
I bowed slightly to Mac. "Good morning, honorable infant," I said. "I have to speak to your beautiful mother, who is going to help me with something very important. You are the most fortunate of babies to have a mother and father so committed to you. I am certain you will have your mother's beauty and intelligence and your father's strength and courage. May all your days on this earth be blessed with love. I am Burke, your father's brother."
Mama nodded approval. Immaculata bowed slightly, the faintest of smiles playing about her lips.
"Mac, you know the kid I told you about? I figure he saw a lot of things when they took that picture of him. If you speak with him, maybe he'll tell you things he hasn't told anybody yet."
"He might," she said. "But it sometimes takes a while. The safer the child feels, the more he can tell us. His own therapist would be in the best position to get this information."
"He's not in therapy."
"Why is this?"
"His motherother relatives…they feel the best thing is for him to forget it…go on with his life."
"That doesn't work," she said. "Kids who have been sexually abused have a lot of issues to work through. Guilt, fear, anger. Especially the anger. It's abusive not to give the child this opportunity."
I was thinking of prison again. If a kid was raped inside the walls, he had a shortage of choices: Keep on getting fucked by anyone who asked. Escape. Take a P.C. for the rest of his bit. Kill himself. Or kill the guy who did it to him. Only the last choice made any sense—the only way to get back to being treated like a human being. Instant therapy.
"Could you treat this kid?" I asked her.
"The interview you want me to do—that is the beginning of treatment. It would be unethical for me to simply work with the child to get some facts and then abandon him. It doesn't have to be me that works with him, but someone has to."
"I'll make that part of the deal," I told her. I glanced at my watch—time to get on the road and meet the Mole. "When can we do this?" I asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon I have some time free. Can you bring the child to SAFE around three o'clock?"
"Can we make it the day after, Mac? The kid's people need a day's notice."
"Okay. Thursday, then. But make it four instead."
"You got it." I stood up to leave, bowed to Mama and M
ac. Mama's eyes were hard on me. "Goodbye, baby," I said to Mac's belly. "It has been a pleasure to be in your company once again."
Mama smiled. By the time I was halfway to the kitchen, she was deep into a discussion with Mac about cribs. I couldn't wait for Max to show up—Mama would probably want him to open a bank account for the kid's college education.
69
I TOOK the East Side Drive to the 23rd Street exit, appreciating my cigarette even more than usual thanks to Mama's new edict. A guy on the radio was blubbering something about a political scandal in Queens—in the Parking Violations Bureau this time. Political corruption in New York isn't news, but they keep reporting it the same way they keep telling you the weather. People like to know about things they can't do anything about.
There's a big outdoor parking lot near the pad where the helicopters land and take off. The attendant was a ferret–faced little hustler. "You need a ticket, man?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said to him. "Do I?"
"Give me five and park it over there," he said, pointing to an empty corner of the lot. "Keep your keys." The sign on the lot said seven dollars for the first half–hour. A New York transaction—a little bit for you, a little bit for me, and fuck the guy who's not there when the deal is made.
I walked over to the edge of the helicopter pad. A blue–and–white copter sat there waiting for passengers—mostly tourists who wanted a different view of Manhattan than you get from the Circle Line boats which berthed on the West Side. I was into my second smoke when the Mole materialized from behind one of the cars. He was wearing a filthy white set of coveralls, with a tool belt around his waist, the usual satchel in his grubby paw. He didn't look dangerous.
"Mole," I said by way of greeting. When he didn't reply, I asked him, "You have that name and address for me?"
The Mole nodded his head in the direction of the highway, turned, and started to walk away. I followed him, wondering why he didn't want to talk by the launch pad. He led me to a South Bronx special—a battered old Ford, half primer and half rust, sagging on broken springs, no hubcaps, a hole already punched in its trunk from the last burglary attempt. The Mole climbed inside without unlocking the door. I followed him. He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled off.
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