Strega

by Andrew Vachss

  He went on like he hadn't heard me. "If that word got out, we'd have to do something serious, you understand? We can't have anything hurt our name—people would get stupid with us."

  I kept quiet, waiting.

  "We give you the information you want—you going to try and buy this picture from her?"

  "If she'll sell it."

  "And if she won't?"

  I shrugged.

  "Victor made a lot of those cash runs for her," he said. "A couple of day–care centers, private houses…even a church. There has to be a fucking lot of those pictures around."

  "Like I said—she's in the business.

  The leader ran his fingers through his hair—I could see the tattoo on his hand. His voice was still soft. "Her name is Bonnie. The house is on Cheshire Drive in Little Neck, just this side of the Nassau County border. A big white house at the end of a dead–end street. There's a white wall all around the property—electronic gate to the driveway. Big, deep backyard, trees and shrubs all around. Two stories, full basement, maybe some room in the attic too."

  "Anything else?" I asked him.

  "She has that schoolbus you talked about—a little one, maybe a dozen seats in the back. She uses the big, fat guy as the driver.

  "Any security in the house?"

  "I don't know," he said. "The Real Brotherhood—we play it straight—we weren't even thinking about taking her off."

  I handed him two grand, all in hundreds. "That square us?" I asked him.

  He smiled. "I'll take B.T.'s money out of this," he said.

  I held out my hand. He took it—his grip was firm, but not a bone–crusher. I wouldn't give B.T. the same opportunity.

  "I'm going to move fast now," I told him.

  "Do what you want," he said. "Take your time. She put down our name, you understand?"

  I nodded—someday soon, B.T. was going to get the idea the woman was a front for the NAACP.

  I slammed the door in Pansy's face, waved a clenched fist to Bobby to thank him, and drove the Plymouth out of the garage.

  84

  EVEN PANSY felt the difference in the Plymouth as it purred along, heading back to the office. Bobby had done a beautiful job. I rolled to a stop at a red light on Atlantic near the Brooklyn–Queens border. An orange G.T.O. screeched to a stop next to me—two kids in their street racer. The passenger rolled down his window, smiling at me while his partner revved the engine, waiting for the light. I raised my eyebrows in respect for their dragster, and stomped the gas just as the light changed. I heard the G.T.O.'s tires squeal, hunting for traction on the rough road, but the Plymouth leaped ahead as though their orange machine was tied to a stake. The speedometer needle flicked at seventy before I backed it off for the next red light. I heard the G.T.O. roaring behind me, letting up on the gas while still in gear to make his exhaust pipes crackle. Very impressive. This time, they pulled up on the passenger side. I hit the power window switch just in time to hear the driver shout the street racer's time–honored question, "What you got in that, man?"

  Pansy popped her head up from the front seat, snarling at all the noise. I heard another squeal from the G.T.O.'s tires and it was gone. The light was still red.

  It was getting dark. Time to start making the phone calls, checking my traps. I wanted to drop Pansy off at the office, but I was short of time. The leader of the Real Brotherhood seemed like a patient man, but he was raised the same places I was—places where if your name went down, your body wouldn't be far behind.

  I pulled up behind Mama's, opening Pansy's door to let her out. She prowled the walls of the narrow alley, finally relieving herself against both of them. She sniffed the air, a soft growl coming from her throat. I don't know if it was the smells from Mama's kitchen or whether she missed old B.T.

  I let her back in the car and went inside through the kitchen. My table in the back was empty like it always was—Mama's heavy dinner crowd didn't fill half the joint—she kept the prices high and the ambience foul to discourage yuppies.

  "Trouble?" she asked, approaching my table, her voice soft.

  "No trouble, Mama. But I have to make a bunch of phone calls—and I have Pansy with me. Out in the car."

  "This new puppy, Burke?" She knew my old Doberman, Devil.

  "She's not really a puppy anymore, Mama."

  "Big dog?"

  "Big dog," I assured her.

  "Maybe keep puppy in basement, okay?"

  "Perfect, Mama. Just for a little while, right?"

  "Sure," she said, doubtfully. "I tell cooks everything okay. Come."

  I followed her back to the kitchen; she fired some Cantonese at the collection of thugs.

  "Go get puppy," she told me.

  I snapped Pansy's leash on. She lifted her head, wondering what was going on. She only got the leash when she was going to be around citizens. When we walked through the back door, one of the cooks made a sound like "Eigh!" and backed all the way into the stove. They all started talking at once—arguing about something. Pansy sat at my side, drooling. They couldn't be sure it was the food. Two of them were pointing at the beast's head, standing chest to chest, screaming at each other. I couldn't make out a word. I had started to the basement with Pansy when Mama held up her hand.

  "Burke, what country this dog from—don't say word, okay?"

  I should have known—all the screaming and yelling was about some dumb bet—and Mama was looking for the edge. Mama's alleged cooks would stab you in the stomach and then bet you how long it would take you to die.

  "Pizza," I told her, under my breath.

  Mama charged into the argument, adding her own voice to the din. Finally, she pointed to one of the cooks.

  "Germany?" she asked me.

  "No," I said.

  She pointed to another.

  "England?"

  I said "No" again, watching their faces.

  "China?" she asked, pointing to a young man in the corner.

  "No," I told her again. "The dog is from Italy."

  A smile broke out on Mama's face. She made me say it again, so everyone in the room would get the benefit of her wisdom. Everybody bowed to her. I didn't see money change hands, but I figured their pay envelopes would be a little short that week.

  Pansy snarled her way down the steps to the basement, threatening the darkness. Mama switched on the lights—the place was filled floor–to–ceiling with boxes, some wood, some cardboard. Drums of rice stood to one side. There was still another basement below this one—I remember one time when the cops were looking for Max and they thought he was down there. They waited two days to find me to ask him to come out quietly.

  "Puppy want food, Burke?"

  "Sure, Mama. Whatever you think is best."

  She bowed. "I come back soon," she said, and went back up the stairs. More screaming and yelling in Chinese erupted—I think the cooks wanted a rematch. She came back down with a volunteer helper; he was carrying one of those giant stainless–steel pots they use to keep the rice freshly steamed all day long. He put it on the floor, watching Pansy warily.

  "This puppy good guard dog, Burke?" she asked.

  "She's the best, Mama."

  "Shethis girl puppy?"

  "Women the best warriors," Mama said, then translated it for the cook, who nodded dubiously. "Puppy guard down here?"

  "If you want her to," I said. "Watch—and tell your man to keep his hands in sight, okay?"

  She nodded. I slapped my side for Pansy to follow me, walking her so her back was in a corner formed by some of the stacked cartons. I took down a few cartons to make a little wall in front of her, about as high as her chest. Her face loomed above the barrier, watching. I knew just what trick Mama would love. "Pansy!" I said, my voice sharp to get her attention. "Friends!" I motioned Mama forward. "Go ahead and pat her," I said.

  Mama hadn't gotten where she was by showing fear. She walked right up to Pansy, patting her head, saying "Good puppy!" a few times. Pansy stood still, her eyes on the
cook.

  "Okay, now step back, Mama." When she did, I got Pansy's attention again. "Guard!" I told her.

  "Tell your man to approach like he's going to pat her too, Mama. But tell him not to reach over the barrier, you got it?"

  She said something to the cook. His face stayed flat, but you didn't need a translator to see he was suspicious as hell. The poor bastard had gotten about five feet from the barrier when Pansy lunged at him, a blood–chilling snarl flowing between her teeth. He leaped back about twenty feet—the snap of Pansy's jaws was like a thick branch breaking.

  "Pansy, out!" I yelled at her. She sat back down, her head swiveling to watch the entire room.

  Mama clapped her hands. "Good trick, Burke!" she said. The cook went back upstairs. I rolled the pot of steaming food over to Pansy. "What's in this?" I asked her.

  Mama looked insulted. "Beef, pork, lobster, shrimp, good vegetables, plenty rice. All best stuff."

  "She'll love it," I assured Mama.

  "How come she not eat, then?"

  "She'll only eat when she's alone with me, Mama. Let me get her started and I'll come up and make those calls, okay?"

  "Okay, Burke," she said.

  I waited a minute or two before saying "Speak!" to my dog. A good survivor never shares all his secrets.

  85

  THE FIRST call was to SAFE. Lily was in a session—they asked if I could leave a number. I told them I couldn't and got a time to call back. They didn't seem surprised.

  I got lucky with McGowan—he was in his office for a change.

  "You know my voice?" I asked him.

  "Sure do, pal." McGowan had a magnificent Irish baritone—he used it for sweet–talking little girls away from their pimps.

  "I need a favor. You know Wolfe, the D.A. in charge of City–Wide?"

  "Pal, that woman is aces with me, understand? Cases the other prosecutors won't touch—she grabs 'em up. You better not be having a problem with her."

  "No problem. I just want you to put in a good word for me, okay? I need to talk with her—I figure she might do it if she knew I was all right."

  "My friend, you are not all right if you're looking to sting that woman.

  "McGowan, come on. You know what I do—it's part of that, okay?"

  "What part?"

  I took a breath, thinking it through. McGowan knew his phones could be tapped—he had every honest cop's fear of Internal Affairs.

  "Look, all I want is for you to tell her I play the game straight. I'll tell her what I need—she can make up her own mind."

  Another silence on the line. Finally his voice came back. "You got it," he said.

  I started to ask him to do it tomorrow, but I was talking to a dead line.

  Strega answered her phone on the first ring. "I was waiting for you," she said, her voice soft.

  "How could you know it was me calling?"

  "I know," she said. "I told you before—I always know."

  "There's been some progress.

  "Tell me," she said, her voice going throaty, playing with the words, stroking them.

  "Not on the phone," I said.

  "I know what you want—come to my house—come tonight—late, after midnight—come tonight—I'll have what you want."

  "I just wantand I was talking into another dead line.

  I went back inside the restaurant, killing some time until Lily would be available. One of the waiters brought me some soup and a plate of fried rice and beef, green pea pods lancing through the mixture. Mama walked by, smiling. She tossed the News on the table in front of me. I scanned the headlines. Half of Queens County was getting indicted. Politicians were grabbing their lawyers in one hand and their guts in the other and dashing to the courthouse, offering everyone they knew in exchange for immunity from the deals they'd done together. That's why they call it the rat race.

  The sports pages read like the front pages—one role model was using cocaine, another was going into an alcoholism rehab program. Another claimed he threw a prize fight.

  But on the racing page I saw my horse again. Flower Jewel, running in the eighth race against the same collection she had faced last week. I checked my watch—not even nine–thirty yet.

  Maurice didn't answer until the sixth ring—probably a lot of late action coming in.

  "It's Burke," I told him.

  "No kidding?" he said. Maurice didn't have the manners of a pig, but he was taking lessons and hoped to be right up there soon.

  "The eighth closed yet?"

  "Not until ten—where've you been, fucking Idaho?"

  "Flower Jewel," I told him. "Three to win."

  "Flower Jewel, eighth race. Three to win. That right?"

  "Right," I said.

  "Send your man around tomorrow with the money," Maurice said, slamming down the phone.

  I went back to my dinner, wondering if even Pansy could eat all the food Mama had left down in the basement for her.

  I lit a cigarette as the dishes were cleared away. Flood's face drifted up from nowhere, floating in the smoke—I ground it out in the ashtray, but it didn't help.

  Lily herself answered when I called SAFE.

  "It's Burke," I told her. "Did you speak with Wolfe?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "And?"

  "And she gave me a number for you to call—anytime between eight and nine in the morning."

  "She'll talk to me?"

  "She just gave me the number to give to you."

  I hadn't expected Lily to get over with Wolfe so easily—McGowan had been my backup plan. If he did get around to calling tomorrow, it wouldn't hurt. I sure as hell wasn't going to call him back and tell him to forget it—he'd be sure I was up to no good.

  "Okay," I said. "The kid's been coming for treatment?"

  "Right on time. But his mother doesn't want to be involved."

  "The redhead?"

  "Yes."

  "She's not his mother."

  "Oh. Will his mother?"

  "I don't know. I'll see about it, okay?"

  "Just so long as they keep bringing the child."

  "I'll talk to his people. And thanks, Lily."

  "Be careful," she said, hanging up.

  I said goodbye to Mama and collected Pansy from the basement. She was still behind the barrier, but the steel container was as clean as if it had been washed. I could see her teethmarks on the rim.

  Pansy was happy to be home, insisting on visiting the roof for old times' sake. I had a couple of hours before I had to meet Strega. I found a pro wrestling match on television and lay back on the couch to watch with Pansy. She growled in contentment—if she could have nailed B.T. it would have been a perfect day.

  86

  THE MOON's cold light never penetrated to the dark streets, but I felt it deep in my spine as I wheeled the Plymouth past the burnt–out buildings on Atlantic. The radio was talking about Marcos settling down in Hawaii. He split the Philippines a few weeks ago, traveling light—a couple of loyal subjects, and the gross national product of his entire country for the last dozen years. A major–league scumbag.

  I cut the engine, letting the Plymouth coast around to the garage in back. The door was standing open. Only the BMW was there. I backed the Plymouth inside, found the button, and closed the door. Waiting in the darkness.

  A door opened. I could see her back–lighted silhouette standing there, weaving slightly—a candle flame in a gentle breeze.

  I climbed out of the Plymouth. When I looked up again, the doorway was empty. I went through the opening and saw her gently floating up the stairs. Her body was wrapped in some gauzy black fabric, blending into the shadows under her red hair. When I got to the top of the stairs, she was gone again.

  No lights were on in the house. I found my way into her white living room and took off my coat. I took out a cigarette, scraped the wooden match into life. As I touched the tip of the cigarette to the flame, I heard her voice. "Me too," she whispered, floating into the dark room, bending her
face forward to the flame. A lollipop stick of marijuana was in her mouth.

  I held the light for her, watched her puff to get the joint going and then suck in a massive breath. She floated away from me to the couch—the tip of the joint was a glowing pinpoint in the dark room.

  "You having a séance?" I asked her.

  "You afraid of the dark?" she retorted.

  "I'm afraid of a lot of things," I told her.

  "I know," she said, dragging on the joint again, holding her breath, expelling it in a hiss.

  "It'll be over soon," I said. "I'm getting close."

  "To the picture?"

  "To the person who took the picture. I can't be sure the picture is still around—like I told you. But I think I can get some answers soon."

  "You want me to do something?"

  "I just want an answer to something. I have a couple of more things to do—then I'm going to the people who took the picture, okay? But the picture may be with a whole bunch of other pictures. I may not have time to look through them all—you understand?"

  "So?"

  "So what if I just destroy all the pictures? Make sure there aren't any pictures left. Of anybody."

  Another drag on the joint, red tip blazing, sharp intake of breath, hiss when it came out. "I want to see the picture," she said.

  "I'll do my best. But I'm not hanging around if things go bad, see? Scotty wasn't the only one—I'm sure of that now. The people who took the picture, they're in the business, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know how much time I'll have once I get inside."

  She took a last drag and the joint went out; maybe she just pinched off the tip—I couldn't tell.

  "You want to get inside now?" Strega said, coming off the couch toward me.

  "No," I told her.

  "Yes, you do," she said, standing next to me. She dropped to her knees, the black gauze fluttering behind me. Bat's wings. Her face was in my lap, her hands at my belt. My hand dropped onto her back, feeling the fabric—and the chill.

  "Don't touch me," she whispered.

  I watched my hands grip the arms of the chair; the veins stood out. A picture formed on the back of my hands—below the waist I was somewhere else—the picture formed and I could see my passport into the woman's house.