Strega

by Andrew Vachss

"Dónde está el dinero?" I said.

  This time she laughed. It was a sweet chuckle, the kind only a grown woman can do. It made my heart hurt for Flood.

  "Do you have a true first name, Mr. Burke?"

  "No."

  Wolfe's smile was ironic. "What does it say on your birth certificate?"

  "Baby Boy Burke," I told her, my voice flat.

  "Oh," Wolfe said. She'd seen enough birth certificates to know I'd never have to worry about buying a present on Mother's Day. I shrugged again, showing her it didn't mean anything to me. Now.

  Wolfe took another piece of paper off her desk—this one wasn't yellow.

  "The FBI has a sheet on you too," she said.

  "I never took a federal fall."

  "I see that. But you are listed as a suspect in several deals involving military weapons. And a CIA cross–reference shows you were out of the country for almost a year.

  "I like to travel," I told her.

  "You don't have a passport," she said.

  "I didn't come here to ask you for a date," I said. "I'm not applying for a job either. I admire what you do—I respect your work. I thought I could help you—that you could help me too."

  "And if we can't work this out?"

  "I'm going into that house," I told her, looking her full in her lovely face like the crazy bastard this case had turned me into.

  Wolfe picked up the phone, punched a number. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "Come in here." She hung up. "I want to be sure you're not wearing a wire, okay? Then we'll talk."

  "Whatever you say," I told her.

  The bouncer came back in, the .38 almost lost in his meaty hand.

  "I told you nothing was wrong," Wolfe said.

  "That was a few seconds ago," he snapped. The Rottweiler growled at him. "Good boy," he said.

  "Would you please take this gentleman with you and see if he has anything on him he shouldn't have," Wolfe told him.

  The big guy put his hand on my shoulder—it felt like an anvil.

  "There's no problem," Wolfe said to him, a warning note in her voice.

  We went past a couple of offices—the tall black woman was reading something and making notes, the little lady with the piled–up hair was talking a mile a minute on the phone, a handsome black man was studying a hand–drawn chart on the wall. I heard a teletype machine clatter—bad news for somebody.

  "Doesn't anybody go home around here?" I asked the big guy.

  "Yeah, pal—some people go home. Some people should stay home."

  I didn't try any more conversation–starters. He took me into a bare office and did the whole search number, working at it like a prison guard you forgot to bribe. He took me back to Wolfe.

  "Nothing," he said, disappointed. He left us alone.

  The Rottweiler was sitting next to Wolfe, watching the door as she patted his head. She pointed to his corner again and he went back, as reluctant as the big guy was.

  "Mr. Burke, this is the situation. The woman you intend to visit is Bonnie Browne, with an 'e.' She sometimes uses the name Young as well—it's her maiden name. The man she lives with is her husband. George Browne. He has two arrests for child molesting—one dismissal, one plea to an endangering count. Served ninety days in California. She's never been arrested."

  I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for a smoke.

  "Don't write any of this down," Wolfe said.

  "I'm not," I told her, lighting the smoke.

  "We believe this woman to be the principal in a great number of corporations—holding companies, really. But she doesn't operate the way most of the kiddie–porn merchants do. You understand what I mean?"

  "Yeah," I told her. "You want the pictures—videotapes, whatever—you send a money order to a drop–box in Brussels. When the money clears, you get a shipment in the mail from Denmark, or England, or any other place they're established. Then the money orders get mailed to an offshore bank—maybe the Cayman Islands—and the bank makes a loan to some phony corporation set up in the States."

  Wolfe looked at me thoughtfully. "You've been at this quite a while."

  "I do a lot of work—you get bits and pieces here and there—you put it together."

  "Okay. But this woman doesn't work like that. Her product is special. She guarantees all her stuff is so–called collector's items. No reproduction—every picture is one of a kind."

  "What's to stop some freak from copying the pictures?"

  "She puts some kind of mark on every picture she takes—like this." Wolfe showed me a tiny drawing of a standing man, his hand on the shoulder of a little boy. It looked like it was hand–drawn with one of those needlepoint pens architects use. Only it was in a soft blue color. "The mark won't survive a copy—she uses something called chroma–blue ink. She puts every mark on herself—by hand."

  "What's the point?"

  "There's two points, Mr. Burke. The first is that she gets a minimum of five thousand dollars a picture, so she can achieve huge profits without a lot of volume."

  I took a drag on my cigarette, waiting.

  "The other point is more significant. She produces pictures to order."

  "You mean some freak calls her and says he wants to see a certain thing go down?"

  "Yes. If you want a blond boy wearing a snowsuit, you got it."

  "You going to drop her?" I asked.

  "We are going to drop her—but not soon. We're just beginning to trace pictures back to her. We don't have a prayer of getting a search warrant now."

  "And if you ask for one, it might get back to her?"

  Wolfe raised her eyebrows. "You are a cynical man, Mr. Burke."

  "Those black robes the judges wear," I told her, "they don't change you inside."

  Wolfe didn't say anything for a minute, fingering her pearls. "Do you know anything about search warrants?" she finally asked.

  Now I knew why she wanted to make sure I wasn't wired. "I know if a citizen breaks in a house and finds dope or whatever, the evidence won't be suppressed unless the citizen is an agent of law enforcement."

  "Um…" Wolfe said, encouraging me. I hadn't told her what she wanted. Yet.

  "I also know that if the police are called to a location…say because there's a burglary in progress and they find something bad, they can take it."

  "And use it in court."

  "And use it in court," I agreed.

  Wolfe's face was flat and hard. "This woman wouldn't report a burglary," she said.

  I lit a last cigarette. "You have her house under surveillance?"

  "We might—starting tomorrow."

  "Round the clock?"

  "Yes."

  I took a drag of my smoke.

  "Any citizen has an obligation to rescue people when there's a fire," I said.

  Wolfe held her hand across the desk. I brought it quickly to my lips before she could do anything and walked out of her office.

  90

  I TOOK a couple of days to sort things out, telling myself that I didn't want to hit the filth factory in Little Neck the very first night Wolfe's people were on the job. The truth was that I wanted to get back to myself—get cautious, work the angles, find some way to get the job done with the least possible risk.

  But it all jammed together in my head. I'd start to work out some scam—maybe have the Mole take out the phones in the house, walk in dressed up like a repairman, look around. Or maybe just a gentle breaking–and–entering while the two of them were out of the house in their little schoolbus. No matter what I tried on, it wouldn't fit. You can't scam humans who produce custom–tailored kiddie porn.

  I thought about how out of control the whole lousy thing was. I could never have a woman like Wolfe. Flood wasn't coming back. I could live with not having the woman I wanted; I had a lot of practice at not having choices. But I couldn't live with Strega. I had to burn the bruja –woman out of my life before she took me down with her.

  The Prof reported in. He had made a couple of runs past the target. Th
en he'd knocked on the door, asking if they wanted any yard work done. The woman answered the door herself—told him to get lost. No sign of security people.

  I got the blueprints of the house from the city. Checked through the back files—the house was jointly owned by the woman and her husband. Purchased for $345,000 about four years ago. Conventional bank mortgage. Fifty bucks got me a look at the papers—she put down a little more than a hundred grand. Listed her occupation as "private investor." Declared an income of almost $250,000 a year.

  The phone–company employees who sell information charge more—they still think of themselves as a monopoly. Two phones in the house— both numbers unlisted. Their combined bill ran about five hundred dollars a month, most of it toll calls. Just for the hell of it, I checked the numbers against the ones I'd copied from the pimp's address book I gave to Wolfe. None of them matched—they were in a different league.

  It was time to be myself again.

  91

  I ROUNDED up most of the crew with no problems, but I couldn't find Michelle at any of her usual spots. Finally, I dropped in to The Very Idea, a transsexual bar where she hangs out when she isn't working.

  "She's getting her hair cut, darling," her friend Kathy told me.

  I made a face—her favorite "salon" reminded me of a parakeet's cage, feathers flying, shrill shrieking, and shit all over the floor.

  "Oh, Burke, don't look like that. Nobody goes there anymore. Daniel has opened a fabulous new place on Fifth—here's a card."

  "Thanks, Kathy," I said, throwing a twenty on the bar to cover her tab.

  "See you around, handsome," she replied. I don't think it was the twenty bucks—transsexuals just have more empathy.

  La Dolce Vita was a couple of flights up. It had a tiny little elevator but I took the stairs. I wasn't worried about running into anything, but if I was going to get back to myself, it was time to get started.

  The joint was all pastel colors and mirrors. The waiting room was decorated with people reading the Italian edition of Vogue and drinking coffee from glass cups. The receptionist was inside a little island in the middle, watching the fun.

  "Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

  "Is Daniel here?"

  "He's with a customer."

  "It's the customer I want—which way?"

  She pointed straight ahead. I followed her finger into a room overlooking Fifth Avenue—the windows sloped at an angle, flowers covering the broad base. Michelle was getting combed out by a slim man wearing a white sweater over blue jeans—white running shoes on his feet. She was in the middle of a heated exchange with the woman in the next chair.

  "Honey, please don't go on about the Holy Coast. The only thing Los Angeles ever contributed to culture is the drive–by homicide!"

  I stepped between them before it got bloody.

  "Burke!" she called out. "You're just in time."

  "For what?" I asked her.

  "For Daniel," she said, like I was from another planet. "He just got a cancellation—and you need a haircut."

  Daniel and I shook hands—he had a strong grip, an ironic smile on his face.

  "Burke," he said. "What's your first name?"

  "I'm not paying by check," I told him.

  "Will you stop it?" Michelle snapped, turning in her chair to slap at my arm. This isn't a poolroom."

  "Can I talk to you for a minute?" I said.

  "Talk."

  "Not here."

  Michelle sighed. "Oh, really—it's always such a big deal. Just give me a few minutes—sit down," she said, pointing to the chair next to her.

  "This has to stay a few minutes anyway, Michelle," Daniel told her, patting her hairdo.

  "Don't rush yourself, baby. Anyway, you have to cut my friend's hair too."

  Daniel looked a question at me. I shrugged—what the hell.

  "You have to get shampooed first," he said.

  "Can't you just cut it?"

  "It has to be wet," he said with a sideways glance at Michelle.

  "He was raised in a barn," Michelle sighed.

  I let some little girl lead me to another room, where she put the shampoo in my hair, rinsed it out, did it all over again. Daniel was still playing with Michelle's hair when I came back.

  "How would you like this cut?" he asked.

  "Just do whatever you do," I told him. I saw him glance at Michelle again. "Don't get stupid," I warned him.

  He walked out of the room to get something he needed.

  "Michelle, we got something on for tonight, okay?"

  "A phone job for me?"

  "And something with the Mole too," I told her. For once, she didn't make a crack about the Mole.

  "What time?"

  "We'll meet around five, five–thirty. Mama's basement, okay?"

  "I'll be there, baby," she told me, giving me a quick kiss and walking out.

  Daniel finished cutting my hair. With the room quiet, it was like a real barbershop–he even knew something about prize–fighting. When he was finished, I looked the same—Daniel told me it was an art.

  I went out to the receptionist, asking for Michelle.

  "Oh, she left a few minutes ago. She said you'd be taking care of her bill with yours."

  What was I going to do? "Okay, how much for the whole thing?"

  "Let's see…" she told me brightly, "with tax, that's a hundred and seventy dollars and fifty–six cents."

  "What!"

  "Michelle had a styling, a color consult, a manicure, and a pedicure," she said, as if that explained everything.

  I didn't leave a tip for Daniel—if he owned that joint he had a license to steal.

  92

  "HOLD STILL!" Michelle ordered. She was sitting next to me, my right hand spread out on a board she held in her lap, working carefully with a rapidograph, inking in the crossed lightning bolts of the Real Brotherhood.

  The Prof peeked over my shoulder—he knew what the real thing looked like better than most.

  "You should have been an artist, babe," he complimented her.

  "Honey," Michelle said, "I am an artist—I give a whole new meaning to the term 'satisfied customer.'"

  Max sat in the lotus position against the wall in Mama's basement. He was dressed all in black—not the ceremonial silk he usually wore for combat—some dull matte material. He fitted a hood of the same stuff over his face. It covered the back of his neck, blending into the jacket— only his eyes were visible. He was working with some black paste, rubbing it into his hands.

  "Mole, you got the car?"

  He nodded. We wouldn't use the Plymouth to approach the house. Michelle was going to stash it a few blocks away—if anyone was following us, we'd switch cars, leaving the Mole's untraceable junker behind.

  "The phones go down at eleven–thirty?" I asked him.

  He nodded again. There was no burglar alarm, no direct connection to the local police station either. There wouldn't be.

  We didn't have to go over it again. Michelle would call, act like she was a telephone solicitor, ask to speak to the man of the house. If the husband answered, she'd do her best to keep him on the phone while I was ringing the front–door bell. Max would go over the back fence, penetrate the house. He'd take out anyone he found, except the woman— I needed to talk to her. If the woman answered the door, I'd brace her right there, take her inside, and get the pictures. If the wrong person answered the door, I'd show them the pistol, play it from there while Max worked his way through the rest of the house.

  And if I didn't like the look of the front of the house, I'd find my own way inside.

  The Prof and I each had a little radio transmitter the Mole hooked up. When I hit the switch, the Prof would climb behind the wheel of the crash–car and start the engine. I'd come busting out the front door. And the Mole would turn the house into an incinerator. Then he and Max would go back over the fence to where Michelle would be waiting.

  It should all be over by midnight.

  Mic
helle was finished with my hand and started on my face. The heavy pancake makeup made me a few shades darker, and the black mustache changed the shape of my face even more. I'd have a hat on my head and dark glasses over my eyes.

  "What did McGowan say when you brought him the kidTerry?" I asked her.

  She didn't answer—I saw something in her face, her mouth set and hard.

  "Michelle?"

  "I didn't bring him to McGowan," she said.

  "What did you do with him?" I asked her, keeping my voice level.

  "Burke, he couldn't go home. His father's an evil pig—he's the one who started him off."

  "That's why he ran away?"

  "He didn't run away—his father sold him to that pimp."

  And people think it's going to be air pollution that kills us all someday.

  "What did you do with him?" I asked her again.

  "He's my child now," she said. "I'll take care of him."

  "Michelle," I said, my voice patient but my mind screaming trouble!, you can't keep that kid in your hotel. Sooner or later somebody's going to…"

  "He's with me," the Mole said.

  "In the junkyard?"

  "I fixed up a place for him," the Mole said, a hurt tone in his voice.

  "The Mole's teaching him, Burke," Michelle said. "He's learning all about electronics and stuff. He's real smart. You wouldn't believe how much"

  "Jesus Christ!"

  "Burke, he's my boy, okay? We take him to SAFE. Lily's working with him. He's going to be fine."

  "What if someone comes looking for him?"

  "What if they do?" she challenged.

  "Michelle, listen for a minute. You're in the life, baby. What kind of a mother could you be?"

  "Better than the mother you had," she said, her voice quiet.

  I lit a cigarette. Maybe the kid would never get to prep school, but the state makes the worst mother of them all.

  "He's one of us," the Mole said, looking at Michelle.

  I gave it up. "Just don't expect me to be his goddamned uncle," I said.

  Michelle gave me a kiss on the cheek. "When I have my operation, I'm going to adopt him, Burke. He can go to college and everything…you can scam up some papers for him…I started to put money aside already…"