Strega

by Andrew Vachss

  "Shut up!" I told him, backing away. The workbench drawer had three short stacks of bills. I tossed the money to the Mole. It went into his satchel. The basement looked like a kid's playroom—stuffed animals, dolls, a hobbyhorse, electric trains in one corner. I checked behind the only door, but there was nothing except the oil burner and a hot–water heater. A back door opened into the extension to the house. I walked through it quickly. No windows to the outside, and the floor was concrete like the driveway. All designed so they could pull the van inside and discharge its cargo. And take pictures of kids.

  It was time to disappear.

  "Your wife is upstairs," I told him. "She's okay—just sleeping. I'm going to give you a shot too. When you wake up, the police will be here. You say whatever you want to say—make the best deal for yourself you can. You mention me or my people, I'll find you again, wherever you are. Understand?"

  He nodded, still trying to talk. "Lookyou don't need the shotI mean, I got a bad heart, you know? I'm on medication. Tomorrow I can get you all the money you want"

  The Mole took a hypo out of his satchel, pushed the plunger, watched the thin spray, nodded to me. A shadow moved from a corner of the basement, flowed behind the fat man. He was jerked to his feet, one arm braced in front of him, veins clearly visible.

  "We'll do it upstairs," I told the Mole, gesturing to Max to bring the fat man along.

  I took the curving staircase first, listening. Nothing. Then came the Mole, with Max last. We stopped at the landing; the fat man stood against one wall, breathing much too fast.

  "We need the fire now," I said to the Mole. "Something that started in the boiler."

  He nodded, returned the hypo to his satchel, and went back downstairs.

  The fat man was still having trouble with his breathing, sucking in gulps of air and trying to talk at the same time. I pulled off one glove to scratch at the mask, letting him see the tattoo.

  "You guys! I know your bossI mean, we have a contract, right? We got no problem…"

  I put the glove back on as if I hadn't noticed what set him off. "Shut up,' I said, talking the way a machine talks.

  The fat man never tried to make a move—combat wasn't his game. But it seemed like he had to find out mine—he couldn't keep quiet.

  "What would it take?" he asked.

  "I'm just doing a job," I told him, in the same mechanical voice.

  "Look, you don't get it, okay? It's not like anyone got hurt, all right? Kids…they get over it. It's just a business.

  I could feel the heat coming off Max, but I was empty inside. All maggots have a story to tell, and I'd heard most of them by then.

  The Mole walked up the staircase, satchel in one hand. A day at the office. He held up a palm, fingers spread wide. Five minutes to ignition.

  I took Scotty's picture from my pocket, held it up to the fat man's face. I was really showing Max that we'd rescued the kid, but the fat man decided I wanted an explanation.

  "Hey! I remember him. Is that what this is all about? Hey, look, man that is one sexy little kid, you better believe…I mean, he loved lapping it up…It's not like I started him off or anything…"

  I saw red dots in front of my eyes where his face should have been. I gripped the pistol handle so hard my hand throbbed, hearing the sound of the shot in my mind, willing myself not to pull the trigger.

  "Don't!" the fat man screamed, clasping his hands in front of his chest like he was praying. I heard a sharp hiss from the darkness where Max was standing, and then a sound like a meat ax driving into bone. The fat man's neck snapped to the left—and stayed there. Max released him and the body slumped to the ground.

  The Mole dropped to his knees, doing his job even though we all knew it was over. "Gone," he said.

  "The jailhouse or the graveyard," I'd told the Prof. Now it really didn't matter if the old lady upstairs was dead. I gestured Max to pick up the fat man's body and we all went back downstairs. I could feel the clock ticking in my head—the boiler was going to go. "He tried to escape the flames—ran up the stairs. Slipped and fell. Broke his neck," I said to myself. We hauled the fat man halfway up the stairs, to the place where they started to curve. Leaned him across the railing and pushed him over, face first. The silent basement swallowed the sound of his fall.

  "Go!" I said to the Mole, pointing to the back of the house. Max's shadow followed him back into the basement.

  I pushed the button on the radio transmitter, telling the Prof I'd be hitting the front gate any minute. I still had a little piece of time left to finish what I had to do—even when the boiler went off it wouldn't reach the first floor for a while. I ran back upstairs to the big office room, grabbing handfuls of the filth, throwing it all around the hallway, dusting every room with pictures and film. I pushed a few of the cassettes back in the safe and slammed it closed, thankful for the gloves I was wearing—no time to wipe everything down.

  I checked the bedroom. The woman was still lying on the bed, like she hadn't moved. Maybe she never would.

  I charged down the stairs, the gun in front of me, my ears sucking in every sound, waiting for the sirens. I heard a crackling sound from someplace in the basement.

  I opened the front door a narrow slit, poked my head out. The street was quiet. I made sure the door wasn't going to lock behind me, patted my pockets to check I had everything, and charged for the fence. I dropped down on the other side—the driver's door was hanging open. I dove inside and the Prof leaped out of the way—he had the car in gear, holding the brake pedal down with his hand.

  I looked over my shoulder—the basement windows were full of flame. I heard an engine jump into life somewhere down the street. Wolfe's surveillance team shot straight past us, heading toward the house. I kept rolling smoothly, flipping on the headlights when I turned the corner.

  The Plymouth was waiting where it was supposed to be. Nobody was following, so I flashed the lights and Michelle pulled in behind me. We took the Throgs Neck Bridge over to the Bronx, pulling off the road just past the tolls, doing the same number with the jumper cables just in case.

  I left the Prof to watch the cars, pulling everyone else into the shadows.

  "I got it," I told Michelle. "Anybody answer when you called?"

  "Sure did," she replied. "It was a man.

  "No, it wasn't," I told her, lighting a cigarette for the first time since we got out. "Any trouble?" I asked the others.

  "Just the fence," said the Mole, rubbing his side. He and Michelle went back to the cars.

  Max was still in the dark cloth, but the hood was off his head. He watched the Prof approach us, made the gesture of a man taking a picture, moved his hand in a "come here" sign. He wanted the Prof to see the picture. I held it out to him. The mercury–vapor lamps they use on the bridge threw a cold orange light down on all of us. Max held the picture in both hands, waiting for the Prof to look and see what he wanted. He tapped his finger against the picture of the man in the clown suit—then his head suddenly twisted to one side.

  "You understand?" I asked the Prof. He had been with us—he had a right to know.

  The little man nodded his head. "It means the clown went down."

  94

  THE MOLE took the Cadillac back to the Bronx. Max got back in the trunk—explaining his night–stalker getup to a passing cop would be too much trouble. We found a turnaround and headed home.

  "I'll have the money in a couple of days," I said to the Prof. "Where should I drop you?"

  "It's too late for the Men's Shelter—let me try Grand Central."

  "Michelle?"

  "Home, baby."

  I drove the Plymouth into the warehouse. Immaculata appeared while I was opening the trunk for Max to get out.

  "It's done," I told her.

  Immaculata examined Max like he was a piece of jewelry she was going to buy someday—her eyes going over every inch. She touched his chest, feeling his body, making sure. Max suffered in silence, his face stony. But his eyes wer
e soft.

  I bowed to them both. As I backed out of the warehouse, I could see Immaculata patting her stomach, gesturing to Max—the life–taker was a life–maker too.

  95

  I WAS all over the midday papers. I liked the Post's version best.

  FIRE REVEALS KIDDIE PORN RING!

  A fire late last night that killed a Queens man and hospitalized his wife led startled firefighters to discover the couple was operating a "major kiddie–porn ring" from the comfort of their Little Neck mansion, police said.

  Killed in the blaze was George Browne, 44, who lived in the house at 71 Cheshire Drive with his wife Bonnie. Mrs. Browne, 41, was taken to nearby Deepdale General Hospital suffering from smoke inhalation.

  Firemen, alerted by a telephone call to the emergency 911 number, arrived shortly after the fire ignited at about 10:00 p.m., and had the blaze under control by 10:45.

  It was while they were examining the damage, which a Fire Department spokesman called "moderate," that firemen made the shocking discovery of "literally hundreds of kiddie–porn photographs," the spokesman said. The firemen immediately notified the police, she added.

  Captain Louis DeStefano of the 11th Precinct said that in addition to the Polaroid photographs, a "substantial amount" of undeveloped film and "several videotape cassettes" were also seized.

  "I'm shocked. I'm absolutely shocked," a stunned neighbor, Elsie Lipschitz, told the Post. "They kept to themselves a lot, but they were always very polite when you saw them on the street. I can't believe it," she said.

  Although the Fire Department and the couple's neighbors were caught off guard, the Post has learned that the $450,000 house at the end of the quiet cul–de–sac has been under police surveillance and that George Browne was arrested twice for child molesting in recent years.

  In 1978 Browne, who listed his occupation as "entertainer," was arrested on felony molestation charges that were eventually dropped. Two years later, he was arrested again, and ultimately pleaded guilty to endangering the welfare of a minor—a five–year–old boy from upstate, according to police sources.

  Browne's charred body was discovered at the bottom of the basement stairway. An apparent broken neck has led cops to theorize he was trying to escape the fire—which may have begun with an explosion in the boiler, according to firemen—when he was overcome by smoke and fell down the stairway. An autopsy is pending.

  Among the first cops to arrive on the scene were detectives conducting round–the–clock surveillance for the City–Wide Special Victims Bureau. Assistant District Attorney Eva Wolfe, who heads the bureau, would only say that the surveillance was "part of an ongoing investigation." She declined to say when the investigation began.

  Mrs. Browne has not yet been arrested, ADA Wolfe said, adding that charges are expected to be filed "soon."

  A hospital spokesman said the woman's condition is satisfactory.

  The Prof was reading over my shoulder. "When people can't learn, they're bound to burn," he said.

  The blues are the truth.

  96

  I MADE the call the next morning. "You have my money?" I asked her when she answered the phone.

  "Was that you…?"

  "You have my money?" I asked her again, cutting her short. "I'll have it tonight. Do you have…?"

  "Tonight. Midnight, right?"

  "Yes. I'll…"

  I hung up on her. A dry run.

  97

  I WAS THERE on time. Fear was strong in me; I couldn't put a name to it. Nobody wants surgery, but when the disease is fatal, even the knife looks good.

  The back of the house was soft, sly darkness. Shadows played their games. There was no music.

  "I have you in me now," Strega said once. I called to Flood in my mind, telling her Strega had lied. Telling myself.

  I had Scotty's picture in my pocket. It was enough to get me into the house—I wasn't sure it was enough to get me out. The garage was standing open, a space ready for my Plymouth. I left it outside, nose pointing toward the drive.

  I walked up the stairs to the living room. It was empty. I fired a wooden match, looking for a light switch. I couldn't find one—settled for a lamp that flowed gracefully over the couch. I bit into a cigarette, watching the match flare with the first drag, waving my hand to put it out. I put the match in my pocket, waiting.

  She came into the room wearing a red slip, her feet bare. Her face was scrubbed and clean. Sat down next to me on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her. She looked like a young girl.

  I took the picture from my pocket, gave it one last look, and put it in her lap. An offering—take this from me and go haunt someone else. She ran her finger lightly over the surface of the picture. "This is the one," she whispered.

  I didn't want a ceremony. "You have my money?" I asked her.

  "I'm going to burn this in front of Scotty," she said like she hadn't heard me. "And it will all be gone."

  "It won't be gone—only the people at SAFE can do that," I told her.

  "You know what I mean," she said.

  She had her magic words—I had mine. "Where's the money?" I asked her again.

  "It's upstairs," she said, flowing to her feet. "Come on."

  A woman's hatbox was in the middle of her bed. I could see it through the canopy. A diamond floating on quicksand. She pointed to it, one hand on her hip.

  I reached through the lacy fabric and pulled it out. The top came off—inside was the money, all neatly stacked. And the thick gold chain on top of the pile.

  "Touch it," she whispered against me. "It's warm. Just before you came, I took a nap. I slept with it inside my body—it's warm from me."

  "I don't want it," I said.

  "Don't be afraidtake it."

  "I don't want it," I said again, hearing my voice go hollow, holding on.

  She pushed me to the chair in the corner. I stood hard against her, not moving. "It has to be in a chair," she whispered. "It's the only place I can do it. You have to be sitting down."

  "I just want the money," I told her.

  She grabbed the front of my coat with both hands, pulling at it with all her weight, her devil eyes firing both barrels at me. "You're mine," she said.

  I met her eyes—something danced in there—something that would never have a partner. 'I did my work," I told her, staying where I was safe. "I'm done."

  "You can't walk away from me," she whispered, holding on.

  "Forget it, Strega."

  "You call my name—you think you know me. You don't know me."

  "I know you. And don't waste your time running to Julio—there's nothing he can do."

  Strega knew an exit line when she heard one. She let go of my coat, turned her back to me, one hand holding a bedpost.

  "Yes, Julio," she said. "My precious uncle Julio—the great and good friend of my father."

  She turned to face me. "Who do you think taught me to make nice while he sat in a chair—be a good little girl?"

  "What?" I said. I've had a lifetime of keeping my thoughts off my face, but it didn't work with Strega. She answered the question I never asked.

  "Julio. I was Peppina then. I loved everybody. Especially Julio—he was so good to me. When he started with me, I told my father on him," she said, her voice that of a little child.

  "What did he do?"

  "What did he do? He beat me with a strap for telling evil tales about Julio. Julio the Saint. He was a saint to my father…because of the money and the fear. And I went back to Julio."

  I just looked at her, watching her eyes. Cold fire. Hate.

  "They taught me—money and fear. They taught me good. One day I wasn't little stupid happy Peppina anymore.

  I saw Julio in my mind, the last time we talked. I knew why he looked like that now. "That's why Julio wanted me to do this get the picture for you?"

  "Julio does what I want now. They all do what I want. Money and fear."

  "Jina…"

  "Strega. To you, Stre
ga. And when you come back to me, Strega still."

  "I'm not coming back," I said, putting the hatbox under one arm, holding the money against the cold.

  One tear escaped her eye, ran down her cheek. "I have my Mia," she said, her voice as dead as the clown in the big white house, "and I have myself. I will always have myself."

  "I've got more than that," I thought, walking out, the cold wind swirling at my back. Guarding its child.