Footsteps of the Hawk

by Andrew Vachss

  "It don't take no rocket scientist to be a ho', bro—all you need is the lips and the hips. Her story's weak, but it don't sound freak."

  "How about this? I pay Mary for her time, right? Toss another yard at her for a tip before she even opens her mouth, okay? Then, after she gives up the information, she offers me a free ride. And when I talk to Mama about Belinda, turns out she was there. In the restaurant. In person. And she's wearing a blond wig."

  "Bitch wanted you on tape," the Prof said quietly.

  "Sure. She has a tape like that, I have to dance to her tune. Especially because that fucking Morales, he's still on my case."

  "That last clue is true, brother. Morales, he's got a memory like a damn herd of elephants. Bad business, you get on the bad side of that roller. And he ain't got no good side."

  "How does it scan to you?"

  "Got to be this, schoolboy: this Belinda bitch, she's working with Morales, setting you up on a conspiracy rap, leverage you into dimeing everybody on that old stuff. You go back a long way with that blue coat…Hard to see him working with a woman, though. He's an old East Harlem head–breaker, that's more his style."

  "His partner's gone now. So maybe he's—"

  "No way to tell," the Prof mused. "Hell, maybe it's just the broad. Maybe she's got something she wants you to do. Something off the books."

  "I'm gonna meet her," I said.

  The Prof just nodded, covering it all.

  It was 5:05 am. when I punched Belinda's number into a pay phone on Canal Street. She answered on the third ring.

  "Hello?"

  "You wanted to talk to me?" I said, gentle–voiced.

  "I sure do," she said, recognizing my voice too quickly for someone who hadn't heard it in years…and never over the phone. "I've been trying for—"

  "Tomorrow night okay with you?"

  "I don't get off work until after two in the morning."

  "How about if I pick you up there?" I asked, like I didn't know what she did for a living.

  "Uh…no, that wouldn't work. I need to take a shower, change my clothes, put on some perfume….

  Or a body mike, I thought. But I told her, "Whatever you say. How about five in the morning, that suit you?"

  "That would be great. I'll meet you at—"

  "I can come to your place," I said innocently.

  "No, that's okay. I could meet you at the restaurant. You know, the one where I—"

  "It's closed by then," I lied smoothly. "How about the corner of Canal and Mulberry?"

  "It's a date," she replied.

  I hung up the phone, putting the lies on Pause until we could do it again in person.

  I had almost twenty–four hours to set things up—I wouldn't need them all. I stopped in an all–night deli on Broadway and cruised the aisles like a lunatic in a gun shop, looking for something to catch my eye and speak to me.

  A slightly built kid with an olive complexion and a long ponytail was restocking shelves—he was already on the last aisle. The kid's ears were covered with stereo headphones plugged into a tape recorder hooked onto his belt, his lips moving in silent–sync to the lyrics pumping through his head. On a low deep shelf I spotted a flat tray of dark–chocolate–covered coconut bars. I reached in and took three of them from the front. A young woman dressed in head–to–toe I'm Serious black gave me a pitying look before she reached all the way to the back of the shelf to take some for herself. Her glance said it all—any idiot knows they stock the shelves with the freshest goods at the back so they can move the stale stuff first.

  Maybe in Iowa. In this city, the hipper you think you are, the easier you are.

  I picked out an assortment of cold cuts, a loaf of rye bread, and a half–dozen bottles of Ginseng–Up, then walked it all over to the register. Behind the counter was a whole wall of glass, designed to display the refrigerated collection of .40–caliber malt liquors. The oversized bottles are best–sellers. The kids take one of the baby cigars—Philly Blunts are the favorite—razor it open, load it with marijuana, and mix tokes with sips. The big booze brand is called Crazy Horse. Real classy, like naming a vodka after Chernobyl.

  When I got back to my office, I shared the food with Pansy. All except the soda—she hates the bubbles.

  For dessert, I cracked one of the coconut bars—it was as fresh as a just–burst rosebud. I hoped the hipster chick didn't crack one of her expensive caps on the ones she bought.

  After supper, me and Pansy each got a handful of Dismutase tablets. One tab's the equivalent of about a quart of wheat sprouts. Vets give them to dogs who've had broken bones—they say it's the best thing for arthritis. Pansy's a long way from being a pup—sometimes her bones give her trouble, especially in the winter. I tried some on her—in a few weeks, she was moving a lot easier. No way a dog reacts to a placebo, so I figured the stuff had to be doing the job. I have trouble with my hands—the right one's been broken too many times and I can feel cold weather right through it. Since I've been taking the Dismutase along with Pansy, they don't hurt as bad.

  I measured out the dose. You start with one tab per twenty pounds of dog, then switch to one tab per forty pounds as maintenance. We're both on maintenance now. We weigh about the goddamned same, too—she's really packed on the poundage the last couple of years.

  While she was up on her roof, I fiddled with the TV set. Once I got a channel to come in, I kicked back on the couch, eyes closed. Pansy came back downstairs, walked over and put her massive head on my chest. She does that sometimes. I got her when she was a tiny puppy, not even weaned. I had to let her nurse from a baby bottle. When you first pull a pup from the litter, it's a good idea to wrap a towel around a wind–up clock and put it next to them—the ticking makes them think of their mother's heartbeat and they sleep better, safer in their minds. I didn't have one of those clocks, so I slept on my back with Pansy on my chest. Seemed to work pretty good. Every once in a while, I don't know why, she wants to hear my heartbeat again. I scratched behind her ears until she settled down. She took her head away, curled up on the floor to watch TV with me, making that noise that sounds like a downshifting diesel truck to show she was about to relax.

  After a few minutes of product–pushing perjurers, I got lucky—an old episode of the Andy Griffith show—one I hadn't seen before. There was this guy, came to Mayberry from some other place. And the townspeople, they really treated him like shit, like he was a foreign spy or something. Finally, Sheriff Andy read them all the riot act…about how they should be flattered that this guy picked Mayberry to be his home town…how most folks don't have a choice. Kind of like the difference between adoption and birth.

  I don't have a home town. New York isn't anybody's home town. It's different in other places. If you're a Chicago boy or a Detroit girl, the local papers treat you special. You're home–grown, and that counts for something.

  Not here. In this city, PTA groups are more worried about the metal detectors' working than whether their kids are learning to read. Confidence is crumbling faster than the infrastructure. People with options flee this city—then they sit around in the suburbs whining about how much they miss the "energy."

  When I got out of prison one time, I went over to Two Dollar Dominick's to get a haircut. I don't know why they called it that—there never was a guy named Dominick there. It was a little two–chair shop. Full service, though—you could get a manicure, your shoes shined, bet on a horse, borrow some cash…the works. Anyway, a haircut always used to be two bucks, but I'd been away a long time. When Angelo was finished cutting my hair, I asked him, "How much does a haircut go for now?"

  The old man hadn't seen me for five years or so. He just looked me in the eye, said, "For you, it's still two bucks."

  That was the closest I ever felt to having a home town.

  Angelo, he's gone now. To the one retirement community where everybody gets the same pension.

  I slept in late the next morning—I knew I'd be up a long time once it got dark. I had b
reakfast with Pansy, then I went over to the restaurant to find Mama debriefing Max about last night's fight. The Mongolian was showing her each and every move, acting it all out. Mama's eyes had that glazed–over look people get when they're stoned on boredom, but Max was relentless. I never saw Mama so glad to see me.

  "Burke! Our boxer won, yes?"

  "Did it easy," I told her.

  "How much money we make?"

  "Mama, we didn't make any money. The whole purse was only a thousand dollars and—"

  "So! A thousand dollars. How many investors?"

  "No, Mama, that's not the way it works, okay? We have to pay the training expenses…like for the use of the gym and all. And we have to keep getting Frankie money so he can pay his rent and eat and all. This isn't any part–time gig with him—he has to be in training all the time. He's gotta go a long way before we can start taking money out."

  "But what if he wins championship? That is worth millions, yes?"

  "Sure. But that's a long dark road to walk. And it's booby–trapped too—if he keeps winning, the other guys won't want to fight him. You need connections to move up in that business."

  "Boxing is crooked?" Mama asked, as though shocked by the very possibility.

  "Sure. The big thing is, you gotta know people, understand?"

  "Oh yes, understand. I know people too." She smiled.

  I shook my head sadly. Mama knew money was the grease that lubed the gears of government, but she was used to Hong Kong style, where a bought politician stayed bought—that kind of honorable corruption doesn't play down here. "It's pretty tricky, Mama," I told her.

  "Oh, okay," she said happily. "You fix it, yes?"

  "I'll do my best," I promised.

  I explained what I needed from Max, but he acted like I wasn't coming through clearly. I tried to change channels on him—he wasn't going for it. He kept it up until I signed we could go up to the gym….All of a sudden, he was reading me perfect.

  I wasn't sure Frankie would be back to work so soon after last night's fight, but as soon as I spotted Clarence at the door, I knew he was.

  "We got another bout. Two weeks," the Prof said, watching Frankie spar against a big, flabby Latin guy. The gym was quieter than usual, most of the fighters watching the action in the ring. Frankie wasn't as quick as you'd think for his size. He was only a few pounds over the cruiserweight limit, but he slogged along like an out–of–shape heavy. The Latin guy was leaning all over Frankie, smothering him with his bulk, crowding away Frankie's punching power.

  "Give him angles!" the Prof screamed. Frankie stepped to his left, dropped his left shoulder, but instead of the left hook the Latin guy figured was coming, Frankie looped his right hand over the top, catching the Latin flush on the chin. The Latin guy grinned to show he wasn't hurt, opening his hands wide to invite Frankie in. Frankie accepted the invitation…and stopped in his tracks when the Latin flashed a quick left to the heart. Frankie's knees trembled, but his body kept moving forward. Both fighters were still punching when someone rang the bell.

  The Prof stepped to one side of Frankie, me to the other. "That's enough rounds for one day," the Prof said to the kid. "Three is the key."

  "One more round, blanquito?" the Latin yelled across the ring.

  "What's that mean?" Frankie asked.

  "Means 'pussy,'" the Prof said before I could tell the kid the truth.

  Frankie came off his stool, gloved hands fumbling with the chin strap to his protective headgear, pulling it off his head. He spit out the mouthpiece halfway across the ring. "Come on, bitch!" Frankie shouted.

  The Latin launched off his stool, spit his own mouthpiece to the floor as the crowd started cheering. He was probably forty pounds heavier than Frankie but his hands were faster. He caught Frankie two quick ones to the face—blood blossomed around Frankie's mouth, his teeth flashing white underneath. Frankie drove the bigger man backward with a relentless barrage of punches, finishing with a vicious shot just below the belt. The Latin went down cupping his groin. Frankie loomed over him, right hand cocked, not retreating to a neutral corner. Half a dozen people jumped into the ring, but Max was first, throwing his body between Frankie and a pair of Latins who wanted to pick up where their pal had left off. Max wrestled Frankie back to his corner, and then out of the ring entirely. The warrior kept his grip on the kid, walking him over to a bench against the far wall.

  Clarence dabbed at Frankie's face with a rag that smelled of peroxide.

  The kid was breathing easily, but his eyes were still wild. "Nobody calls me a—"

  "He didn't," I interrupted. " Blanquito just means 'whiteboy.' It ain't no gesture of respect, true enough, but it's a long way from 'pussy.'"

  "So why'd the Prof—?"

  "To see if you went lame when they called your name, fool," the Prof said over my shoulder—I hadn't seen him come back.

  "You got to—" the Prof started, then stopped when he felt Max's paw on his shoulder. The warrior stood in front of Frankie, making sure he had the fighter's attention. Then he pointed at me, flattening one hand so he could sign without the kid seeing what he was doing. Max made one of the few universal gestures, the kind that you don't need either sign language or speech to understand—he gave me the finger, hidden behind his other hand. Then he nodded rapidly and stood back. Max and I were facing each other so Frankie was looking right between us.

  Max held up his index finger. One. Then he nodded at me again. I shot Max the finger—he responded by cowering, covering his face as if in terror. After a few seconds, he shook his head from side to side. NO.

  Max held up two fingers. Two. He nodded at me. I repeated the finger gesture—Max leaped forward, snarling, perfectly miming a man out of control. Then he shook his head again. NO.

  Then Max held up three fingers, but this time the warrior turned to face Frankie flush, extending his right arm as far forward as it would go, one finger pointing out from his closed fist. Then he did the same with his left arm, two fingers pointing out in that direction.

  Max took a small step backward, bringing his two hands together in a flowing gesture of harmony. When his hands were precisely in the middle of his body, he crossed his wrists, holding three fingers out from each hand.

  "You get it?" I asked Frankie.

  "I…think so. He's saying it's no good to be afraid when you fight. And no good losing your fucking temper either."

  "Right. Max is telling you about being centered. It's somewhere between the two. A peaceful place. You use the adrenaline, see? But your mind is calm…like the eye of a hurricane. You can't get mad in a fight—it knots your muscles, slows you down, stops you from thinking."

  "You know how to do that?" the kid asked. "What with him teaching you and all?"

  "He only told me, Frankie," I said. "He didn't teach me. The best teacher in the world can't help you if you're not ready to learn."

  "You was a fighter?" he asked.

  "Schoolboy could hit a little bit, back when we was inside," the Prof conceded reluctantly. "But he just put up a show—he wasn't no pro."

  Max thrust his way forward, searching Frankie's face. The kid returned his gaze, calm, not aggressive. Max smiled. Bowed.

  The kid bowed back.

  I sat next to Frankie, asked: "Last night, just before you touched gloves, what'd the other guy say to you?"

  "Said he was gonna fuck me up." Frankie grinned.

  "What'd you tell him?"

  "Told him he was too late."

  I watched the fighter's face. Caught the fineness of his bone structure, the slightly off–center Roman nose, the blue eyes with their little deep dots of banked fire.

  Fuck, I thought to myself, maybe the kid could make it happen.

  I was at the corner of Canal and Mulberry by four–fifteen in the morning, the Plymouth safely docked, me alone in the front seat, a cellular phone at my side. I always hated the damn things—they work off radio waves and too many geeks stay up nights in their rooms, monitoring the
phone traffic the way they used to eavesdrop on CB radios. But the Mole told me he had the whole thing wired so they all worked off the same encryption device. If your unit wasn't keyed to the encoding, all you got was static when you tried to listen in. We had four of the phones, passed them around on an as–needed basis. We didn't worry about the billing either. All you need is the serial number of a legit phone—any phone, it doesn't matter. Then you can reprogram the chip in your own phone to match that serial number…and some chump gets a bill he can't begin to explain. The Mole does it all the time, switching them every few weeks. There's a guy who works in an electronics store in Times Square. What he does, he checks the numbers on the new phones, before they're even sold. Takes him a few minutes, and he gets fifty bucks for each one. Pretty stupid to be an armed robber these days—there's so many easier ways to steal.

  Canal and Mulberry is a border crossing—Chinatown to one side, Little Italy to the other. The border is constantly shifting, with the Orientals taking more and more territory every year. It was still a bit early for the Chinatown merchants to open up, but I knew they were busy behind the closed doors.

  Time and people passed, at about the same speed. I know about that—in my life, I've killed some of both. I learned something too—killing time is harder.

  The cellular phone purred. I picked it up, said "What?" in a neutral voice.

  "Here she comes," the Prof said. "Walkin', not talkin'."

  The Prof was stationed on the northeast corner of Broadway and Canal. If you looked close, all you'd see would be another soldier in the homeless horde of discharged mental patients that blanket the street in the early–morning hours, grabbing those last few minutes of peace before they had to go to work. Some of them vacuum garbage, looking for return–deposit bottles. Some beg for money Some threaten for it. There's still guys who try and clean your windshield with dirty rags. And there's those who don't know where they are. Or why.