This wasn't the time, anyway. Something was coming down. Something too heavy for me to lift. I was finally hearing the footsteps of the hawk, and I didn't have the firepower to shoot it down. The only thing I could do was not be around when it landed.
"I'm calling from a pay phone," the woman's voice said. "I don't have long. Do you know who this is?"
I knew, all right. Helene. Silver's wife. She'd left a message late last night, saying what time she'd be calling today. "Yes," I told her.
"He said it was a contract," Helene said, her voice as calm as if she were quoting stock prices. "But with the…new information, the contract is canceled until further notice."
"I got it," I told her.
"Canceled until further notice," Helene said. "That's what I had to tell you."
"Okay, thanks. Can I do—?"
"Goodbye," she said. I heard the receiver come down at her end.
Hunting humans has its own blood–rhythm, linking predator and prey so deep each can feel the other's pulse. I know—I've been both. That's the jackpot question you ask a little kid who says he's been sexually abused, the one question that brings out the truth—not what did they do, but how did it feel?
I know how it feels.
When you're being stalked, it's not your feet that get you trapped, it's your mind.
I know that too.
It's a dance, a dance with rules. The rules don't kick in until you hear the footsteps. When that happens, when you're in it, you can feel the animal part of you trying to take over and call the shots. That's the right part of you, the part that can save you. Manhunting isn't a chess match—that only happens in books.
But you can't let survival instinct be the boss. When you're up on the high–wire, speed means nothing—balance is everything.
Fear is good. It sharpens your vision, keeps your blood up, forces all your sensors on full alert.
Terror is bad. It shuts you down, closes your eyes tight, freezes you in place.
If you break cover too soon, you're an easy target. But if you rely on your camouflage, you could end up frozen in the headlights.
The worst place to be is in the middle. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled. I wanted to go to ground, play my trump card—patience. But that wouldn't work now. Belinda and Morales were dancing to the death and I had only two choices: pick a partner and cut in…or stand away and be cut down.
A little past five in the morning, the city still dark. Transition time: too late for the muggers, too early for the citizens.
"She's rolling, not strolling," the Prof's voice, on the cellular phone I held to my ear.
I cut the connection, slipped the phone into my army jacket, looked over at Max. The warrior was sitting in the passenger seat of the Chevy Caprice Arnold Haines had rented, breathing so shallow you had to look real close to see it, like a computer in wait–state. I settled back, waiting for the next piece.
It wasn't fifteen minutes later when the phone purred again. "Bitch just touched down, safe in the pound," the Prof reported.
"Mary, she lives there?"
"Yeah. Looks like she's home, but she's not alone."
"Little weasely guy, mustache?"
"That's him, Jim."
"Okay," I said. "We're moving."
"If she don't sing, give me a ring," the Prof said, promising backup. Then he gave me the address.
The building was off Third Avenue, mid–scale enough to sport a lobby, but no doorman. Maybe one of those co–ops that went all to hell, jacking up the maintenance costs to cover the empty units—first thing that goes in joints like that is the doorman.
We wanted 8–F. I looked at the name next to the bell: Johnson. Maybe that was Rudy the Weasel's sense of humor.
There's lots of ways to bypass a buzz–in system like they have in most apartment lobbies, but the easiest one is to just follow right behind someone who got the green light himself. Too early in the morning to wait for that to happen. Too early to run a UPS or FedEx hustle either. I was about to call it off, go back to the car and wait for a citizen, when Max pointed to the inner doors. I followed his gaze. A pair of heavy glass doors designed to open in the middle, pull–handles on each side. The glass was smudged, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I made a "So what?" gesture. Max took a couple of steps to the doors, put one hand around each handle, and pulled. There was a lot of play in the doors, they bowed outward as Max pulled. I nodded my head, whipped out a flexible plastic strip and worked it into the opening. The 'loid slid in like it was greased, covering the slip–lock, forcing it back inside. The doors popped open.
We walked across the lobby to a pair of elevators. The whole place looked neglected, downtrodden. Maybe they fired the maintenance crew too. I looked up at the floor indicators, rectangular plastic with numbers painted on the inside. Only one of the elevators was working and its number 8 was lit—probably the last time it was used.
I pointed to an EXIT sign to my left. We walked over. I pushed gently, and the door gave way. A staircase, just like I figured.
We started up, me in the lead, Max behind. I walked slowly, testing each step. I went first because I could hear someone on the stairs before Max could feel them. And because I needed to set the pace: if you climb stairs too fast, you could be winded at the top—it wouldn't happen to Max, but I was a good candidate.
The stairwells were dirty, littered with cigarette butts too old to be yesterday's. Half the lights were burned out. I spotted a broken wine bottle on 4, a dead condom on 5.
I pushed open the door on 8, stuck my head out and looked around. The hall was empty. It was quiet—a stale quiet, just this side of rot.
The doors were all painted a uniform cream color. A bad choice—the parts that weren't chipped were mottled with hand–prints. 8–F looked sticky to the touch. I dropped to one knee, slipped a self–sealing white #10 envelope under the door.
We waited a couple of minutes. No reaction from inside. I pushed a little black button on the door jamb, heard it buzz softly inside the apartment. I stood back so whoever came to the peephole could see me easily. Max flattened himself to my right, his back against the wall.
I could feel somebody at the peephole, but I wasn't standing close enough to be sure. It wasn't my face I was counting on to get me inside, it was the envelope. An envelope with ten C–notes inside, wrapped in a piece of paper that said:
This is business. There's a lot more of this in it for you. I need something done, and it has to be today
I heard the rattle of a door chain, then it opened. Rudy stood there, bare–chested, his right hand behind his hip. "You sure you—?" he said just as Max flowed through the opening like white–water over river rocks, pivoting on his right foot, the heel of his left hand cracking just below Rudy's breastbone. Rudy doubled over, airless. Max did something to the back of his neck and Rudy slumped to the floor, out. On the carpet next to him, a switchblade, still in the closed position.
I pointed to the hallway. Max glided over to the side of the opening. I knelt next to Rudy, quickly wrapped a length of duct tape twice around his head, covering his mouth. I razored the tape free, then I turned him on his stomach, pulled his hands behind his back and used another piece on his wrists. I looked up just as Mojo Mary came around the corner, naked except for the pistol she held in one hand. She opened her mouth wide, raised the pistol, but Max had her from behind. The pistol dropped to the floor and Mojo Mary stopped struggling.
Max hauled her over to the couch and pulled her down next to him. He held her in place with one hand, his thumb behind her neck, fingers splayed around her throat.
I pocketed the white envelope, then slid the clip out of the little automatic Mary had dropped, worked the slide to see….Sure enough, a cartridge popped out—there'd been one in the chamber. I walked over to the couch and pulled up a chair so I was facing Mary. Max still held her, but his eyes were on Rudy.
"Just stay easy," I said to her, my voice matching the words. "Nob
ody's going to hurt you," I promised, leaving the unless hanging in the air between us.
Mojo Mary took a deep breath through her nose, displaying her high round breasts and showing me she wasn't going to scream all in the same move. Like the Prof said, a pro ho'.
"This won't take long," I told her. "Just tell me what Morales wanted."
"How did you—" she gasped, her face showing fear for the first time.
"I've got people on it," I said, keeping it vague in case Morales worked her over the phone.
She took another breath. "He just wanted—"
"Don't lie, Mary," I warned her. "Don't even try."
"I'm…scared," she said. "If he knew…"
"He won't know," I told her. "No way he knows. Not from me, not from you."
"He made me…suck it," she said, her voice dropping so low I could barely hear it.
"That's part of the job, right?"
"Not his…cock," she said, dropping her voice still another notch. "His gun. His pistol. He made me take it in my mouth. It hurt. He made me open my eyes. His face was right there. All sweaty and crazy. Then he cocked the gun—I heard it click. He said, if I didn't tell him, he'd do it. He said, I liked blow jobs so much, he'd show me one. A real one. Blow out the back of my head, that's what he said."
"This was in your work crib? The one on—?"
"No. It was in his car. A fancy red car. He stopped me on the street, made me get in. He drove way north, like for the Triborough? But he didn't go over it, he made this turn….I don't know. We ended up in this scary place, like out in the country or something. It was…like empty. Just us. He told me, I didn't do what he wanted and he'd leave me there. Another dead whore, who'd care?…That's what he said."
I knew where he'd taken her. Ward's Island. Nothing much out there but a hospital for the criminally insane. Maybe Morales was checking out his new home, before he moved in. "So you told him…what?" I asked her.
"I told him the truth," Mojo Mary said, hands fluttering in her lap. "Everything."
"Now tell me," I said.
She glanced over at where Rudy was lying all trussed up on the floor. "Did you kill him?" she asked.
"If he was dead, what would we need the gag for?" I answered reasonably. "Nobody's getting killed here. Nobody's getting hurt, either. Just tell me, Mary. Then I'll be out of your life."
"I told him that girl, that Roxanne, what she paid me for."
"To get in touch with me?"
"Yeah."
"And about how you met her in Logan's, all that?"
"Yeah."
"You tell him what this Roxanne wanted? From me?"
"Yes. But I—"
"It's okay," I reassured her. "What else?"
"That's all. Really."
"Don't lie anymore," I warned her. "I'm not playing. You know me a long time, Mary—I don't play."
"I'm not playing."
"Is that when Morales put the gun in your mouth?" I asked. "When you told him that was all of it?"
"Burke, I…"
"He wanted to know about the blonde," I told her, not making it a question. Her eyes were little slot–machine windows—I could see the wheels spinning behind them, trying to wait on three–of–a–kind. "You got any doubts I'll do it?" I asked, stopping the wheel, "You don't know who to be scared of, I'll tell you, Mary—be scared of the one who can do it now ."
"He's a cop," she said softly. "He can do it anytime he wants. I asked around…later. Some of the other girls, they know him. He's…been with them, you understand? He's not like other cops. I mean, he pays. Pays full price. But he hurts you, that's what they said."
"S&M hurt? Or—?"
"No. He isn't into whips and chains, not like that. He's just…rough. Like he hates you while he's doing it. One girl…You know Irene? The redhead who works in the—?"
"No," I said, not wanting her to stray off the trail.
"Well, anyway, she took a back–door from him. You know, Greek–style. I mean, he didn't make her do it. That's what she does and all. But there's a way to do it…a right way, I mean. It really don't have to hurt if you—"
"I know," I told her, guiding her back to the path.
"He didn't do it the right way. Just didn't care. She told him, but he just grabbed the back of her head and like shook it," Mojo Mary said, shaking her right fist like it had a handful of hair in it. "Real hard. Like he was—"
"What about the blonde, Mary?"
"He asked me everything. About her, I mean. And I told him. It wasn't much, right?"
"You tell me," I answered her.
"It wasn't. I mean, I didn't know anything. I mean, I don't street–stroll, you know that. She was buddies with this Roxanne, not with me."
"You told Morales that they wanted to hire me, get some work done?"
"Yes. But I know you didn't—"
"Right. I didn't. What else?"
"He said, if they ever called again—ever —I had to call him. Right away, before I went to the meet. He said, if I didn't call him, if he found out I was in touch with them without telling him, he'd find me."
"And did they—?"
"Never!" she said, almost jumping off the couch with the force of it. "No way I'd—"
"Okay." I told her.
"Okay? That's it? You're not—"
"Everybody has to make a living," I told her. "I'm not mad at you. When Morales comes around, tell him the truth. Tell him I was here, asked you the questions."
"If he knows I told you, he'll—"
"That's right," I interrupted. "When the time comes, you decide."
I stood up. Max did too, bringing Mojo Mary along with him. I didn't bother warning her about calling the cops—it wasn't something she'd do.
"I'll leave you to get the tape off," I told her.
She knelt next to Rudy, put her face close to his. "He's breathing," she said, almost indifferent.
"I wouldn't stick you with a body," I told her. "Just cut the tape off real careful—he'll be fine." I nodded at Max. The warrior cracked open the door, checked both ways. Then he stepped out, heading for the staircase. I closed the door behind him, turned to Mojo Mary. "We need a few minutes, make sure there isn't any problem leaving, okay?"
"Sure," she said. "Okay if I go into the kitchen, get a knife? So I can start on—"
"Better not, I said quietly. "I heard you were pretty good with those things yourself."
"Rudy taught me," she said. "Taught me good." She turned her back to me, bent over. A crescent–shaped scar blossomed on one tawny thigh, just below her butt, "That's his mark," she said.
I looked at the scar, not saying anything. Mojo Mary looked over one shoulder back at me, still bent at the waist. I wondered if Rudy was going to wake up with a mark of his own. The cellular phone in my jacket buzzed. Once, twice. Then it went dead. All clear.
"You want to jet, now's the time," I told her, looking down at Rudy.
I dropped Max at his temple, returned the Chevy to Hertz, took the subway back to my place. I picked up Pansy, went down to the garage and pulled out in my Plymouth. Then I drove over to West Street, parked the Plymouth on an open strip of asphalt, slipped on Pansy's lead and walked over to the river.
The Hudson was calm—the water looked like the pebbled glass in those old–fashioned office doors. A giant red cement–barge sat on the water, the name Adelaide carefully stenciled on the stern. The captain's wife, my best guess. A brown tug with all–black topsides was pushing the barge upriver, probably to one of the yards in the Bronx, pushing so slow that a passing sailboat looked turbo–charged. Another tug with the same brown–and–black paint scheme caught up and ran alongside for a few minutes, then it pulled away in a wide sweep, heading back to base.
I lit a smoke, wondering why I felt so safe out there, open and exposed, a sniper's dream. It hit me all at once. I couldn't run, but I was safe until I did something.
They were stalking each other—and I couldn't stay out of the middle. I was a blind leech i
n muddy swampwater, searching for a pulse. The bigger animals wouldn't chase me, couldn't catch me if they did. But if I didn't find that pulse, I could starve to death.
The cellular phone in my jacket purred, making me jump. I pulled it out, my back to the river, scanning the wide street.
"What?" I said into the mouthpiece.
"I got it!" Hauser's voice, low volume, high energy. Whatever it was, he was pumped.
"Are you—?"
"In my office," he said. Then the connection went dead.
No way to go back to my place, drop Pansy off. I'd been out long enough for Morales to have picked up my trail. Some other cop might have spread some cash around the streets—"Call me when you see this car," like that—but Morales wouldn't do that. When he was partnered with McGowan, he let the Irishman do that kind of work. Alone, he was a blackjack kind of cop, the kind you couldn't do business with. He'd pay a whore for sex, but not for information—Morales expected that on the house.
Scaring people isn't the best way if you need them working for you. It's okay when all you need is a piece of information—fear makes some people talk. But it's easy to overdose that kind of thing—easy to scare people so much that they freeze. McGowan knew the difference. Morales didn't. Or didn't care.
Morales wouldn't go on the pad, wouldn't take a bribe to look the other way. But he'd shoot you in the back and lie about it with a straight face. Morales had been out too long. He was rotten with honor, as dangerous as a nerve–gas canister in a subway car—with Morales, the best you could hope for is that the body wouldn't be yours.
I loaded Pansy into the car, headed south on West Street. I made a U–turn at Chambers, heading uptown. I cut east on Little West Twelfth, did some twists and double–backs through the Meat Market, then pulled over and waited.
Footsteps of the Hawk Page 22
