"Bring that up to me," the judge said to one of the court officers.
He scanned the two sheets of paper, looking even more puzzled than ever. He couldn't see where the D.A. was going, and neither could the defense. The creep's lawyer barked out, "Relevance, Your Honor?" The judge looked down at the D.A., no longer smiling, waiting for her to respond.
"Your Honor, the defendant has just admitted, under oath, that he violated an Order of the Family Court. He has further acknowledged that said violation was willful, that he intended to act as he did, and that he was without just cause. Thus, pursuant to the Family Court Act, section 1072, subsection B, he may be ordered to jail for a term not to exceed six months."
The defense attorney finally woke up—and it wasn't the coffee he smelled. "Your Honor, this has nothing whatever to do with the question of bail in a criminal proceeding. Counsel is referring to a Family Court matter—that court has nothing to do with bail over here."
The lady D.A. went on speaking as if she hadn't heard the interruption. "The court has already heard evidence that this defendant fled when initially charged in the Family Court. In fact, he was located living under an assumed name in a hotel here in the city. The purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant's presence at trial. In this case, given the defendant's past actions, and the indisputable fact that he is facing a jail sentence in another court, the People respectfully request that any bail application be denied and the defendant summarily remanded until trial."
The creep looked like he'd been body–punched—a remand meant he'd sit in jail for a few months no matter how the criminal trial turned out. But his lawyer wasn't finished.
"Your Honor, the District Attorney is asking for a remand! That would be a travesty of justice for an individual with no criminal record, significant roots in the community, and, I might add, every anticipation of prevailing on the merits when we come to trial. It's not as though he were being charged with murder
The D.A.'s head snapped back—an old trial–lawyer's trick—pulling every eye in the courtroom toward her.
"He is charged with rape, sodomy, incest, and sexual abuse, Your Honor. He did flee the jurisdiction of the court. And he did confess before this very court that he violated an existing Order of Protection."
"Judge, that was the Family Court!" yelled the defense attorney, firing his best shot.
It wasn't good enough. The DA. let a dark undertone into her soft voice—it carried to the back of the room. "Surely Your Honor is not ruling that an order of one court is entitled to more respect than the order of another? A defendant who will spit on the lawful order of one court has displayed his true character and his utter disregard for the law. Indeed, if this court grants bail to this defendant, it will be providing him with a motive to flee. He is only charged in this court—he stands all–but–convicted in another. The People respectfully request a remand, not only for the protection of the victim herein, and for the protection of the community at large, but to give the Family Court the opportunity to impose such sentence as it deems appropriate for the violation. If bail is granted, and the defendant flees," and there she paused, holding it for a long count, "the child will certainly be in danger. This court should not provide such an opportunity."
"This is ridiculous, Your Honor," shot back the defense attorney. "Ms. Wolfe cannot know what is in my client's mind!"
"I don't need to, do I?" asked Wolfe. The message was clear.
The judge was caught. He scanned the courtroom quickly, looking for some help. I thought I'd give him some—I whipped out a reporter's notebook and started scribbling away. He looked closely, trying to figure out who I was, or what paper I worked for—and then he decided he couldn't take the chance.
"Defendant is remanded for transportation to the Family Court. If sentence is not imposed by that court, he shall be returned before me for additional bail arguments.
The creep looked wiped out. He looked to his lawyer for reassurance, listened while the lawyer told him he'd go right over to the Family Court, and then got shakily to his feet. The court officers moved to take him into custody, passing right by the court reporter's stand. The court reporter looked up from his machine. His combat–deadened eyes caught those of the freak. Making no effort to keep his voice down, the court reporter gave the officers some advice.
"Don't take away his belt," he said, getting off his stool and walking toward the back before the defense attorney had a chance to protest.
They took the creep away. The defense attorney went over to the D.A.'s table, preparing himself to play Let's Make a Deal.
"Ms. Wolfe?"
"Yes?"
"Ahassume you'll be going to Family Court on this personally?"
"Yes—and right now."
"Well, so am I. Could I give you a ride?"
"No, thank you," she told him in the same calm voice, stuffing papers into her briefcase.
"You've got no win on this one, you know," he told her.
Wolfe stood up, hands on hips, and stared him down. She'd been through this before. "You mean I can't lose this one, don't you, counselor? This is a fifteen–round fight, and your guy has to win every round. You win this trial—he'll do it again, and I'll get another shot. Sooner or later I'll drop him for the count. And when he goes down, he's going down hard."
The defense attorney's mouth opened, but nothing came out. She walked past him to the gate which separates the front of the court from the spectators, nodded to the officer who swung it open for her, and walked toward the exit. Her body swayed gently in the silk dress, and her high heels tapped the floor. I could smell her perfume in the air. A rare jewel, she was—never more beautiful than when she was doing her work. Like Flood.
18
I GOT downstairs before Wolfe did. I knew where she'd be parked, and I waited. The tapping of her heels echoed down the corridor just before she stepped into the sunlight on Baxter Street, behind the courthouse. I didn't want to spook her, so I made sure she had me in her sights before I said anything.
"Ms. Wolfe?"
"Yes," she responded, in exactly the same neutral tone she'd used with the defense attorney.
Now that I had her attention, I didn't know what to say. "I…just wanted to tell you that I admire the way you handled yourself in the courtroom."
"Thank you," she said, dismissing me and turning to go.
I wanted to talk to her again, make some contact with her—let her know we were on the same side—but nothing came out. I don't have many friends in law enforcement.
"Can I walk you to your car?" I asked her.
She gave me a brief flash of her smile. "That won't be necessary—it's only a short distance."
"Well," I shrugged, "this neighborhood…"
"It's not a problem," she said, and I caught the dull sheen of the thick silver band on her left hand. I knew what it was—a twine–cutter's ring, the kind with a hooked razor on the other side. The guys in the twine factories run the string through their hands and just flick the ring against the cord when they want to cut it. You put one of those things against a guy's face and you come away with his nose.
"You think that ring's going to keep the skells away?" I asked her.
She looked at me closely for the first time, seemed to be making up her mind about something.
"I appreciate your concern, Mr…?"
"Burke," I told her.
"Oh, yes. I've heard about you."
"Was it a good reference?"
"Good enough—Toby Ringer said you pull your own weight. And that you helped him on some cases."
"Maybe I could help you."
"I don't think so, Mr. Burke. Toby also said you work the other side of the street too often."
"Not when it comes to freaks," I told her.
"I know," Wolfe said, giving me just the hint of what I knew could be a beautiful smile—for someone else.
"It was me who found that dirtbag you just dropped inside, right? You think the Warrant Squad would've
turned him up?"
"No," she admitted, "but this case is finished."
We were slowly walking toward her car—a dull, faded blue Audi sedan. The parking lot was bathed in sunlight, but the watchers were there. A pro wouldn't try to strong–arm anyone in the D.A.'s parking lot, but a junkie would.
"That's my car," Wolfe said, reaching in her pocketbook for the keys. I stepped ahead of her like I was going to hold the door—and a massive dark form shot up from the back seat. Its huge head was a black slab laced with gleaming shark's teeth. A Rottweiler—a good lapdog if you were King Kong. They look as if some mad scientist took a Doberman, injected it with anabolic steroids, and bashed its face in with a sledgehammer. I froze where I was—this was one lady who didn't need an escort.
Wolfe opened the door and the Rottweiler lunged forward. "Bruiser! Down!" she snapped, and the beast reluctantly moved back to let her in. She turned to me over her shoulder. "Mr. Burke, if you ever get a case that I'd be interested in, give me a call, okay?"
It was a dismissal. I bowed to her and the Rottweiler, touched the brim of my hat, and moved back where I belonged. The huge beast pinned me with his killer's eyes out the back window as the Audi moved off.
19
I MADE/ my way back through the dirty marble corridors of the Criminal Court, thinking my thoughts. Wolfe reminded me of Flood—so did the Rottweiler.
It was late March, but the sun was already blasting the front steps of the court. Maybe a real summer this year, not like the whore's promise we'd been getting for the past weeks—the sun would shine but the cold would be right there too. Only city people really hate the cold. In the city, it gets inside your bones and it freezes your guts. In the country, people sit around their fireplaces and look at the white stuff outside–saying how pretty it is, how clean it looks. The snow is never clean in the city. Here, people die when the Hawk comes down—if the cold doesn't get them, the fires they start to keep warm will.
I reached in my pocket for a smoke, looking out over the parking lot across the street where I'd stashed my Plymouth. A black guy with a shaved head, resplendent in a neon–orange muscle shirt with matching sweatband, caught my eye. "Got a cigarette, pal?" he asked.
At least he didn't call me "brother." When I got out of prison in the late 1960s, that bullshit was all over the street. Being an ex–con was never too valuable a credential, but back then at least it was a guaranteed introduction to girls. And the Village was full of them—promiscuously sucking up every shred of revolutionary rhetoric like marijuana–powered vacuum cleaners.
I made a good living then. All you needed was some genuine Third World people for props and you could raise funds faster than Reverend Ike—telling hippie jerkoffs that you were financing some revolutionary act, like a bank robbery. It was open season in the Village. Better than the Lower East Side. The hippies who lived over there believed they were making a contribution with their plotting and planning and their halfass bombs and letters to the editor. They were too busy organizing the oppressed to see the value of cash transactions, but they never knew where to buy explosives, so I did business with them too. Good thing they never tried to take out the Bank of America with the baking soda I sold them.
That's how I got started finding missing kids. It may have been Peace & Love in the streets, but the back alleys were full of wolves. The worst of the animals didn't just eat to survive—they did it for fun. So I'd run some of the kids down and drag them home. For the money. Once in a while one of the wolves would try and hold on to his prey. So I made some money and I made some enemies. I used up the money a long time ago.
When the revolution died—when BMWs replaced jeeps and the hippies turned perfectly good lofts a human could rent for a little money into co–ops with six–figure down payments—I stopped being relevant. I was ready for it. Some of the Third World wasn't, and they took my place in the jailhouses. Those that didn't go quietly got the key to Forest Lawn instead.
When things got nasty in New York, I rolled the dice on Biafra. I figured I'd do the same thing over there I was doing in New York, only on a grand scale—save a bunch of kids and make myself a fortune in the process. I didn't do either one, but I beat the odds anyway—I walked away from it. It's what I do best.
That was then. The black muscleman asking me if I had a cigarette was now.
"You taking a survey?" I asked him.
Our eyes locked. He shrugged, shifted his position, and went back to scanning the street. He probably didn't even smoke—just keeping in practice. His act needed work.
20
THE PLYMOUTH was in the parking lot across the street. Even on a warm day, that lot's always cold. The three courthouses surrounding it make a perfect wind tunnel. The car's fresh coat of primer made it look like it had been painted with rust—the Mole always changes the color after the car is used on a job and we hadn't decided on what to use next. It looks like a piece of junk, but it's anything but, with its independent rear suspension, fifty–gallon tank, fuel injection, heavy–duty cooling and shocks, bullet–proof glass, rhino–style bumpers—all that stuff. It wasn't fast, but you couldn't break it no matter what you did. It was going to be the Ultimate Taxicab, but it didn't work out that way.
The woman was standing in front of the Plymouth, tapping her foot impatiently like her date was late. All I could make out was that she was female. She was wearing a tan summer trenchcoat over dark slacks, her head covered with a black scarf and her face hidden behind sunglasses with big lenses. Nobody I knew, but I put my hand in my pocket anyway—some people subcontract their revenge.
Her eyes were on me all the way up to the Plymouth, so I walked past it like it meant nothing to me. But when I heard "Mr. Burke?" I knew there wasn't much point.
I don't like problems out in public—especially when half the public is cops.
"What?" I snapped out at her.
"I want to talk to you," she said. Her voice was shaky but determined. Trouble.
"You got me confused with someone else, lady."
"No, I don't. I have to talk with you," she said.
"Give me a name or get lost," I told her. If she knew my face from the courthouse but didn't have a referral from someone I knew, I was gone.
"Julio Crunini," she offered, her face close to mine now.
"I don't know anybody named Julio, lady. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, okay?" And I reached past her to open the Plymouth's door and get the hell away from her and whatever she wanted. Julio's been out of prison too long, I was thinking—his mouth was getting loose.
She put her hand on my arm. Her hand was shaking—I could see the wedding ring on her finger, and the diamond sparkling in the sun next to it. "You know me," she said.
I looked into her face, and drew a blank. She must have seen what I was thinking—one hand went to her face and the sunglasses disappeared. Her face meant nothing to me. Her mouth went hard, and she pulled away the scarf—her flaming red hair fired in the sun.
"You know me now?" she asked bitterly.
It was the jogger from Forest Park.
21
NOTHING CHANGED in my face—I was raised in places where it isn't a good idea to let people know what you're thinking—but she wasn't looking for recognition.
"I don't know you, lady," I told her, "and I don't want to."
"You don't like my looks?" she challenged me. A real Mafia princess all right—she was used to this.
"I don't like your smell, lady. You stink of trouble, and I got enough of my own.
I pushed past her like I had someplace else to go. Her hand reached out and grabbed my forearm—I gave her the same look I'd given Julio in the garage, but she didn't have enough sense to know what it meant. Her hand was aristocratic—dark–red polish over manicured nails.
"If you don't talk to me here, I'll just come to Murray Street, Mr. Burke—to your hotel."
It was a good, hard shot—she thought. Julio must have opened up like the Red Sea. Only a few pe
ople knew I lived at the Deacon Hotel. Of course, those people were all wrong. The front desk would take a message for me from force of habit—the only force any junkie recognizes—but I hadn't lived there for years, ever since I got off parole. It didn't matter now—this broad was making word sounds from her mouth, but all I heard was "tick, tick, tick…"
Her face had the smug look of a woman with lots more cards to put on the table. Uncle Julio's halfass omertà was the modern version—rock–solid until it got a better offer.
"Get in the car," I told her, holding the Plymouth's door for her to slip past me.
"My car's right over there," she told me, gesturing toward the inevitable BMW sedan. "It'll be more comfortable—it's air conditioned."
"I don't care if it's got a waterbed, lady. You get in here, or you get in the wind."
She hesitated for just a second—the script wasn't going like she'd planned. Then the same tight–set look she had on her face when she'd started jogging around Forest Park appeared—she'd made up her mind.
Her reconstructed nose turned up at the Plymouth's interior but she slid across the vinyl bench seat without another word. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the West Side Highway. I needed to find out what she knew, but I wasn't doing any talking until I was sure she was the only one listening.
I grabbed the highway at Chambers Street and turned uptown. The environmentalists had lost the first round—the old elevated structure was gone and along with it the shadows that provided the cover for the working whores. Michelle wouldn't be on the piers this time of day, and I needed her help. The new construction site on Eleventh Avenue a few blocks south of Times Square was my best bet.
The redhead opened her purse and started to rummage around. "Is it all right if I smoke?" she asked, still in that nasty–edged voice.
"As long as it's cigarettes," I told her.
"You have some religious convictions against marijuana, Mr. Burke?"
Strega Page 8
