I was just lighting another when the door opened again. The leather apron came out first and walked over to me again. He said nothing. From behind him I could see another man—tall, with a little snap–brim hat. The other man was carrying a shopping bag in one hand.
I kept my eyes on the leather apron. The other man disappeared from view. I heard the Plymouth's door open and someone climbed inside.
"Is that you, Burke?" asked Jacques.
"It's me," I told him, turning to face him, my back to the leather apron like it was supposed to be.
Jacques hands me the shopping bag. Inside was a blue box. And inside that was a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum snub–nosed revolver. The blue steel even smelled new.
I popped the cylinder open, held my thumb in front of the barrel, and sighted down. The rifling was new too. Not a very accurate piece, but the best man–stopper at close range. It would take either .38 Special or .357 magnum slugs, and it had no safety. A lot better than the 9mm automatic Jacques had been pushing over the phone.
I nodded my head in agreement. Jacques held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread. I raised my eyebrows. He just shrugged.
It's good to deal with professionals—even if I was wired like a Christmas tree, nothing would go on the tape. Five hundred bucks of Julio's money changed hands. I slipped the pistol into my coat pocket, put the box it came in back into the shopping bag, and waited. The West Indian took out a box of shells, holding them in his palm. I shook my head— I had all the bullets I needed. Jacques touched a forefinger to his brow. I turned to face Leather Apron again. I heard the car open and close, but I didn't move until I saw the bodyguard start to back away toward the restaurant door. Then I got out of there.
I drove down Atlantic, one hand on the wheel, the other pulling up the rubber floor mat and groping around until I found the panel next to the hump for the transmission. I had loosened the ratchets before I drove to the restaurant. The magnum slipped inside and the rubber mat went back in place. There was nothing in plain view. I couldn't do anything about a cop stopping me, but if he found the piece it wouldn't stand up in court.
The magnum was a heavy–duty piece. Just looking at the business end would scare most people. But guns aren't for scaring people, they're for people who are scared. I was—I just didn't know of what.
34
I DROVE back carefully, speeding up so I blended in with the late–night traffic. The streets were quiet, but if you looked close, you could see things. Two guys standing against the wall of a darkened gas station—the wool caps on their heads would turn into ski masks when they pulled them down, hands in their pockets. A lonely whore in a fake–fur coat with a white mini–skirt underneath, looking to turn one last trick before she called it a night. A van with blacked–out windows driving by slowly, watching the whore while the two men in the shadows watched the van. In New York, the vultures work close to the ground.
Back in the garage, I unscrewed the plate and took out the magnum. I needed to test the piece and I didn't have time to run over to the Bronx and ask the Mole. I broke the gun and loaded it with some .38 Specials I keep in a jar full of nuts and bolts. The door to the basement is set into the garage floor, like a manhole cover. I pried it loose and backed down the stairs, reaching for the light switch with my hand. I heard the rats running across the floor even before the light went on. Some of the bolder bastards just looked at me—it was their place, not mine.
The walls are lined with sandbags donated from a construction site—about four bags deep all around the wall and up to the ceiling. I don't keep anything else down in the basement; there's no other way out except for the tunnels the rats use. It's good for nothing but testing things that make a big bang—you couldn't hear a cannon from the street.
There's a little workbench on the floor down there with a heavy–duty vise attached and a reel of two–hundred–pound–test fishing line. I wrapped the butt of the magnum in the vise, wedged it tight, and tied some of the fishing line around the trigger. I aimed it at the far wall, cocked the hammer, and ran the line back to the stairs. I climbed halfway up and gave it a hard pull. There was a sharp crack! sound and a puff of dust from one of the sandbags. I went over to look—just a nice round entrance hole—the other side would be wide open, but I wasn't going to pull the whole thing apart just to take a look.
I pulled the magnum out of the vise, held it two–handed, and emptied it into the wall. It kicked a bit, but not as much as I expected from the short barrel. I broke the gun and dropped the empties into my hand. Jacques was still selling quality merchandise.
The rats were back doing business before I had the trapdoor closed.
35
I WOKE up the next morning and just stayed there on the couch for a bit, watching Pansy growl in her sleep at a patch of sunlight on her face. I'd been dreaming of Flood—I do it all the time since she left. When I was a kid in reform school I used to dream about getting out—staying out—being somebody important, like a major–league gangster. Now I just replay the tapes of my past inside my head—I can't erase them but I do enough editing to keep me sane.
I took my time getting ready to go out and get some breakfast. I wasn't in any screaming hurry to check out the race results.
The bakery was a couple of blocks away, still standing despite the invasion of yuppies. Newspaper columnists who never rode a subway still call my neighborhood the "mean streets," but the only danger out there is maybe getting hit by a flying croissant.
There was a new girl working in the bakery, about sixteen years old, with black hair and dark eyes. From the way the guy who runs the place was watching her, she had to be his daughter. I make sure I don't buy there too often—the owner thinks I make the trip all the way from Brooklyn just for his bread. If too many people know where you live, sooner or later you get visitors.
I picked out a semolina loaf for Pansy and a couple of hard rolls for me. Next door in the deli I got some pineapple juice and seltzer plus a slab of cream cheese. A lot of guys I did time with said when they got out they'd always start the day off with a real breakfast—bacon and eggs, steak, hash–browns, coffee, all that. I never did that—I'm particular about who I eat with.
I grabbed a Daily News off the stand. The newsdealer is blind. I handed him a five, telling him what it was. He put the bill face down on this machine he has, moving his hand so it forced the bill over some lights. "Five dollars," the machine said in a robot voice. The paper costs thirty–five cents now. The price of everything except human life has gone up a lot in New York.
Upstairs I tore open the semolina loaf and scooped out the guts. Most of the slab of cream cheese went inside. I looked over at Pansy. She was sitting like a stone, drooling. I tossed her the loaf, saying the magic word at the same time. As usual, she bit right through the middle so that the piece on each side of her jaws fell to the floor. It was gone before I had a chance to make my own breakfast. "You've got the table manners of an animal," I told her. Pansy never looked up—nobody respects my social criticism.
I mixed the seltzer and pineapple juice, opened the hard rolls, and put the last of the cheese inside. Finally, I turned to the race results. Sure enough, Flower Jewel was the first horse listed in the seventh race. But before I had even a split–second's worth of pleasure out of it, I saw the tiny "dq" next to her name. Disqualified. I went over the charts, trying to see how I was robbed this time. My horse tried to get to the top but was parked by another animal all the way to the half before she was shuffled back to fourth against the rail. Then she pulled out and was flying in the stretch when she broke stride. When she crossed the wire first she wasn't pacing like she was supposed to, she was galloping. Flower Jewel was out of an Armbro Nesbit mare by Flower Child, a trotting stallion. She had her grandfather's heart, but not her father's perfect stride. What the hell: she probably didn't know she didn't win the race. My love for the animal was unchanged—she did the right thing—much better to get there first by cheating than play by the r
ules and finish back in the pack. At least she'd get another shot next week.
It was still early enough for the hippies downstairs to be asleep. I picked up the phone and called over to the restaurant.
"Poontang Gardens," answered Mama Wong. Some soldier had suggested the name to her years ago and she's too superstitious to change it.
"It's me," I said. "Any calls?"
"Same girl. She say you be there."
"What?"
"She call, okay? I say you not here. She say, 'You tell him be there, and she hang up."
"Thanks, Mama."
"Hey!" she snapped, just as I was about to hang up, "People tell you what to do now?"
"No," I said and hung up.
I called Pansy back from the roof and went into the other room. I got the little TV set and went back to the couch. I asked Pansy what she wanted to watch but she didn't say. All she likes are shows about dogs and professional wrestling. I found a rerun of "Leave It to Beaver" and kicked back on the couch. I was asleep before it was over.
36
WHEN I came to, there was some western on the screen. Two guys had just finished bashing each other's heads in and were getting ready to shake hands. Politicians do that too, but it comes natural to them—they're all dogs from the same litter.
I let Pansy out to the roof again and started to put together what I'd need for my date. If this was a regular case, I would have had her come to the office, where it's safer for me, but she was pushing too hard and I wasn't going to give her any more information about me than she already had. I set the magnum aside—I could put it back into the cavity next to the transmission hump just in case, but I didn't think I was walking into a shoot–out. Hell, I wouldn't walk into a shoot–out. The redhead wasn't really working together with Julio—if the old man wanted me put down he would have tried it already. He was just pushing on me the same way the redhead was, but not for the same reason.
I dressed like I was going to be arrested—when nothing feels right, you make plans for things going wrong. An old leather sportcoat; plain white cotton shirt, button cuffs; a black knit tie. All that camouflage wouldn't stop me from being rolled in, but it might stop the cops from being too forceful about it. If they only took me as far as the precinct, I still might be able to do something about it. But if they actually made an arrest, I'd be around for a while—my fingerprints would fall and they'd know I wasn't a citizen. Figuring the worst, I made sure I wasn't carrying anything that would make a problem for me. The ankle–high boots had zippers up the insides. They also had steel toes and one hollow heel. I folded five ten–dollar bills tightly to get them inside the heel. Soft money is the best contraband to have when you're locked up. A ten–dollar bill is just about right for a jailhouse transaction—more than enough to get me moved to another tier or for a supply of smokes and magazines. Twenty bucks would get me some private time on the phone and tap me into the rest of my money if it came to that. In jail they let you keep most of your streetside clothes. They don't take everything away until you get sentenced.
I took a shower and shaved carefully, listening to the radio say how warm it was for that time of the year. I've got a good watch, a gold Rolex some rich guy lost in his hotel room, but I didn't put it on. Times have changed—I was just a kid years ago, sitting in the holding cell, watching the cops bring a full–race pimp up to the booking desk. I was still handcuffed but they'd hooked me in front so I could smoke. I was splitting one of my last matches—you put your thumbnails carefully into the cardboard at the base of the match, then you pull up slowly until you have two matches with half a striking–head on each piece. The Puerto Rican kid next to me was holding the matchbook so we could get a light. When he leaned over for some fire he nudged me in the ribs so I'd look up. The pimp was raising hell, mouthing off about how the cops should be careful of his jewelry and how much it cost. The fat old sergeant at the booking desk acted like the pimp wasn't in the room. He picked up all the jewelry one piece at a time, read aloud what it was, and marked it down on the voucher sheet. They'd give it all back to the pimp when he paid his fine. It was all a dance. The sergeant made his list like a guy taking inventory: "One diamond bracelet, gold clasp. One signet ring, onyx and gold, initial 'J,' one pinky ring…" The pimp kept up a running fire about how much all that stuff cost. I think that was when I first got the idea that it was stupid to steal from citizens. The sergeant picked up the pimp's wristwatch. It was thin as a dime, with a dark–blue face and little diamonds all around the rim—a thing of beauty. He looked down at the pimp, who said, "Hey, my man, you best be careful with that watch. It cost more than you make in a year!" The cop looked thoughtfully at the watch for a minute, like he was trying to figure out how it could cost all that cash. Then he slammed it face down on the desk counter. The crystal cracked and little pieces went flying all over the place. The pimp screamed "Hey man!" like it was his head that got cracked. The sergeant looked at the pimp, said, "One man's watch—broken," and wrote it down on his sheet. His expression never changed. I wasn't worried about them doing that to my Rolex. Like I said, times have changed. Now they'd probably steal it.
It was almost six by the time I was ready to leave. The meeting was for nine, so the timing was just about right. I brought Pansy back downstairs and fixed things so she'd have food and water for at least a couple of weeks if I didn't come right back. I left the back door open a crack so she could get to the roof herself. The open door wouldn't help a burglar much—he'd have to be a human fly to get in the door, and a magician to get out.
I stopped at four different self–serve gas stations along Atlantic Avenue. The Plymouth has a fifty–gallon tank—if I filled it up at one place, they might remember me. Just before I made the turn onto the Inter–Boro I saw a gray stone building on my right. The windows were barred and there was barbed wire on the roof. The door looked like the entrance to Attica. The sign on the front said it was a Day Care Center.
It took less than an hour for me to finally get to the old spot in Forest Park. It was still light enough for the joggers and dog–walkers. I drove through the entire park a couple of times, looking for some other spots to park—and for people looking for me. I finally parked the Plymouth just off the road, opened the trunk, and put on the old raincoat and leather gloves I always keep in there. Then I changed the rear tire closest to the road, taking my time. It was a while before I was finished. I put everything back into the trunk except for the tire iron and the gloves, which I tossed into the back seat.
By the time I settled down to wait, the only thing that didn't belong in all that greenery was me.
37
WHAT WAS left of the weak sun filtered through the thick trees, making patterns of light and dark all around the Plymouth. By the time the shadows won the war I had stopped listening to my tapes. Headlights shot through the park, cars motored by. Once in a while I'd see a bicycle or even a late jogger wearing reflective foil on his warmup suit. I ground each cigarette out against the car door, putting the butts inside a plastic bag. No point in telling the cops how long I'd been waiting, if it came to that.
It was almost nine when I heard the whine of a car kept too long in a lower gear. The little BMW tore around the far curve and headed right at me. The redhead was running a pair of driving lights on the front bumper—the white light blasted into my windshield as she slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop almost on top of me. As soon as I heard her engine shut off, I started the Plymouth. I heard her door slam and I watched her walk the way women do in high heels on a tricky surface. She was close enough for me to see her face when I pulled the lever into gear and started to creep forward. Her legs were spread wide, anchored to the ground, hands on hips. Her mouth was open to say something, but I pulled past the BMW and stopped, foot on the brake. She walked toward me again, and I pulled forward some more.
She got it. The redhead walked back to her car. I waited until she started it again; then I pulled out slowly so she could follow, heading for th
e better spot I'd found before. The Plymouth calmly drove through the park; the BMW stuck to my bumper, her damned driving lights flooding the rearview mirrors. I turned the inside mirror backward and made two tours through the park, just in case she brought some friends. I could hear the angry roar of the BMW in the night—she was so close I could have merged with her front end if I hit the brakes.
I found the spot I wanted and pulled all the way in, leaving the Plymouth with its nose pointing back out to the road. The redhead was right behind me, but she didn't have room to turn around—like I wanted it.
I killed the engine.
Her door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass. She stalked over to where I was sitting, her little fox face set and hard.
"You all through playing games?" she snapped.
I got out of the Plymouth, reaching for the flashlight I keep in the door panel. I walked past her to the BMW, opened the door, and shone the light inside. Empty.
"Open the trunk," I told her.
The redhead made a hissing sound, but she turned and reached inside her car for the keys. I shined the light on her to help. She was wearing what looked like half a normal skirt, reaching over to the middle of her thighs. It had vertical black and white stripes and was topped by a wide black belt. Her stockings had dark seams down the back of her legs. She bent inside the car to get the keys—it was taking too long.
"Having trouble?" I asked her.
She looked back over her shoulder. "Just wanted to make sure you got a good look," she said, a bright smile on her face.
"Just get the keys," I told her, an edge to my voice.
She gave her hips a sharp little wiggle, then turned around with the keys in her hand. She walked back to the trunk, opened it, and stood aside. I shined the light inside. Lots of junk, but no humans. I pulled up the carpet, looked inside the spare–tire well. Nothing there either.
Strega Page 13
