Footsteps of the Hawk b-8

by Andrew Vachss

  "So stuff could get smuggled in?"

  "That, sure. There's sex too."

  "You mean…other prisoners?"

  "Yeah, some of them go on the whore inside. But that's not what I meant— if you're connected right, you can get it on right there."

  "In the Visiting Room? In front of everyone?"

  "Handjobs, maybe…I was talking about the real thing. They use the bathrooms for that. You take your visitor in there, do what you want. Inside, everything runs on juice— you got it, you can use it. Next time you read about a stabbing on Riker's Island, look close— you'll see it was nothing personal. Just turf strutting— mostly on the pay phones. Everyone's supposed to form a line, wait their turn. When your time's up, you're supposed to move on. You got cash on the books, you can pay for more time. And if that don't fly, you can buy some muscle, get you the same result, understand?"

  "Yeah," said Hauser. I watched his face as he made mental notes. Hauser was an insatiable info–maniac— if it was out there, he wanted it.

  "When you hear about a gun turning up inside, you can bet it was the guards," I told him. "Same for drugs, for serious weight, anyway— there's only so much stuff a visitor can mouth–carry. It's a special economy in there— the prices are real, real high. The guards, they're just people. Some of them go for the gold."

  "You think that's what this Piersall may be doing?"

  "I don't know." I shrugged. "It's too late for jury–juice now— Fortunato took it on appeal."

  Hauser took off his glasses, polished them on a piece of cloth he took out of the pocket of his blue work shirt. His wrists were much thicker than you'd think from looking at his build. I saw a quick flash of a heavy steel chronograph as he polished. Without the glasses, his eyes had a harsh, tight–focused glint as he looked over at me. "Meaning he needs something spectacular…'newly discovered evidence,' like that, right?" Hauser said.

  "Right," I agreed.

  "So how come this 'signature' stuff wouldn't do the job for him?"

  "According to this person, the one I spoke to, Fortunato subpoenaed the whole mess, files and everything. And there's no record of the red ribbons."

  "The ribbons were tied around their necks?" Hauser asked. "You're saying some beat cop pulled them off?"

  "No," I said, watching the reporter's eyes, now steady behind the glasses. "That couldn't be. See, the red ribbons, they were inside the bodies. Way inside. You wouldn't find them until you did the autopsy."

  "Unh," Hauser grunted, half to himself. "So you're saying the ME's office is in on this?"

  "I'm not saying anything," I reminded him. "It's this cop who's saying it."

  "You know which of the MEs did the autopsies?"

  "No. I don't have any of the paper. I guess I could get it. Or copies, anyway."

  "You have a read on this? A personal one?"

  "No. Me, I'm clueless. Somebody's playing, but I don't even know what the game is."

  "Why me?"

  "You're Morelli's legacy, right? I figure, you can check some places I can't go— I can go places you can't too. We put it all together, maybe I crack the case and you get a hot story," I told him, playing the PI role to the hilt.

  "That's all?" Hauser asked, his face a study in skepticism.

  "Everything," I promised him, back to lying.

  "There's nobody you're protecting? Chips fall where they may?"

  "You got it."

  "And what we know, actually know, not guess …what we know is that this guy Piersall did something to some hooker in Jersey, pleaded guilty, and he's doing a short stretch for it, right?"

  "Right."

  "And he got tried for a sex murder here in the city, and he got convicted of that too?"

  "Right."

  "And there was a red ribbon inside the woman who got murdered…but not inside the woman who got beat up?"

  "Yeah. Nothing inside the New Jersey woman, the only red ribbon inside the New York woman, the one who died."

  "And you got a source inside NYPD that says there are two more sex murders…?"

  "Right."

  "With red ribbons inside both of them…?"

  "Right."

  "But that the ribbons don't show up on the autopsies?"

  "That's it."

  "So either the cop's lying, or someone removed the ribbons…?"

  I just shrugged, waiting.

  Hauser pretended to be thinking it over, but I knew it was no contest— he was a bloodhound, and he had the scent. Finally, he looked over at me. "I'll take a look," he said. "No promises."

  "It's a deal," I said.

  The first step was to check my back–trail. Belinda hadn't been wired— I could tell that as much by the dialogue as the body search— you could replay our whole conversation for a grand jury and I'd still be as safe as a Kennedy in Massachusetts. But it didn't ring true, none of it. Mojo Mary offers me sex after she got paid. And Belinda doesn't even flash a smile when it might have cut her some slack. I never worry about what side I'm on. It's always the same one— mine. Sometimes that side's in the middle…and what I care about then is staying out of the crossfire.

  The obvious answer was a crew of cops, working me for those mad–dog homicides in the Bronx a couple of years ago. But they didn't have a thing on me. And I haven't carried a gun since.

  Don't misunderstand. I'm not crazy— I know the guns didn't do the killing— I know it was me. The guns just made it easy. So easy. Shooting, it's a different head than stabbing, especially with a high–tech piece like the Glock I used that time, so silky smooth it was like squirting death out of a hose. Close–up work, that takes a different mind. It's messier, more involved. Riskier too. The drive–by boys, it's like playing a video game to them. Not real. Electronic beeps sound in their sociopathic minds. The targets they shoot, they aren't human— they're little two–dimensional objects. You hit one just right, it falls down.

  Technology changes things— the closer it gets to the street, the higher the body counts. Today, when one high–school kid bumps into another in the hall, one of them says, "I'll see you after school." But it's not a fistfight they're talking about. Not knives or bicycle chains either. Today, even the worst wimp can deliver a full–clip message. It's techno–magic— bang, the other guy's dead.

  But why would Belinda warn me about Morales if she was working with him? Besides, I couldn't imagine Morales working with any partner but McGowan. Morales is a surly, hair–trigger straight arrow— not the kind of partner anyone in NYPD wants. A fucking thug for justice, that's Morales. I'd always figured he had everything a good manhunter needs except for one thing…patience. But maybe I'd underestimated him.

  I couldn't do anything until tomorrow anyway I stopped back by the office, grabbed Pansy and took off for the Bronx.

  "You are surely one beautiful girl," Clarence said to Pansy, remembering her from a long–ago day in Central Park. Pansy doesn't understand words, but she reads tone of voice perfect— she rubbed her big head against Clarence's pants leg, purring deep. I left the two of them and went looking for the Prof.

  "Sit down on those punches," the Prof was barking at Frankie. "This ain't no fencing match— drive those shots home. Come on!"

  Frankie circled a thick–bodied black boxer in the sparring ring, stalking, not punching much. The other guy was so relaxed he looked almost sleepy, slipping Frankie's punches with practiced ease. Somebody rang the bell, and both fighters returned to their corners. The Prof was up on the ring apron in a flash, talking urgently to Frankie.

  "You too light for the fight, boy? This ain't no aerobics class. Box the motherfucker, understand? Box him in. Punches in bunches, that's the ticket here. Now, go out there and dump that chump!"

  Frankie nodded, never taking his eyes from the other guy, who was also seated, joking with his cornermen. When the bell rang, Frankie lumbered off his stool toward the center of the ring, holding out one gloved hand for the other fighter to touch. "This ain't the last round, stupid!"
one of the black guy's cornermen yelled.

  "It is for you, sucker!" the Prof shot back.

  Frankie bulled his way forward. The black guy backpedaled to the ropes, leaned against them easily, his sleek upper body glistening with sweat as if to emphasize how slippery he was. Frankie fired a left hook, grunting with the effort, then doubled with the same hand. The black guy slid away, but Frankie's overhand right was already launched. The black guy turned his head and the punch caught him on the neck. He stumbled once, and Frankie was on him like spandex, legs spread, knees locked, pounding hard enough to drive railroad spikes. The black guy tried to clutch Frankie but he was too late— the uppercut lanced between their bodies— the black guy's eyes rolled up and he went down face–first. Frankie turned away and came toward his corner, exposing his wrists so the Prof could take off the gloves.

  Nobody bothered to count.

  Frankie was breathing hard on his stool, but I could see he wasn't exhausted, just pumped up. The Prof kept up a steady patter of reassuring nonsense— Frankie didn't seem as though he was listening. He hit the showers. The Prof came over to where I was standing.

  "Boy hits like a jackhammer, don't he?"

  "Sure does," I agreed. "It's like a switch goes off in his head."

  "Yeah, that's the trick. That's what makes him tick. You trip that switch, he's one mean sonofabitch."

  "You know where the button is?"

  "No. Sure don't, son. I thought it was a race thing when we first got started. But when Frankie goes on full boil, I don't think he sees color at all."

  "What, then?"

  "I glommed his act, and that's a fact," the Prof said. "The kid would have been glad to have your father."

  "I never knew— "

  "Right," the Prof cut in, his tone closing the door. "Look, schoolboy, Frankie's about ninety percent hate and twenty percent mean, but he only goes off inside the ropes. At least, now he does."

  "You think he's bent?"

  "He ain't no saint, but that don't mean he's gonna start stomping citizens. I think he's okay. Far as I can tell, anyway."

  "You got another TV fight for him?"

  "Yeah. Over in Jersey. At one of the casinos. Another undercard thing, but the exposure's great."

  "You got a minute, talk about something else?" I asked.

  "We're off the yard, but I'm still on guard," the little man said. "Run it."

  I was almost through the entire rundown when Frankie came outside to where the Prof and I had been sitting on the loading dock— it's not a good move to smoke inside a working gym.

  "Am I…?" Frankie let his voice trail away.

  "You're cool, kid," the Prof said. "Me and schoolboy here was just discussing old times."

  "How far back do you go?" Frankie asked.

  "To the beginning," I told him. "When I met the Prof, I was doing time. It wasn't a big thing to me— I'd been doing it all my life, since I was a kid. The Prof showed me the ropes, showed me how I could get out. Stay out, too. Before I met him, it was just the jail–house or the graveyard— that was my whole future."

  "He taught you all that?" Frankie asked, his face close to mine, really wanting to know.

  "More," I assured him.

  "I was inside," he said quietly. "How'd you get past the…race thing? I mean, inside, you can't…"

  "I come from a different generation," I said. "When I was inside, you measured a man by what he did on the bricks. What his fall was for, right? And how he did his time. That's what you looked at. I don't mean there wasn't racial stuff. You got that out in the World too— it's always around. But the Prof had…I don't know, status. He was respected. A professional. He was the only one to really look at me. The only one who could see what I was."

  "It's different in there now," Frankie said.

  "I know," I told him. "It doesn't matter— I'm not going back."

  "Me neither," the kid said quietly.

  "You was mad at that boy?" the Prof asked Frankie. "Your sparring partner?"

  "No," Frankie said, honestly puzzled.

  "Then what set you off?"

  "I…don't know. It's always something. I see…colors, like. Bright colors. Not with my eyes, inside my head. When that happens, I feel the blood in me. Only it's not like blood, it's like…acid or something."

  "It's okay," the Prof reassured him. "Inside those ropes you can do anything you want. Except lose. There's no room for that, honeyboy. You get jobbed on a decision, you get flattened, it won't matter— the blame's the same. You lose and we can still get you fights, but then you're just working for a living, getting beat on. I don't tell lies, we want the prize. The big thing, see? One real score, then we don't need no more.

  "What would I do if I didn't— ?"

  "Fight? Fuck, what do I care? Take up fishing, go into group therapy. Find a good woman and have a dozen kids. Join the motherfucking Peace Corps. It don't matter what you do, you'll have choices, see? That's what it's about. That's your trip ticket, Frankie. First day you walk out of the joint, freedom looks as fine as a brand–new Cadillac, don't it? But that kitty ain't going nowhere 'less you got the gas money, right? The honey's in the hive, son— ain't no way you get nice without paying the price. You with me?"

  "Yeah," Frankie said slowly, nodding his head, a heavy lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He looked closer to sixteen than twenty–six.

  "We fight this Cuban guy next," the Prof said. "Montez. Big stupid fuck, got a whole bunch of KOs against patsy setups. Fights like a schoolyard bully— looks for the fear in your face. And he can't hit backing up. But he's got a nice record, maybe eleven straight. We take him out, the next one's for real cash, see? Do him in one, and the deal is done, got it?"

  "I got it, Prof," Frankie said.

  "Go run your sprints," the little man replied, turning back to me.

  "Sprints?" I asked the Prof. "I thought fighters did road work."

  "That's all bullshit," he responded. "It ain't no marathon the kid's training for. He runs fifty yards full tilt, then fifty half–speed. Then he jogs for a couple of hundred, then he starts again. What you need in the ring is not to get tired, but this ain't no footrace— the other guy's hitting you, all right? Frankie's got to be able to go in bursts …full–tilt, all–out, pedal–to–the–metal. And he's gotta be able to do that every round. He does that and, sooner or later, the other guy goes to sleep. I been studying this all my life— I know what I'm doing."

  "Did you ask Max— ?"

  "I ain't asking that Mongolian misfit nothing , understand? I'm training a fighter, not a fucking Zen Buddhist."

  "Okay, Prof, don't get worked up. I was just— "

  "Flapping your gums," he finished for me. "How many times I saved your sorry ass, schoolboy?"

  "Too many to count," I acknowledged.

  "And now you come around asking me to do it again, right? And you're gonna give me advice? Fuck a whole bunch of that!"

  "Hey, I'm sorry, Prof. I was just trying to help."

  "You want to help, stay on the shelf. I'll handle Frankie."

  "Okay," I surrendered. Then I went back to telling him about Belinda.

  "What the fuck is that?" I heard a voice asking just as I turned the corner to the doorway area of the gym. I took another couple of steps and saw a Latin bantamweight with a kit bag in one hand. He was facing Clarence, who was seated at the front desk, one hand idly scratching behind Pansy's right ear. Pansy eyed the Latin like she had a taste for Mexican food, but she didn't make a sound.

  "This is a pit bull, mahn," Clarence told him, straight–faced.

  "There ain't no pit bull in the world that big," the Latin guy challenged.

  "This is a West Indian pit bull," Clarence told him, embellishing the lie to give it texture. "Direct from the Islands."

  "Damn!" the Latin guy responded. "You know where I could get one?"

  "No, mahn, that is not possible. Listen to me now It is not enough that you go to the Islands, you must be from th
e Islands, understand? These are very, very special dogs…"

  The Latin eyed Pansy dubiously, indecision all over his face. "You…fight him?" he asked.

  "That is not done," Clarence said, his tone dead serious, not bothering to correct the Latin's gender error. "On the Islands, these dogs are not for fighting other dogs. We love our dogs."

  "Yeah, but— "

  "These dogs only fight people, mahn. Understand?"

  "I guess…" the Latin said, walking past me, shaking his head.

  I took a seat on the desk, looked at Clarence. "A West Indian pit bull?" I asked.

  "I think that is probably true, mahn," Clarence replied, deadpan. "You see how royally she stands. You see the pride in her carriage. That is nobility, mahn. It does not matter where she came from, Pansy is a West Indian in her heart. I know this."

  "Yeah, okay," I agreed, being reasonable.

  But Clarence wasn't going for it. "I can prove it, Burke. You watch this. Watch close now." He reached into one of those little iceboxes that look like tool chests, came out with something that looked like a fat dumpling. Pansy immediately started salivating, eyes almost spinning with rapture. "May I tell her the word, mahn?" he asked.

  I nodded. Clarence said "Speak!," tossing the dumpling in Pansy's general direction. She snapped it out of the air like an alligator— a perfect one–bite chomp.

  "That, mahn, was a Tower Island beef patty. Pure Jamaican. I tell you something else, too. Pansy, she loves Red Stripe. You see, her natural diet is West Indian."

  "You might be right," I acknowledged, not bursting his bubble. Truth is, Pansy would eat damn near anything— she has a digestive system like a trash compactor and no taste buds. I snapped the lead on her collar, threw Clarence the clench, and got back into the Plymouth.