Footsteps of the Hawk b-8

by Andrew Vachss

  "It's a living," I said.

  I walked into a long, narrow room, sat down on a round stool bolted to the floor, and looked into the murky Plexiglas, its surface smudged beyond redemption by generations of handprints— the only way to say hello or goodbye in that room, hands touching each other's through the barrier. I picked up the phone on my side of the barrier. Across from me was the muscular black man who'd been in the Contact Visit Room. We stared at each other for a long minute.

  "Dragon," I said.

  "Burke," he replied.

  A long minute passed.

  "I got your kite," he finally said. "Was that him?"

  "Yeah," I said. "What's the word?"

  "He's in PC," the black man said. "Been there for almost a week."

  "He selling tickets?"

  "No."

  "Turn rat?"

  "No. It wasn't like that. He's not pussy either— it wasn't a voluntary."

  "Tell me."

  "Somebody tried to take him out. A hammer job, with a shank for backup. His luck was running good— four cops were just rolling down the corridor— routine surprise shakedown— they saw it happening. All your guy got was a knot on his head."

  "They pop anyone for it?"

  "No. They were pros— hoods and gloves, long sleeves. Half a dozen other guys got between them and the cops— they got clean away."

  "So why'd they lock Piersall up? Was it a race thing?"

  "No. And it wasn't about a debt or a diss— it was a stone–cold paid–for hit. Word is, the RB was on the job."

  RB. The Real Brotherhood. A white warrior gang with branches in max joints all over the country. Like the black and Latino gangs, all race did was get you in the door— what kept you there was performance. Some of them would stab you for stepping onto the wrong part of the yard, but most of them were businessmen— it would take something important to get them homicidal. Something like the prison drug concession, or a piece of the sports book. They also did debt collection and contract–kill work— inside the walls, there isn't much difference.

  The RB is small, so it has to play very hard to get respect. It only takes a few seconds to kill a man, but a reputation is forever. If they took money to drop Piersall, they'd get it done, no matter how long it took.

  I knew them. Some of them, anyway. If the prison administration doped it out the same way Kamau was telling me, they'd keep–lock Piersall until he was discharged.

  "You got anything else?" I asked him.

  "He don't mix much. Kind of standoffish. He don't play an attitude, but he don't back down either. He's short, anyway, from what I hear."

  "Short here," I told him. "A full–book detainer's waiting on him, though."

  "Oh. He don't act much like that. Walks soft— like he don't want to blow his go–home."

  "Okay. You sure he wasn't messing with the RB?"

  "Dead sure. That happens, they leave word all over the blocks…so when they take him out it's a message. Wasn't nothing like that this time. He was just strolling the block when they jumped him."

  "He's got money on the books," I said. "Can't you still buy— ?"

  "Not from the RB," he said. "There ain't enough money in here to bodyguard a man on their hit parade. There's no win— they'd never forget. Your man's gotta stay in lock–down until his hearing. If the RB's got a contract out on him, he can't walk the yard anyway. I don't like his chances, even in PC. You know how that works."

  I did. "Protective Custody" is a joke— a little plastic squeeze–bottle full of cleaning fluid, a match…and nobody hears the screams. He still had to eat, too. And they let them out an hour a day for exercise. All of them at once.

  "Thanks," I said. "Anything I can do for you?"

  "Tell the Prof I send my respects," the black man said.

  Back outside, in the waiting room, I left a hundred dollars on the books for Dragon. The guard gave me a look. I gave him one back— anything else would have made him suspicious.

  In another few minutes, Hauser ambled out. He spotted me, sat down on the bench.

  "I think— "

  "How'd you get Press plates on that truck?" I interrupted, not wanting him to do any talking there. "I thought they never gave them out to freelancers."

  "I'm a reporter, just like anyone else," Hauser replied, his jaw set. "That stuff is blatant discrimination. Took me a few appeals, but they finally gave it up."

  "Right on," I said.

  He searched my face for sarcasm, didn't find any. Said "Yeah!" under his breath, still pumped from the memory of that battle.

  It was another half–hour or so before Belinda came out, her face tight and determined. I caught her eye. She came over to us. We all walked out together.

  Everyone was silent with their own thoughts until we got back on the Turnpike. Belinda took off her seat belt, shifted her body so she was facing sideways. "Did you understand what George was saying?" she asked, directing the question at Hauser, turning just enough so she was including me in the answer.

  "About what?" Hauser replied.

  "About serial killers. Like George said, the one thing you have plenty of time to do in there is read."

  "I've read that stuff too," Hauser said. "It sounds like a motley collection of guesswork."

  "But what about the part…where he said the killer would have to keep doing it?"

  "Even if that is right, how's that going to help?" Hauser asked her. "According to you, the police already know there's a maniac out there. And they haven't charged Piersall with any of the crimes."

  "That's just the point," she said. "They know if they charged him they'd look stupid. What better alibi could a man have than to be in prison when it happened?"

  "And it's not a copycat either," Hauser said. "There was nothing in the papers about that 'signature' thing. Nothing."

  "But you know about it," Belinda said. "And once you print it, the pressure's gonna be on."

  "I don't know about it," Hauser said. "Don't get me wrong— I'm not saying it wasn't like that. But I can't print a rumor— that's for guys with their own columns. Or the ones who take pipe jobs from friendly cops. I'm going to poke around on my own, see if I can find someone to corroborate your information."

  "But you're gonna stay on it…?"

  "To the end," Hauser promised.

  "What about you?" Belinda asked, looking right at me. "Till the end of the week," I said. "Like we agreed."

  Belinda wanted to be dropped off at the courthouse on Centre. We did that, then headed uptown.

  "Something's real wrong," Hauser said suddenly.

  "Pull over somewhere," I told him, seeing how tense he was, not wanting to wait to hear it.

  Hauser found a spot just past Canal. He docked the four–by in one sweet smooth sweep. Parallel parking in a rig like that was no easy feat— I guess he could drive good enough when he wasn't talking.

  I hit my window switch, lit a smoke. "Go," I said.

  "I think she's involved with him," Hauser said. "I think it's personal."

  "Because…?"

  "Just little things, at first. The way she looked at him, certain things they said….like it was a coded language. And she wanted some time alone, at the end."

  "So?"

  "So I hung around. They went into the Conference Room— the one she was telling us about, for lawyers."

  "And…?"

  "And I got to talking with one of the guards. About this profile of corrections officers I'm planning to do for People magazine."

  "That's a nice assignment," I said.

  "Yeah." Hauser smiled. "Wish I had it. Anyway, I got a nice look inside that Conference Room. There was only the two of them in there…and they were going at it pretty hot and heavy"

  "Hot and heavy— that means different things to different folks. Maybe they were just kissing goodbye."

  "They were kissing all right," Hauser said. "And her hand was inside his pants. Somebody paid the guard….At least that's the way it looked. The one
who let me take a look— he knew what I was going to see."

  "There's a couple of ways that scans," I told him. "Maybe she started out working, then got herself all excited. Serial killers turn some women's cranks. Most of those freaks get more fan mail than rock stars. Ted Bundy, he got married on Death Row. Even that slime, the one who tortured kids to death out in Washington State, he had some women all worked up. You see it all the time— prison bars make some people hot. Cops fall for a suspect, guards risk their jobs for a prisoner. It happens."

  "And the other way is…?" Hauser asked.

  "That she knew him before, on the quiet."

  "Either way— "

  "Yeah," I interrupted. "Either way, she could be the one."

  "Doing the… killings?"

  "It wouldn't be a first," I told him. "Remember that guy Bianchi? He was half of a team— the Hillside Strangler, right? Wasn't there some crazy woman who tried a copycat murder to spring him?"

  "Jesus."

  "Yeah. Jesus. Me, I don't know. But it adds up, right? What do you think?"

  "I think it's still a great story," Hauser said, his mouth set in a grim flat line.

  "There's another player in the game," I told him. "When you get time, look through this." I handed him the copy of Morales' psych report.

  He scanned it quickly. "This is…?"

  "The cop who's been dogging my steps ever since I got on this one."

  "You think…?"

  "Read it for yourself," I told him, opening the door to get out.

  When I called in late that afternoon, Mama told me Fortunato was looking for me. I didn't bother with telephones— it was easier to go over there. I grabbed the subway at Canal. My legendary luck held— a derelict was planted in one corner of the car I boarded, doing a great imitation of a time–release stench bomb. Every time he shifted position, a new wave of sickening odors wafted over everybody else. Everybody changed cars at the next stop, preferring the cattle–car crowding to the alternative. I went them one better— I changed trains.

  Waiting for the F train at the West Fourth Street station is a group activity around rush hour. I drifted down toward the end of the platform, figuring I'd get a newspaper. The newsstand had a vast collection of porno magazines on display behind some yellowing Plexiglas. I looked them over, thinking that maybe Vyra was right. The magazines weren't about women at all, they were about body parts—Juggs, Big Butt, Gash — reminded me of those charts of cows they have in butcher shops, the ones with dotted lines separating brisket from tenderloin.

  Because I didn't give a damn how long I waited, the F train rolled through smoothly, precisely on time, dropping me off at Forty–second and Sixth. I spent the ride admiring a new look— a black man with a perfectly sculpted short natural was wearing a robin's–egg blue tuxedo jacket over a pleated–front white shirt and knife–edged jeans, but that wasn't what was attracting all the attention. Instead of laces, his gleaming black shoes were held together by a row of gold collar bars— he just threaded them through the eyelets and screwed on each individual cap. Half a dozen teenagers were scoping the man's style. By tonight, avant–garde would be five minutes ago.

  I climbed out of the subway and walked over to Fortunato's office, still taking my time. The receptionist took my name, picked up the phone, and buzzed me in a few seconds later.

  Fortunato was at his big desk, a cigar already in his hand. I walked in, sat down. "You're looking for me?" I said.

  "Yes. I wanted to…straighten some things out. Between us, I mean."

  "What things?"

  "Look, you may have gotten the wrong impression from our last conversation. Or I may have spoken out of turn. If I did…or if you took it that way, I apologize. I just wanted you to know that Julio always spoke highly of you. And when I said we knew who…was responsible for his death, I was speaking generically."

  "What's that mean?" I asked, playing my role.

  "It means we know where it came from, that's all. The direction it came from, not the actual person. And that's old business. Old, finished business. Are you following me?"

  "I don't follow people unless I get paid," I told him. "And I don't like them following me."

  He took a puff on his cigar. His hand was shaking, just a shade past a tremor, but easy enough to see— if you were looking for it. "I'd like you to stay on the case," he said. "George likes you. I do too. You've only got friends here, understand?

  "Uh–huh."

  "What do you say to two more weeks, same rate?" Fortunato asked. "No reports, no checking in…just nose around, see what you can find out. Do we have a deal?"

  "When I get paid," I told him.

  Soon as I saw his shadow, I knew I was in the wrong part of town— I'd never make it back across the border in time for a call to Mama to do me any good. I cut south on Park, working my way east, hoping to pick up the IRT local, give me a few options with each new station. I never got there— Morales caught up with me on Fortieth, wrapping a thick arm around my shoulders, chesting me into a parking lot, against the wall. His face was all blotchy, red and white— his eyes were swirling. I could hardly hear him talking through clenched teeth.

  "You're in the big time now, huh, cocksucker?" he snarled, his face right in mine.

  "What?"

  "Don't you fuck me around!" he said, ready–to–snap tight. "Don't you play with me. Push me, just keep pushing me, I'll take your heart! Understand me? Got that fucking straight now?"

  "Say what you got to say," I told him, as calm as he was crazed, the way you gentle your voice when a dog growls at you— a big dog, off–leash.

  He nostriled a deep breath, mouth not moving. "Now you work for Raymond Fortunato, huh? You playing with gangsters, punk? Or, maybe, you're working on a special case? Am I getting close?"

  "You'll never be close, Morales. For that, you'd have to have a clue."

  "Oh, I got a clue all right, pussy. I got more than one. I know who hired you. And I know what for. Here's a free one— on the house. Walk away. Walk away fast, and don't look back, understand? You ain't a real player, Burke— you're just a fucking poker chip. Not even a blue one. Me, I'm gonna sweep the fucking table, see? Everything goes. You stay in it, you go too."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said quietly. "You're spooking at shadows. Maybe you oughta see a shrink."

  I thought that last crack had done it. His eyes narrowed down so far I could only see a little piece of liquid in the folds of the sockets. A thick, violent vein pulsed in his neck. I could hear his teeth grind. Saw his right hand twitch, clenching and unclenching. I knew his pistol was close— I could feel how bad he wanted it.

  A long three seconds passed. His hand came up so fast I didn't see it, an open–handed slap to the left side of my face. It rocked me— my hands came up on their own. Morales stepped back, an ugly smile on his face. "Come on, chiquita," he whispered. "Make it easy."

  I dropped my hands.

  "Maricón," he sneered. "I knew you was nothing but a no–balls cocksucking fucking faggot piece of shit."

  I just watched him, back inside myself again. Back inside, where nobody could hurt me. I was good at it by now— I'd had plenty of practice when I was a kid.

  I held Morales' glare, breathing shallow through my nose, calming myself in case he came at me again. If he did, I'd take it.

  He hawked up a thick glob, spit it at my feet. Then he grabbed at his crotch, said "Pussy!" one more time and walked away.

  I went down to Jersey to see Frankie fight that Friday— I got a ride down with Hauser.

  "I didn't know you were interested in prizefighting," I said when he first mentioned it.

  "I got to go down in that area anyway," he said mysteriously. "If you're sure you can get back on your own, no problem."

  On the drive down, Hauser was uncharacteristically silent, not even rising to the bait when I tried to get him to speculate about Belinda.

  I left the side window open, smoked in silence. We pa
ssed right by the Trenton exit, but it wasn't close enough to feel the heat.

  We picked up the tickets the Prof had left at the door, found our seats just past the Golden Circle, where chumps get to sit at little tables and get called "sir" by the hostess the same way they do in the casinos.

  Frankie was first on the card. I told Hauser I'd be right back, then I walked around to the locker room. Frankie was lying down on a table, face–up, a towel over his eyes. The Prof was talking a mile a minute. Clarence sat quietly on a bench.

  "When he walks away, he's gotta pay, understand?" the Prof said. "Take what he gives you. He plays that way, break his back, Jack!"

  "What's that all about?" I asked Clarence.

  "This guy we are going to fight, he is very cute, mahn. He has this trick he used all the time in the amateurs. What he does, when it gets tough, he just turns his back and walks away….Then he spins and throws a right hand over his left shoulder. He has hurt many fighters with that move. My father, he wants our gladiator to chase him, stay very close, see?"

  "Yeah. Frankie's in good shape? His mind is right?"

  "His spirit is strong, mahn."

  I walked out, leaving all three of them in the same positions as when I came in: Frankie lying back, the Prof whispering his incantations, Clarence watching. And watchful.

  It was another forty minutes before they got it on. Frankie came into the ring first, wearing his black–and–white convict's stripes. He stood still, waiting, but I could see he'd already broken a good sweat. The Cuban's corner made Frankie wait, but they couldn't drag it out too long— Montez may have been undefeated, but he wasn't ranked— didn't even hold one of those cheesy belts they give out for showing up enough times in some states.

  When he climbed through the ropes I could see he was much bigger than Frankie, looking even bigger in a white satin robe with glitter dust on the wide lapels. The announcer called out his weight at two twenty–nine, but he looked fifteen over that to me.

  At the bell, Frankie came out faster than he had before, almost at a trot. He bounced into a crouch, came up firing with the right hand. Montez spun, catching it on the biceps. He stepped to the side, smoked a fast left jab a couple of times, then backed off. Frankie pursued, like he always did, but he was moving sharper now, more focused. He pinned the Cuban against the ropes, but the bigger man clinched and the ref took his time breaking them.