"Same deal—I call you?"
"Yeah." He looked over at Max. "You think he's close enough to take me out, don't you?"
"He is."
"No he's not," said the monster, as he stepped away from me into the dark.
88
THE MEAT MARKET is a triangular slab hacked out of the West Village with the wide end opening onto the West Side Highway. Before they opened a bigger version in Hunts Point, all the city's butcher shops got their supplies down there. Every morning, way before the traffic stream thickens with citizens bound for City Hall and Wall Street, the streets are clogged with refrigerated trucks. By noon it's pretty quiet. In the evening, some of the city's best steak houses do a booming business. Yuppies can walk there from their million–dollar lofts. When they close, the meat market is home to the army of kids who spend the night selling the one thing they have left. To buy drugs to make them forget what that is.
The shelter is a clapboard shack the kids built out of abandoned packing crates. Scraps of carpeting on the floor, discarded mattresses, sometimes an old broken chair. The street kids drift out of Times Square like vampires being chased by daylight. They made this place for themselves. The cops leave them alone as long as they're back on the street by the time the truckers are gone. Nobody turns tricks in daylight down here. I found more than one runaway there over the years, especially when the winterhawk drops down.
Waiting for Morehouse. An abandoned window fan sat upright in the street, plugged into nothing, its blades rasping as it turned in the night wind.
The reporter's battered Datsun rolled around the corner. Spotted my Plymouth, pulled in behind. We got out to meet him. A dark–skinned man about my height, wearing a khaki jacket over a bulky sweatshirt, unpolished combat boots under a pair of chinos. Subway outfit. He'd been around for a while, but his face was unlined, hair cut close. Morehouse has an athlete's build, rangy. Next to Max, he looked like a stick. He held out his hand, smile flashing. The Island way. He ignored Max—the meeting was with me. The City way.
"This is all on the record, right?" he said. His idea of a joke.
"The Sutton Place killing…you cover it?"
"I write a column, man. I can't cover every breaking story."
"That means no?"
"That means I know the facts, but there's no column in it."
"How about this for a lead? Mafia don's estranged daughter snuffed. The number two written in blood on the wall. Head chopped off the body and stuck between her legs. Building doorman found dead. Cops cover up mob connection."
He blew a sharp breath through his teeth. "This is on the street?"
"Not yet."
"So you spoke to the cops. Or the killer."
"I don't just know how it went down, I know why. Want to trade?"
"Sure. What do you want?"
"Torenelli. He's holed up. And he's working with the cops. One of them knows where he is. Probably brass."
"So?"
"That's what I want to know."
"This is deep water, man. Deep and dark."
"Pretend you're back in Haiti." Morehouse had won a journalism award for his coverage of the insanity on that island after Baby Doc fled.
"I have to live here."
"It's your choice." I shrugged.
"What do I get?"
"You get the inside story. The why of it all. It wasn't a random murder and it wasn't a sex–freak mob. There's a job war coming down."
"Drugs?"
"No."
"What, then?"
"We have a deal?"
"Sure."
"You first."
"That isn't the way it works, Burke. I give you what I got, you give me what you got. Same time, no taking turns."
"Except you got nothing. Nothing now. You get what I want, let me know, and we'll trade. Deal?"
"You at the same number?"
I nodded.
"Sure," he said, watching the disconnected fan spinning in the street.
89
I DROVE THROUGH the Village streets, working toward Chinatown. Max held his hand out in front of his eyes, rigid as a steel bar, asking a question. I took one hand off the wheel, did the same. My hand didn't tremble. Too many things to be scared of at the same time—my nerves were in a coma.
When we pulled into the warehouse, he made the sign for me to come up with him. Sleep over. I bent my wrists, holding paws in front of my face. Pansy was home—I had to get back. His face didn't change. He knew the beast could get along for days without me. I pointed at my watch, showed him the time I wanted to roll tomorrow. He gestured like he was picking something off a plate, putting it in his mouth. We'd meet at Mama's.
90
I ATE BREAKFAST at my desk the next morning, listening to the all–news station on the radio. An FBI agent was busted for molesting kids. The DEA seized another twenty million dollars' worth of coke at JFK. A group of inmates at Sing Sing were demanding a nonsmoking wing. There was a city–wide hunt for a bank bandit. Thirteen hits—total take under twenty grand. He was probably scared to hit the bodegas—they had more cash on hand, but you couldn't push notes across the counter.
Rye toast, cream cheese, pineapple juice. I made it last. I like to eat alone. By myself That's the worst thing about prison—even worse than the fear–mist that makes it hard to breathe—no privacy. Nothing to yourself Even in solitary, the smells come in.
I thought about what Morehouse said. I have to live here too. I'd had this office a long time, but I wouldn't miss it if I had to go.
Flood drifted around in my thoughts. I pushed her back. I thought when I settled up with Belle's father, it would quiet my mind. I could go to Japan, like Max said. Find Flood. Here in the city, a monster was charging toward a machine. I didn't figure out how to get out of the way, I'd find Belle quicker.
91
I CALLED CANDY from the street.
"Buzz downstairs. Tell the doorman you're expecting a package. Two guys'll be bringing it up."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
Max and I carried the giant carton stamped with the brand name of the TV set in big black letters. His sleeves were rolled up, biceps popping with the strain, veins roped on his forearms. I kept my coat on. The doorman took us up in the service elevator, let us out on her floor. I picked up the empty carton by a corner and carried it in one hand as Max faded into the stairwell.
She opened the door while my finger was still on the buzzer. Stepped aside to let me in.
"Where's the other guy?"
"He went back down to the car."
"You brought me a present?"
"It's empty."
"It's the thought that counts."
"Tell me what you want."
She was wearing a red silk slip. Barefoot. Thick brunette wig, yellow cat's eyes patient. "Can we talk in the back?"
I followed her down the hall. The backs of her legs were muscular, hips rolling in a tight round arc. "Any particular room you want?" she asked.
"I don't care," I said to her shoulder. "Where's the kid?"
"Back in school."
She turned into the last room. The only window was masked behind a midnight–blue screen—twilight inside. She tilted her head at a reclining black leather chair in the corner, chrome dish ashtray atop a black tripod next to it. I sat down. Lit a smoke. She propped one leg on the psychiatrist's couch, stood sideways facing me, flexing the muscles in her leg.
"That's the part that goes soft first," she said, patting the inside of her thigh. "Mine're like rocks."
"Great."
"It doesn't do anything for you?"
"Why should it?"
"You're a man."
I thought about Wesley, watching the shadow on the inside of her thigh.
"I've seen it before."
She left the room. I dragged on the smoke, knowing I was there for a reason. Not her reason.
When she came back in, she was naked. This time she had on a fluffy blond wig piled up on t
op of her head, soft tendrils framing her face. Lavender eyes. Black spike heels, no stockings. A black garter banded her left thigh. Her right hand was full of leather and steel.
"You don't trust me?"
"No."
"I need you to trust me. I can be whatever you want. Any woman you want. Just close your eyes and think of it. Tell me. And it happens."
My eyes slitted until she was out of focus, smoke drifting past my face. Her purring voice was background music.
Belle. The big girl twirling before me in her new outfit, pretty–proud, prom–bound. "Come on."
Strega. On her knees but not begging, witch–fire eyes promising threats. "You'll be back."
Flood. The chubby little blonde, scars on her body never reaching her heart. Merry, bouncing flesh. All her debts squared now. "I'm for you, Burke" was how she'd said goodbye.
The music stopped. "You can't be anything I want," I told her.
"Your voice is different. The last time you were here, you said cold things. But they were weak. I know when someone's playing a role. That's what I do. You're not playing now."
"You're a lousy psychologist."
"I know when someone's lying."
"You should."
She tossed whatever she was carrying onto the couch. Bent at the waist, rooted around. She held a circle of chain in her hand for me to see, then she pulled it over her head like a necklace. "You know what this is?"
"No."
She walked over to my chair, hands behind her back. Dropped to her knees on the rug. "It's a choke collar. For dogs. See?" She pulled the ring and the steel noose tightened around her neck.
I waited.
Her other hand came from behind her back. Handcuffs. She tossed the key in my lap. Snapped one of the cuffs on her wrist. Reached her free hand behind her. A leather leash. She snapped the hook onto the collar ring. Put her hands together behind her back. I heard the other cuff click home. She turned on her knees, back to me. Held out her cuffed hands. "See?"
"See what?"
She turned again to face me. "Take the leash. Hold it in your hands. There's nothing I can do. Tug on the leash, I come along. Like a dog. Pull too tight and I can't breathe. Try it."
The leash curled like a snake on my leg. I didn't touch it. "What's this supposed to mean?"
"There's more straps on the couch. You can do whatever you want. There's no way I can hurt you."
"You couldn't hurt me over the phone either."
"You're afraid."
"Not of you."
"Of you. Of yourself Take the leash. Hold it in your hand. Feel the power."
I took the leash in my hand, watching her eyes watch me. Something stirred. "I don't feel anything."
"Yes you do. Don't be afraid of it."
"Tell me what you want."
"I lied. My daughter went back to him. Train. I want her back. I want you to get her back."
"How?"
"Talk to him."
"It won't work twice."
"Yes it will. Just go visit him again. A couple of times. Watch his office. Let him see you. Elvira will know. She'll know you'll always be around. He doesn't want people poking into his business. Another girl won't be worth it to him. Just be around. You don't have to do anything. Just be yourself. Tell Train you're investigating him or something."
"What if it doesn't work?"
"A couple of weeks, that's all. Just a couple of weeks. If it doesn't work by then, give it up. Okay?"
"You're paying for this?"
"Whatever you want."
"Money's what I want."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"I lied to you. And now I confessed. Don't you think I should be punished?"
"Not by me."
"Don't be afraid. You feel it, I know you do." She pushed her face closer, dropping it into my lap. My mind saw the message Wesley left on the rich woman's bed. I felt her lips against me. I was as limp as the leash in my hand.
She pulled her head back. "I thought…"
I climbed out of the chair. "I'll call you," I said.
She struggled to her feet, following me down the hall, hands cuffed behind her, the leash dangling from the choke collar.
"Burke!"
I stopped in the living room, waiting. "Get me out of these handcuffs. Or leave me the key. I don't have another one. I can't stay tied up like this."
Lousy little liar. "Call a friend," I told her.
92
WESLEY would be holed up somewhere in the city. Someplace with no neighbors. He had no baggage, no friends, not even a dog. He could go on the move every night. Carry whatever he needed in a duffel bag. No pressure points on his body—he'd been ready for this all his life. Torenelli's boys didn't have a chance. Trying to catch mist in a butterfly net.
I thought about my office. Pansy. Mama in her restaurant. Michelle in her hotel. The junkyard would be safe, but I'd have to stay once I moved in. Compared with Wesley, I was a citizen.
I called Wesley from Mama's. Worked my way through some hot–and–sour soup waiting for the call–back. He must have been keeping a close watch—the phone rang in twenty minutes. I answered it myself, saving time.
"Yeah?"
"You called."
"I have to go back in. See the man you told me to stay away from. Wanted you to know in front."
"Why?"
I knew what he meant. "It's part of this whole thing—I don't know what yet."
"You're checking on that address for me?"
"Already started."
He hung up.
93
I WENT LOOKING for the Prof. Slipped a roll of quarters in my pocket. Tolls for the turnpike. I found him on Vanderbilt, just before it dead–ends on Forty–second Street. A big shoeshine box in front of him. No customers.
"Let's take a ride," I said.
"I wish I could, but I'm holding some goods."
I glanced at the shoeshine box. He nodded.
"How long?"
"Quarter to a half."
I propped a boot on the metal last, lit a cigarette while the Prof went to work. He knew how to do it. Taking his time, running a toothbrush around the welt, taking the polish directly on his fingertips, working it in, popping the rag. Misted the leather with a little spray can, flicked it off with a buffing cloth. He was finishing up the second boot when two heavyset black guys rolled up. They leaned against the building wall, watching. Chilly young men. Pups from the same litter.
The Prof finished up with a flourish. Tugged at my pants cuff to let me know.
"There's your shine, and it's damn fine."
"How much?"
"Put down a pound."
"Five bucks?"
"The ride is five. You want the honey, you come to the hive."
The two pups pushed themselves off the wall in case I was going to argue. I handed the Prof his cash, moved off. Didn't look back.
The Prof caught up to me around the corner. His hands were empty. He got into the Plymouth and we headed over to the West Side Highway. Pulled over at the Ninety–sixth Street exit, hooked the underpass, and found a parking spot on the river. I popped the hood, hauled a toolbox out of the trunk. We kept our heads under the hood, playing with the tools as we talked.
"I saw him again."
"Keep it up, you'll be draped in crepe."
"I'm in it. He did that job—the one on Sutton Place. Spit in Torenelli's face. Julio met with me too. They want Wesley. Alive."
"And the heat still wants you?"
"That was Julio. The fucking weasel dimed me to turn up the flame. So I got no room to move."
"When the man's got a gun, it's time to run."
"That's what I should've done. If I'd known Wesley was tracking Mortay…"
"You know tomorrow's number, we're all rich."
"I know. This is different. I'm in the middle."
"That ain't the place, ace."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"Wesley."
The little man turned, leaned back against the Plymouth's grille, looking out at the Hudson River. Lit a smoke, taking his time. "It always was him, wasn't it?"
"What're you talking about?"
"In the joint. When you was just a young fool with gunfighter dreams. That's who you wanted to be like, right? Wesley? The ice man."
"He's got nobody, Prof."
"Nobody dragging him down, you mean. Nobody to cry over when they're gone. Traveling light don't make it right."
"He's not a rat."
"This is true. He wanted your head, you'd be dead."
"Wesley wants his money. You know how he is. The Italians made a mistake. Torenelli's hiding. Wesley wants to know where. Settle up."
"It's over, then?"
"That's what he says."
"What do they say?"
"Who? Who should I ask? What they got, it's a big pile of cheese. They don't care which rat gets to eat. Torenelli don't make the count one morning, somebody else'll step in."
He nodded, dragging deep on his smoke. "Somebody knows where he is."
"Yeah, but who?"
"Torenelli. I remember him. A pussy in his heart. He ain't got the stones to go it alone. He was gonna kill himself, he'd use pills."
"That's the way I figure it too."
"Wesley ain't no private eye. Who's looking?"
"Morehouse."
"The reporter? That West Indian is my man! You dig his piece on that dude in Louisiana doing life in the box for a lousy stickup? Where the head of the Parole Board ended up doing time?"
"Yeah. I dealt with him before. I gave him some of the inside stuff from the Sutton Place thing. Hard stuff, right from the scene. From the horse's mouth. Got his nose wide open. He knows brass at NYPD."
"He know why you want the info?"
"He don't want to know."
The Prof dropped his cigarette, ground it out under his heel. "What's my end, friend?"
"They think I got no slack, but there's a knot in the rope. I can unravel it, I got room to breathe. There's a little girl. I need to take her to Lily, take her back when it's all done."
"That's it?"
Hard Candy Page 13
