"There's questions only Lily can get the answers to."
"You got the plan, I'm your man."
I lit my own smoke. "I thought I'd feel better after that motherfucker was gone." Belle's father.
"I know."
94
I CALLED the ex–cop who does the phone work. Met him in a midtown restaurant. Gave him an envelope full of cash and some new phone numbers to check. A new address too.
Called Lily. Waited an extra quarter's worth for them to get her to the phone.
"It's me. Could I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"If a teenage girl had a story, could you tell if it was the truth?"
She knew the kind of story I wanted her to validate. "It depends. I could probably tell if something happened, but not necessarily when. And I might have trouble identifying the source. You have a history?"
"All out of her mouth."
"I'll take a shot. Or maybe Immaculata could do it if you don't want to bring her here."
"It's not a job for Mac."
"Okay."
"Lily…I probably won't be able to make an appointment. She might be…annoyed. Not want to talk."
I could feel her shrug over the phone. "It happens."
"Thanks."
Called Davidson.
"Anything?"
"Nothing. My prediction? There'll never be a Grand Jury on this one. It's going to be marked 'closed, one arrest' and fade away. They know you had nothing to do with it."
"I owe you any money?"
"I'm good."
That was the truth.
95
I KNOW HOW to wait. When I was in prison, I never thought of going over the wall. I wasn't doing a life sentence, and I wasn't ready to go straight once I was out. I let a couple of days slide by slow. No sense pressuring Morehouse—he'd get it done or he wouldn't.
But if he didn't…
The trust–fund hippies who live underneath my office don't stir until midafternoon. I think they call getting high "performance art" now.
Mama answered herself. In rapid–fire Mandarin.
"It's me."
"Letter come for you."
"At the restaurant?" Wesley? Julio's morons telling me they knew where I lived?
"Yes. Last night."
"See you soon."
96
AS SOON AS Mama put it in front of me, I knew it wasn't from Wesley. Or Julio. Thick, cream–colored envelope, felt more like cloth than paper. Nothing on the outside. I flexed it in my fingers. Not a letter–bomb. One sheet inside, matching the envelope.
The words flowed so smoothly onto the paper they could have been squeezed from a tube. Icing on the devil's cake.
"Ask me. I know."
No signature. I didn't need one.
Strega.
97
I SMOKED a cigarette, thinking it through. Smoked a couple more. It had to be connected—not one of her witchy games.
I'm not sure how I remembered the number. She answered halfway through the first ring.
"I know who this is."
"Okay. What else do you know?"
"I know what you want to know. Come and see me and I'll tell you."
"Say it now. It'll only take a second."
"Longer than that. Come and see me. You want to do it anyway."
"No I don't. We settled that."
"Nothing's settled. If I wanted to talk on the phone, I would have called you."
I bit into the filter of my cigarette. "I'll meet you. Remember where we first talked?"
"You're afraid to come here."
"Yes."
"Afraid of me."
"That too.
"You can't meet me outdoors. You know better than that. You know what I have to tell you. Make a choice. I'll be here tonight. From when it gets dark to when it gets light."
98
THE CAR radio said it was unseasonably warm. Mid–fifties. I felt the chill coming from her house before I got it in sight. Pulled around behind. Backed the Plymouth into the empty space outside the garage. The connecting door was open. I stepped inside. I knew the way.
She was in her black–and–white living room, perched on the edge of the easy chair, flashy legs crossed, elbow on her knee, one hand cupping her chin. Fire–streaked hair combed back from her little fox face.
"I kept it warm for you," she said, getting to her feet, heels clicking on the marble floor as she closed the distance between us.
I stood rooted. Nothing was going to get me back in that chair again.
She took both my hands, holding them gently, watching my face. She was wearing a white silk T–shirt that came to mid–thigh. The kind women tie a belt around and make into a dress.
"Sit in the chair. Your chair, remember?"
"No."
"No what?"
"No, I won't sit in the chair."
"But you do remember?"
"Yeah."
"I won't ask you again."
"Good."
She led me to the couch, still holding both my hands. Sat down, pulling me down with her. Pulled one of my hands to her mouth, a dark slash in the room, tiny perfect white teeth gleamed. She kissed my hand. Licked it. Turned her face up to watch mine again. Put my hand in her mouth, sucked on my thumb. Bit it, hard.
"You still taste good."
"What is it that you know? That you wanted me to ask you?"
"Julio told me. He tells me anything. He can never pay off his debt. This crazy man—this killer, they want you to deliver money to him so they can grab him. They're going to leave you there."
"You think that's news?"
"They're going to force you. Very soon. They know how to do it."
"What's the hurry?"
"Their little don, he's so afraid. Hiding in his little house. In the basement, like a cockroach. He's afraid, so they're all afraid. He can't wait. He wants to go to his nightclubs, ride in his big car, visit his gumare…big man. Now he can't do that."
"Okay. Thanks."
Her fingers were twisted in my coat. "Julio hates you. Because you know. What he did to me. He knows you know. I never told him, but he knows. He's put it out that you work with this maniac. The one who did the killing on Sutton Place."
"I already knew that. I got arrested for a homicide I had nothing to do with. That was his work too."
"I could have had Julio taken out years ago. I waited. To make him pay. But he could never pay. It's time for him to go."
"Why now?"
"You re mine. Remember what I told you? I ate your blood, I swallowed your seed. You're in me."
"I'm nobody's," I told her.
Witches hear only their own chants. "I told that evil old man. I told him I'd never let him hurt you. The last time he talked to me, he whined…like the coward he is. Said the don wanted it done. But I know. It's him."
"It doesn't matter who."
"It does. If the boss goes down, Julio's still here. And he'll still want you."
"So you want…"
"A trade. I'll tell you where the don's holed up. And you do Julio. Yes?"
"I thought…"
"Don't you sneer at me! Don't be better than me. You want to do it. You think I don't read the papers? I paid you to get Scotty's picture back. You did that. But the man who did it to him…that pervert in the clown suit…they said they found him with a broken neck. You did that. You're a cold man. A cold man, afraid of my fire."
"You're wrong, Jina. Wrong all over the lot."
Her eyes fired, flickered, glazed over. Singsong witch's chant. "Strega. Strega when you call my name. It's Strega who'll do this for you. Not Jina. Jina's a nice girl. You don't want a nice girl."
"I don't want you."
She licked her lips. "Prove it. Sit in your chair."
"For what?"
"For what you want."
"I want the address."
"Me first."
Bitch. I sat in the chair. Watched her curl herself around my legs
, the T–shirt riding up to her waist, strip of blood–red silk between her thighs. She bent forward, the red silk a thong between her buttocks. Her hand on my zipper. Raspy, hard sound. "Mine," she said, thrusting her hand inside. Nobody home. She made a noise in her throat, took my softness between her lips, licking, making sounds to herself, speaking in tongues. A stirring in the softness but…nothing. Teeth nipped at the head of my cock, lips sliding over the shaft, sucking. Dead. As dead as Belle. I thought if it ever happened to me, I'd die a bit. It felt like winning.
She gave it up after a couple of minutes. Eyes focused hard now, watching my face. "Why?"
"I don't know—it's just gone."
"Is this the first time?"
I don't know what made me tell the truth. "No."
"Did something happen to you?"
"Yeah."
"You got hurt?"
"Yeah."
"Is it going to get better?"
"I don't know. I don't…"
"Care?"
"I don't even know that."
She pulled the zipper up, roughly. "It won't last. I know. I don't care what any doctor says. Don't be…"
"Don't be what? Depressed? Depressed is finding out you're a diabetic. I found out I can't get insulin, you understand?"
"You're not scared." It wasn't a question.
"No."
"You were the last time."
"I know."
"You think that's what did it…if you were scared again?"
"I. Just. Don't. Know. Okay?"
"Okay." Her eyes looked wet—it must have been the light in that white room.
I got up to go. "Give me the address."
"I don't have it."
"You…
"I think I know where he is. But I have to be sure, okay? You can't go twice. Once it happens, they'll know it came from me."
"It could come from anybody. Their own outfit is lousy with rats."
"What about our deal?"
"I sat in the chair."
"I know. I know there's things you can't fake. Especially you. That's not what I mean. Julio."
"Spell it out."
"You have to do them both."
"When will you have the address?"
"Tomorrow, next day. Soon. Couple of days at most. I swear."
"Okay."
She walked downstairs with me, kicking off the spike heels, padding along on the carpet. She stood a step above me. Bent down and kissed me on the lips. Sweet. No biting into me. No witch–fire. She turned to go back upstairs, watching me over her shoulder. I flashed on Candy and years ago. Something stirred. It died when I remembered Candy had never kissed me goodbye when we were kids.
99
DRIVING HOME, my black&white eyes were still working, but the images were reversed. Inside out. Inverted. For me, playing it safe wasn't playing—it was my life. I couldn't find the controls—nothing was where it had been. Terror said it was my partner, but I didn't have my old pal Fear to keep the nerve–endings sharp. Strega the witch was back in my life. Liars gave me their word, sociopaths gave me their trust. Dead people in my zone—some didn't know it yet. Some had my address. Users wanted my blood and vultures waited for my flesh. And I couldn't work up the adrenaline to get off the killing floor. Get off the track before the train came. It wasn't just my cock that wouldn't work. I didn't know if I was lost or gone. In the ground, with Belle.
Freaks use pornography on kids to desensitize them. Break down their natural resistance. Make them think this is the way things are. Drop the thresholds until they can step over them.
Maybe lies and loss work like that too. They don't take your soul, but they made it not worth fighting over.
Like when you're hijacking. You know you're going back to prison, you just don't know when.
It didn't seem so hard to find a way out. Just hard to give a fuck.
100
IN PRISON, I used to make lists. In my head. Draw a bright line down the middle of my mind. Pro and con. The two things I wanted to be.
Some fights you can't get in shape for. I was only in prison with Wesley one time. We kept missing each other on the exchanges. I heard he even went in the Army for a while—when Vietnam was hot and heavy and the judges would give you a pass if you enlisted. There was another guy in the joint with us at the same time. Dayton was his name. A gorilla. Iron–freak. He muscled off the weaker ones, did bodywork for the gangsters. Good time. He didn't seem to give a fuck, but he survived. A life charmed by strength and stupidity. I don't remember how he got into the dispute with Wesley, but I was on the yard with the Prof when it kicked off.
Wesley was standing against the wall. By himself, like always. Dayton rolled up on him. I didn't hear what they said to each other. Dayton grabbed Wesley by the front of his shirt, pulled him close, slapped him hard across the face. Wesley slumped, hands away from his body. Dayton left him there, walking away with his boys.
One of the young Italian guys standing with us laughed. "My man is about to be mondo dee–ceased," nodding his head at Wesley. He said it the same way they say dee–fense at pro football games. The Prof flashed his hustler's smile.
"It won't play the way you say. For one to five, I say my man comes out alive."
Within minutes, we'd booked twenty cartons of cigarettes against a hundred that Dayton wouldn't outlive Wesley.
It was a sucker bet. Dayton was a Dianabol freak. Snarfing the steroids the way other guys in the joint did Talwin, or Valium, or anything else the docs handed out to help you escape for a few hours. They made him massive—bigger than a human should be. When the hacks found him slumped over the pile of weights in the gym, there wasn't a mark on him. But his skin had a nice bluish tone to it. The guys who bet with us thought we got lucky behind an OD. The ones that stayed in prison long enough put it all together. By then, going up against Wesley was an out–bet.
101
MORALES braced me as I was coming out of Lily's joint. It had to happen—a pit bull would drop a bite sooner than Morales would walk away on the losing end. It would have been okay, but Max was with me. About four steps behind, in my shadow. Morales is about my height but he goes about two–twenty—none of it fat. He was a born head–cracker, not a gunman. That saved his life.
He snatched a handful of my jacket, shoved me face–first to the wall, running his rap, telling me if I was carrying I was going back to the joint…when he went dead–quiet. I looked back over my shoulder. Max had one hand on the cop's arm, the other at the back of his neck, bending him backward at an impossible angle. I spun off the wall, making a "drop it" sign to Max. Morales slumped to the sidewalk. I jammed my thumb back in a hitchhiking gesture, twirling my hand, telling Max to disappear.
I knelt next to Morales. He was trying to catch his breath and draw his gun off his right hip with his left hand at the same time—the right arm hung limp and useless at his side.
"You want me to get it for you?" I asked him.
"Cocksucker!" Almost sobbing with the effort.
"Take it easy. You're okay."
"You're not."
"I already know that. Am I under arrest?"
People passed us on the sidewalk. Nobody stopped. I tried to help him to his feet. His eyes were somewhere between rage and pain. Rage won. He fired the elbow of his good arm at my chest. I stepped back and he chopped air. I left him there. Went back to the wall. Stood facing it. Waiting.
Heard him get to his feet, muscles tightening over my kidneys. Felt the barrel of his pistol jam me just where I expected it. Didn't hurt any less.
"Get in the car."
I walked in front of him. His car was empty. He opened the passenger door. I got in. Watched him walk around to the driver's side. His gun was back in his holster.
"You're under arrest. Assault on a police officer. You have the right to…"
"Save it. Do what you have to do. You know I never touched you."
"Not you. Your pals. Whoever they were. I never saw them. But you…you'r
e gonna tell me who they are. Where to find them. Right?"
"I didn't see anything. I was facing the wall."
"That's the way you want it?"
"I don't want any of this. It's you who want things. Things happened, they happen. Whatever you think, I didn't write the script."
"I heard things about you," he said. Lighting a cigarette with the dashboard lighter, not offering me one. "From my partner. He said you were a man. That you could be trusted. We go in on a thing with you—and you Pearl Harbor us—leave us with our dicks in our hands."
"You ever rap a guy in the head with your nightstick when you were in uniform?"
He didn't say anything—that was my answer.
"What if the guy had an eggshell skull? What if he died?"
"Never happen."
"You mean it never happened. There's a difference, right? It could happen. And you wouldn't have meant it to come down like that. But the guy would be just as dead."
"You saying that's what happened with you in the massage parlor?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just saying…you plan things…sometimes the wheels come off. You do the best you can with it. Survive."
"We found out some things. Since everything blew up in Times Square. The guy we found in pieces in the construction site—there was a contract out on him."
"I don't know…"
"Yeah, you don't know what I'm talking about, hit man. I didn't think that was your side of the street."
"It's not."
"There's a mob contract out on a guy. The guy gets dead. We know you did it. We're supposed to think it was personal?"
"Think what you want—that's what you been doing."
"Give it another spin."
"Not a chance. You keep playing me for something I'm not. You pulled my jacket—you know I'm not a soldier. I'm not a hired killer, and I'm not stupid."
"We got you tied into that skell. The one that got iced in the playground."
"That was the charge I was arrested on. So how come I'm on the street?"
"I look like a fucking pansy judge to you? You think I give a fuck about probable cause?"
"You say that to say what?"
"We weren't going to be pals, Burke. But you don't want me for an enemy."
Hard Candy Page 14
