Footsteps of the Hawk (24 page)

"Greetings, my friend," Clarence said, peacocking in a tangerine linen jacket over an emerald green silk shirt.

"The Prof inside?" I asked him.

"Only temporarily, mahn. The workout is over. We will all be leaving soon."

"I'll wait out here," I said.

"You are troubled?" the young man asked. "Can I—?"

"No, it's okay, Clarence. I just need to ask the Prof something."

"If it is a question, my father will have the answer," he said confidently.

I heard the Prof before I saw him, rattling on about the next fight. When he spotted me, he dropped the rhyme–time patter, closing the space between us quickly.

"What is it, Burke?"

"I gotta talk to you," I told him. "This thing…it's getting out of control."

"Come on," he said, gesturing to Frankie and Clarence to follow The Prof led the way outside to the loading dock. He and Frankie sat down, Clarence stood, not wanting to risk a blot on his outfit. I gave the Prof a look, sliding my eyes just slightly to the right, where Frankie was sitting.

"He's with us," the Prof said, saying it all.

"I need some cover," I told him. "Tonight. In the Benson Street alley, behind the Family Court downtown. I'm supposed to meet her at midnight. And the wheels are coming off."

"Coming off what, schoolboy?"

"Morales has been on me—
dead
on me—for a long time now. There was another killing, up in Westchester. Same night as the fight, but real late, after midnight. I didn't know about it—it didn't make the papers, not the early ones anyway. Morales moved on me Saturday morning. He said he was at Frankie's fight. Watching me, all right? He said I was gaming him—that he was my alibi for the killing."

"He thinks you…?"

"Prof, I don't know
what
the fuck he thinks. First I thought he was accusing me of being in on it…like this Belinda was my partner or something. He warned me off…said
everyone
around would be going down."

"Cop's doing you a favor?" Prof sneered. "That's a natural–born lie."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. Except that…up in Westchester, the killer left the signature…the red ribbon inside the body. No way Piersall did it, so it had to be Belinda, right?"

"Or this guy Piersall, he's really innocent…" the Prof mused.

"Sure," I said. "He pulls some hooker out of a truck stop in Jersey, cuts her up for the sex–fun of it—few weeks later, he's rehabilitated? No way—it
has
to be Belinda. She's got something going with Piersall—Hauser saw it."

"If you're sure, then—"

"But what if it was Morales?" I said, confusing myself even more than the Prof. "What if he's skating? What if he wasn't down in Atlantic City at all? He could be setting me up to be
his
fucking alibi, right?"

"If that's true, he has to know about Frankie," the Prof said. "Unless he's got partners, he couldn't—"

"He's got no partners," I said. "I'm sure of it—he's out there by himself."

The Prof regarded me steadily, his dark–brown eyes gentle on mine. "This ain't us," he said. "I got no beef with an honest thief. You want to rob, it's just a job. You can steal, still be for real. But when you hurt folks for fun, it's time to run or gun, son."

"I'm with you," I said. "And I'm all for running. But I'm not gonna do it blind. Whoever it is, they got their eyes on me. There's no sense in getting out of town. I'm safer here—more places to slip into. There's a big piece missing. I find it, I can get lost, understand?"

"Okay, we do it today," the Prof said. "Let's get rolling. You want Clarence to stay with—?"

"No, I'm okay," I said. "That cab over there's mine—for a while, anyway. If you can do the other thing, cover me tonight—"

"You're covered, homeboy," the Prof said, leaping lightly off the loading dock to the ground.

"I'm in too," Frankie said.

"You don't know what this is about," I told him.

"I know about taking a partner's back," the kid said. "I mean, I
heard
about it. I never saw it myself, not till you guys came along." His eyes cut off the ring, holding me in place. "I'm in," he finished in a flat no–argument voice.

The Prof nodded. Frankie jumped to the ground. We stood together in the shadow of the building, not talking. It felt like the prison yard: standing around, huddling against the chill that was always there, even in the summertime. Gun towers somewhere above us, the real danger right there on the ground, surrounding us even tighter than the filthy stone walls.

I cupped my hands to light a cigarette, using the few seconds to scan, an old prison–yard habit. The match flickered bright red in my hands. A different flash in the corner of my eyes, silver. What the…"Down!" I yelled, driving my shoulder into Frankie's chest, taking him down with me. His body spun just as I hit him, a split–second before I heard the shot. I stayed on him, trying to flatten against the ground. Chips flew from the brick wall over our head. A quick burst of shots rang out, so close they blocked my eardrums. Clarence, lying prone, his pistol held between two hands braced on his elbows. Sounds of a car peeling out.

Then it was quiet.

"High on the shoulder," the Prof said, kneeling over Frankie. "In and out," he said, pointing to Frankie's leather jacket.

"I'm…okay," Frankie said, biting into his lower lip.

"You see them?" I asked Clarence.

"No, mahn. Just the car. A dark car. Sedan. I may have hit it—I don't know."

"Let's get him to the hospital," I said. "Quick, before the cops come."

"In this neighborhood?" the Prof sneered. "Don't worry about it. We'll get him over to Lincoln, tell the Man it was a drive–by. Kids in a Jeep, random fire—you know how it goes. Get in the wind: we'll be there tonight."

N
obody had said anything, but we all knew—Frankie wasn't the target. Somebody out there had me in their sights—somebody way past threats. Whoever it was, they knew about Frankie. Knew about the gym. Maybe knew about Atlantic City.

Homicide fixes things. I used to believe in it, like a religion. But when you deliver a murder, it always comes wrapped in razor–wire—you handle it wrong and it cuts deep. And any mistake you make is the only one you get.

Guns are too easy. They
make
it too easy. Squeeze a trigger, take a life.

Even if I could make myself do it, I'd be guessing. It could be Belinda. It could be Morales.

And if I guessed wrong, I'd be dead twice.

There's a special curse reserved for Children of the Secret. We decide to survive, to pay whatever that costs. Some of us turn dangerous, but that's not the real curse. The real curse is friendly fire—when your hate turns your aim wild and you cut down anyone who tries to be on your side.

I never thought I'd do that. I would rather die than hurt anyone in my family—my true family. A family of truth, not of biology.

I never had a parent until the State took me. And what they did to me, I will never forgive. If the State was a person, I would have killed it a long time ago. Killed it or died trying, I have that much hate in me.

Sometimes it spills over. I don't feel anything about those killings in the Bronx years ago. I don't feel anything about going into that house. I don't pretend anymore—I don't pretend I went in there to save a kid. I went in there for me, focusing my hate down so narrow it lasered right through the darkness. When I was done, a dead kid was in the pile of bodies I'd made.

Ever since, I've been trying to blame the State for that too. But I knew better. And maybe Morales did too.

A
bout eleven that night, I was still thinking about it. I have guns. Cold guns, impossible to back–track to the source. Fine guns, in perfect working condition. And I know where to get more, That used to be a feat in this city, but any punk can get one now—it's a fashion accessory, part of the Look.

Don't get me wrong. New York has gun–control laws. Real tight ones too. You want to carry a pistol, you have to have a damn good reason—like being a rent collector for a slumlord or needing something to show off at penthouse parties. If you work in a dangerous neighborhood, you can probably carry a piece legit. But if you
live
in one of those neighborhoods, that's too fucking bad, Jack.

Getting my hands on a gun was no problem. But I couldn't do it. Not out of guilt, out of fear. Afraid of what I might do…start fixing things with bullets. I had tried that. Tried real hard. But the only thing I could kill with guns was people.

And not the people who had hurt me so deep when I was a kid, only secondhand substitutes.

I took a long piece of razor–edged dull–gray plastic out of my desk drawer. One end was wrapped in friction tape, double–sided so it would be sticky wherever I grabbed it. The way you use it, you stab deep, then you twist it, hard. The plastic will cut into anything, but it snaps real easy—you leave a big chunk inside.

I took my old army field jacket down from a hook. It's a burglar's special, custom–made by a tailor I know over on Broome Street—the old man's been making them for years. It's got a Kevlar lining, several thin layers—for bullets. The sleeves are heavily padded, with a layer of chain mesh inside. That's for dogs—no matter how well they're trained, most of them will take a sleeve if it's offered. The inside pockets are perfect for stashing stuff like jewelry or cash. But it wouldn't hold a stereo or a TV set—an outfit like this isn't for amateurs.

I slipped the plastic knife into the left sleeve, anchored it in place with a piece of Velcro loop. The jacket is designed to get past any street cop's pat–down—no bulges. The knife didn't show. Neither did the speed key for handcuffs resting flat just under the back panel.

There's a place for a set of lock picks, another for a couple of pairs of surgeon's gloves with the talcum powder already dusted on their insides. I left the lock picks, kept the gloves.

I climbed into a pair of chinos, pulled them down over a pair of work boots. Not for construction work, for my work—thick crepe for the soles, steel caps for the toes.

You see kids dressing this way all the time now: big baggy pants, torn sweatshirts, clunky lace–up boots. Industrial–look gear, it's the in thing now. Makes sense when you think about it. Kids copy the life
style
, not the life. A while back the boys were all sporting thick gold–chain ropes, four–finger rings, ultra sunglasses. Even fake beepers. All to look like drug dealers, the ultimate ghetto role model. Those kids didn't deal drugs—and the ones modeling industrial gear this year don't work jobs either.

In America, the more useless it is, the more we love it. Those monfucious 88 Double–D cups you see on some of those poor little bitches who went way over the top with the implants so they could be headliners in the strip bars—you think they're there so those girls can nurse entire litters?

Amateur criminals are like thrill–killers. All they really get out of crime is a sick little buzz—that's their pathetic loot. You show me some geek night–stalking in a Ninja outfit, I'll show you a full–race disturbo. The first rule of stalking is to blend. When I walked out the door that night, I looked like just another ex–soldier in the army of disconnected men who pound the pavement until they merge with it.

Me, I was going to work.

It takes a different head to use a knife. Guns, they're a video game you play in your head. A knife is personal.

If it was Belinda, if tonight was when it happened, the knife would have to do. Harder to make a mistake when you're working close.

I
walked up Broadway in the opposite direction from the traffic flow, stopping in doorways to scan behind me. It looked clear. Felt that way too.

I made the right into Leonard Street, staying on the south side of the block so I could see into the alley. No cars. Just the usual soggy piles of litter around the pair of big blue Dumpsters awaiting the early–morning pickup.

Leonard Street runs past the Criminal Court on Centre, then crosses Lafayette past the Family Court. It's a one–way street. Most folks could say the same thing about the courts.

I watched the alley mouth. Usually you could see right through to Franklin Street on the other side, but the view was blocked by a pair of semis, backed in side–by–side, like they were waiting for the off–loaders. I wasn't going in there until I saw her. With the semis parked at one end, it was even more of a box than usual—it'd be too easy to block the opening and just hose it down.

I could make out the outline of a homeless man. He was lying on a bed of flattened cartons, shrouded by a tattered old parka, about ten feet away from the alley's entrance. Couldn't tell if it was the Prof, but I figured that for his best spot. I watched the man steady for a few minutes—he didn't move.

It was quiet in the street. All the action was a few blocks away in either direction. To the east, night arraignments at the Criminal Court—a dull–gray mass that squeezed everyone tight, sometimes extruding a lucky chump, mostly just grinding, grinding. To the west, the whole bullshit "downtown" scene, with its grunge–dressed club kids all looking exactly the same different.

A few minutes before midnight, a white compact—Toyota? Honda? no way to tell—nosed its way around the corner from Lafayette. The car slowed, came to a stop just past the alley, then reversed and backed in. Backed in deep—if you passed by the alley, it would be hard to spot. The headlights blinked off. The driver's door opened. The interior light came on. One person inside—or maybe just one person visible above the windshield line.

Someone got out, wearing a bulky jacket and a slouch hat. Belinda? Hard to tell in that light—I gave it a little more time. Whoever it was took off their jacket, then bent forward and leaned on the car's front fender. Then they extended one leg backward, flexed it. Did the same to the other. Like warm–up exercises for a race. When my night vision kicked in, I could see it was her. When she turned sideways and stretched, reaching her hands way over her head, I was sure.