Footsteps of the Hawk (26 page)

And Morales…?

When I got up the next morning, it was past eleven. But that was okay—I finally had something I could do.

S
itting in Mama's restaurant, I went over it again with Max. He was down for the job, but he wanted to drive. I nixed that—I needed him for better things.

We took my Plymouth to the Bronx. I didn't care who knew where I was going for this part. But I checked the mirror anyway….

Nothing.

"You seen Clarence around?" I asked the black man with the fancy Jheri–curl at the gym's front desk.

"The West Indian dude? Dresses real nice?"

"That's him," I said.

"He's in the back," the black man said. "With the little guy—the rhyming man."

"Much obliged," I said.

He stood up, not blocking my path, but coming close enough. "You the heat?" he asked, his tone friendly.

"Sure. And this is my partner, Charlie Chan," I said, nodding my head over at Max. The Mongol regarded the black man calmly, hands open at his sides.

"Yeah…okay," the man said, standing aside.

I found them all in a side room off the main area, clustered around a new–looking big–screen TV with a VCR wired in. They were watching a fight tape—I couldn't tell which one. We stood there, watching. Then I recognized it—it was Frankie's first fight, the one with that guy Jenkins.

We took seats, watched in silence as the Prof ran the tape in slow–mo, rapping to Frankie. "Okay, honeyboy, you see that? You see that overhand right? That move is chump from the jump, son. Telegraphing's bad enough, you sending him fucking Parcel Post!

"I see it," Frankie said.

"
Everybody
saw it, fool!" the Prof snapped. "You been gettin' by on toughness, kid. You keep climbing the line, tough ain't gonna be enough. Soon as you get out that cast, we gonna—"

"I could work with one hand," the kid offered. "On the heavy bag—"

"No way, José" The Prof slammed the door on that one. "We got nothin' but time, boy. Just lay in the cut, stay out the rut, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Frankie said. "But if I'm gonna get paid, I should—"

"Do what the boss says," the Prof finished for him.

We watched the end of the fight. Half of what the Prof was rapping didn't make sense to me, but Max seemed to follow it easily. Maybe having no audio was a help.

When the tape was finished, I pulled Frankie aside. "I could use some help on something," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Sure! I mean, if it's okay with the Prof."

"Let's ask him," I said, putting a hand on Frankie's shoulder, walking him into a quiet corner.

"H
ow's this?" Frankie asked me, a wide grin spreading across his face. He was at the wheel of a white Cadillac Eldorado coupe, parked in the open area on West Street, south of Fourteenth, just off the Hudson.

"An El D. is all right with me," the Prof endorsed, offering the kid a high–five.

I didn't ask him where he got the car—right about then, I didn't want to know.

"You sure the ho' will show?" the Prof asked me.

"She's a Hoosier, brother," I told him. "Never passed Hooking 101—she won't even look in the back seat. Take my car," I told him. "If Morales makes a move, you're clean, okay?"

"Let's play," the little man said.

Max and I folded down the back seat so it was flat—a nice feature to have in your car if you wanted to carry a set of skis. We climbed in, then lay down with our feet toward the back of the trunk, Max behind the passenger seat, me behind Frankie.

"This is gonna be just fine," I said to the kid, pulling a light army blanket over me and Max. If you looked into the back seat, all you'd see would be a big empty space. "Keep the windows up," I said. "We got to do at least one drive–by, so I can be sure you pick out the right one."

"Got it," the kid said, pulling away surprisingly smoothly for an unlicensed amateur.

On Tenth Avenue, I leaned close to Frankie's ear. "Look, kid," I told him, "the way these girls work, it's always from the passenger side of the street. They'll come over, lean into the window, see what's happening, all right?"

"Yeah."

"It's almost impossible to see into these windows with all that tint they got on them. I'm gonna just slide up…here! Okay, now, slow and steady. You're a man looking for a piece of ass, checking out the merchandise, okay?"

"I got it," the kid said, a little tightness in his voice.

We made her on the second pass. Roxanne, still working the same block. Couple–three weeks, she was probably the veteran girl on that stroll by now.

"You got her?" I asked Frankie. "The white chick in the red shorts, white top?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, one more spin, you make the swoop. I'm going under the blanket now. We hear the car door close, we know you got her. Head for West Street, downtown—we'll make our move soon as we hear you say 'hotel,' right?"

"Right."

I slid back, lay next to Max. Felt the Caddy make a couple of turns, then slow to a crawl. Then stop. Faint hissing sound as the passenger window zipped down.

"Hi, honey. You lookin' to party?" Roxanne's voice? No way to tell—after a while, they even
sound
alike.

"That's
exactly
what I'm looking for," Frankie said.

"Where'd you like to go?"

"Around the world," Frankie told her, his voice deeply laced with the self–important ego of a mid–level Guido. "And I got the cash for the ticket."

"Ummmm," the whore purred. "That costs a little bit, honey. Would a C–note bother you?"

"
Nothin'
bothers me," Frankie bragged. "Except wasting time. You comin' along or what?"

I heard the door open, heard it slam shut. Felt the Caddy move off. Heard the snap of the central locking system. Okay.

"I know a good place, honey," Roxanne said. "It's just over on—"

"Yeah, well, fuck a whole bunch of that outdoor shit," Frankie said. "I got a nice place. All fixed up. You're gonna love it." The Caddy made a left turn, heading downtown.

"I dunno, honey," the whore said. "I mean, I'm supposed to call my man if I go off the block. Maybe we could just pull over and—"

"Your 'man,'" Frankie said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "You mean your pimp, right? You got a nigger pimp, bitch?"

"Hey! Be nice," Roxanne purred. "I got rules, just like you. And I really gotta—"

"When you see my hotel room, you won't be—" Frankie started. I tapped Max's left shoulder and the warrior slid out of his hiding place so smooth and quick I almost didn't see it. By the time I pulled myself out of the back, Max had his right hand completely over the whore's nose and mouth, his left resting on her collarbone. Frankie was driving straight ahead with his good hand on the steering wheel, calm as a rhino watching a jackal.

I pulled myself up so my lips were close to her ear. "Roxanne," I whispered, "it's okay. Nobody's gonna hurt you, all right? All we need are some answers. You give us the answers, we let you out, with a hundred bucks for your trouble. My man is gonna take his hand away from your mouth. Slowly, now…okay? Just be nice and calm. The doors're already locked. Nobody can see into the windows. You act stupid, you scream—anything like that—your neck's gonna get broken. Okay?"

She nodded her head vigorously.

I tapped Max's shoulder again. When he turned, I held up one finger. His big hand came off the whore's mouth. Slowly, like I had promised.

"Don't turn around, Roxanne," I said quietly. "This'll only take a minute. You okay?"

"Yes," she said. Her voice was steady, her breathing shaky. Close enough.

"You know my voice, don't you?" I asked.

"No!" she said quickly. "I swear I don't—"

"It's all right," I told her gently. "Nobody's mad at you. A while back, you asked me to do a job of work for you, remember? You got word to me through Mojo Mary?"

"Yes. But I—"

"Shhhh," I soothed her. "Like I said, nobody's mad at you. You used to be an actress, didn't you? That story of yours, about wanting someone to dust your man, that was pretty slick. Very believable. You have a lot of talent, girl."

"Thanks," she said, turning around despite the warning, looking me full in the face. No longer afraid, now that I'd recognized her talent. The left side of her face was bruised, the whole eye socket discolored. "I did act, you know. In school. When I first came here, I—"

"I know," I told her. "But right now, we're working on something. You were hired to do a job, that's all. The same as me. The woman who hired you—"

"She told me—"

"The one with the blond wig?"

"Yes! Rhonda. She said all I had to do was
tell
you, that's all. There wasn't anything else."

"I know. This man of yours, the one that was supposed to be in jail? What was his name? What was the name the blonde bitch told you to tell me?"

"Hector," the whore said. "She told me to say Hector. On Riker's Island. I wasn't really gonna—"

"That's all right, girl," I said, handing over a hundred–dollar bill. "Here, take this. Your man treats you like that," I said, touching my face where hers was bruised, "maybe you should get on a bus instead."

"My man didn't do this," she said indignantly, touching her own face. "It was that nasty cop—the one asking all those questions about Rhonda."

"What kind of questions?" I asked, gentling my voice so I wouldn't spook her.

"Like…where did I meet her, did she live around here. Stupid questions—like
I
would know where she cribbed. I told him the truth—I never saw her before she showed up one day. He was scary. I was just standing around, you know, blasé–blasé, just taking a rest, okay? He like
charges
up, snatches me by the arm. I thought he was a crazy man, like I was being kidnapped or something, but one of the other girls, she knows him, she told him take it easy, okay? God, I thought he was gonna
kill
her, the way he looked. Anyway, he drags me by the arm into his car, right there on the street, and he starts asking me questions. I answered him straight. Every one. So he asks me again. The
same
questions. I was getting real scared, so I told him, you know, time is money. Then he just started to
break
on me. For nothing. He slapped me so hard I thought he knocked a tooth out. He's one of those guys who
hates
us, I can tell. You know, the kind who drive by just to curse at us. They never buy—they just like
look
at us. It's disgusting."

"I'm sorry that happened," I told her, signaling for Frankie to pull over. We were just north of Canal, with a big wide spot to pull over. Perfect. "Here's where you get off," I told her.

She stepped out of the Caddy. Once she got her feet on the ground, she remembered her trade. "How am I gonna get back?" she demanded.

"Take a cab," I told her just as Frankie tromped the gas pedal.

R
oxanne wasn't the first person who tried to hire me for homicide. Most of the hit man stories are myths anyway. You want someone to knock off your wife so you can marry that nineteen–year–old secretary who spends more time working under your desk than on hers, your chances of finding a pro who'll take your money, take her life, and keep his mouth shut—that's about zero. You ask around in too many bars, the next guy you'll meet will most likely be an undercover cop.

During the boom times of the mid–to–late '80s, some of those yuppies actually bought the bullshit along with the stocks and bonds, convincing themselves that power ties and five–thousand–dollar wristwatches were amulets, protecting them against having to pay up when their notes were called. They used money like steroids, bulking up their egos to where they were easy marks. For people like me.

I remember one especially. Young guy, on the sweet side of thirty, tanned and toned, as smooth and cold and hollow as a ceramic vase.

"It happens," he told me dismissively. "I was margined to the max, and I couldn't make the call. So I got involved in this bust–out scheme. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Sure," I told him. It was the truth. You buy a restaurant—just on paper, you're never going to actually run it. Then you use the joint's line of credit to buy everything: industrial refrigerators, china, cash registers. Even soft goods, like Kobe steaks from Japan and mega–lobsters from Maine. It's all on the come—cash in thirty days. Then you turn around and sell it. Sell it
all
—ata deep, deep discount, say 70 percent off. You take the cash and you walk. Run, sometimes.

"Yeah," he said, not convinced but wanting something more important from me than just demonstrating his superiority. "Anyway, one of the guys turned weak….He's been making noises about…going to the authorities. You understand my position?"

Better than you do, sucker.
I thought, nodding my head in agreement.

"Yeah, well…I need some work done. And I was told you could…"

I nodded again, very somber, very reassuring. They never come right out and say it. They want you to ice a man or burn a man—means the same thing. Top him, drop him. Dust him, cap him, ace him or waste him. Blow him up, blow him away. Clock him or Glock him. Smoke him. Grease him. Chill him, plant him. Cancel his ticket, or punch it. Take him down, take him out, take him off the count. So many words—it's like they had an ad agency on the job full–time.

At ground zero, they say it straight—tell you to go out and
do
the motherfucker….

I told him I could handle it. Told him what I'd need up front. "That's the way it's done," I said. And the with–it twit went and got the money.

Got himself taken too—I didn't think he'd call a cop. I read about it a few weeks later. When the guy the yuppie was worried about went to the
federales,
he started a bear market in informing. The sucker I'd been dealing with was too late—by the time he was ready to turn, his information was selling at a deep discount, and all he really bought was some time inside.

Maybe he'll learn something inside besides how to improve his tennis game. I tried to think of a way I could have cared less, but I couldn't come up with one.