Andrew Vachss - Strega

I pulled the magnum out of the vise, held it two-handed, and emptied it into the wall. It kicked a bit, but not as much as I expected from the short barrel. I broke the gun and dropped the empties into my hand. Jacques was still selling quality merchandise.

The rats were back doing business before I had the trapdoor closed.

IWOKE up the next morning and just stayed there on the couch for a bit, watching Pansy growl in her sleep at a patch of sunlight on her face. I'd been dreaming of Flood-I do it all the time since she left. When I was a kid in reform school I used to dream about getting out-staying out-being somebody important, like a major-league gangster. Now I just replay the tapes of my past inside my head-I can't erase them but I do enough editing to keep me sane.

I took my time getting ready to go out and get some breakfast. I wasn't in any screaming hurry to check out the race results.

The bakery was a couple of blocks away, still standing despite the invasion of yuppies. Newspaper columnists who never rode a subway still call my neighborhood the "mean streets," but the only danger out there is maybe getting hit by a flying croissant.

There was a new girl working in the bakery, about sixteen years old, with black hair and dark eyes. From the way the guy who runs the place was watching her, she had to be his daughter. I make sure I don't buy there too often-the owner thinks I make the trip all the way from Brooklyn just for his bread. If too many people know where you live, sooner or later you get visitors.

I picked out a semolina loaf for Pansy and a couple of hard rolls for me. Next door in the deli I got some pineapple juice and seltzer plus a slab of cream cheese. A lot of guys I did time with said when they got out they'd always start the day off with a real breakfast-bacon and eggs, steak, hash-browns, coffee, all that. I never did that-I'm particular about who I eat with.

I grabbed a Daily News off the stand. The newsdealer is blind. I handed him a five, telling him what it was. He put the bill face down on this machine he has, moving his hand so it forced the bill over some lights. "Five dollars," the machine said in a robot voice. The paper costs thirty-five cents now. The price of everything except human life has gone up a lot in New York.

Upstairs I tore open the semolina loaf and scooped out the guts. Most of the slab of cream cheese went inside. I looked over at Pansy. She was sitting like a stone, drooling. I tossed her the loaf, saying the magic word at the same time. As usual, she bit right through the middle so that the piece on each side of her jaws fell to the floor. It was gone before I had a chance to make my own breakfast. "You've got the table manners of an animal," I told her. Pansy never looked up-nobody respects my social criticism.

I mixed the seltzer and pineapple juice, opened the hard rolls, and put the last of the cheese inside. Finally, I turned to the race results. Sure enough, Flower Jewel was the first horse listed in the seventh race. But before I had even a split-second's worth of pleasure out of it, I saw the tiny "dq" next to her name. Disqualified. I went over the charts, trying to see how I was robbed this time. My horse tried to get to the top but was parked by another animal all the way to the half before she was shuffled back to fourth against the rail. Then she pulled out and was flying in the stretch when she broke stride. When she crossed the wire first she wasn't pacing like she was supposed to, she was galloping. Flower Jewel was out of an Armbro Nesbit mare by Flower Child, a trotting stallion. She had her grandfather's heart, but not her father's perfect stride. What the hell: she probably didn't know she didn't win the race. My love for the animal was unchanged-she did the right thing-much better to get there first by cheating than play by the rules and finish back in the pack. At least she'd get another shot next week.

It was still early enough for the hippies downstairs to be asleep. I picked up the phone and called over to the restaurant.

" Poontang Gardens," answered Mama Wong. Some soldier had suggested the name to her years ago and she's too superstitious to change it.

"It's me," I said. "Any calls?"

"Same girl. She say you be there."

"What?"

"She call, okay? I say you not here. She say, 'You tell him be there, and she hang up."

"Thanks, Mama."

"Hey!" she snapped, just as I was about to hang up, "People tell you what to do now?"

"No," I said and hung up.

I called Pansy back from the roof and went into the other room. I got the little TV set and went back to the couch. I asked Pansy what she wanted to watch but she didn't say. All she likes are shows about dogs and professional wrestling. I found a rerun of "Leave It to Beaver" and kicked back on the couch. I was asleep before it was over.

WHEN I came to, there was some western on the screen. Two guys had just finished bashing each other's heads in and were getting ready to shake hands. Politicians do that too, but it comes natural to them-they're all dogs from the same litter.

I let Pansy out to the roof again and started to put together what I'd need for my date. If this was a regular case, I would have had her come to the office, where it's safer for me, but she was pushing too hard and I wasn't going to give her any more information about me than she already had. I set the magnum aside-I could put it back into the cavity next to the transmission hump just in case, but I didn't think I was walking into a shoot-out. Hell, I wouldn't walk into a shoot-out. The redhead wasn't really working together with Julio-if the old man wanted me put down he would have tried it already. He was just pushing on me the same way the redhead was, but not for the same reason.

I dressed like I was going to be arrested-when nothing feels right, you make plans for things going wrong. An old leather sportcoat; plain white cotton shirt, button cuffs; a black knit tie. All that camouflage wouldn't stop me from being rolled in, but it might stop the cops from being too forceful about it. If they only took me as far as the precinct, I still might be able to do something about it. But if they actually made an arrest, I'd be around for a while-my fingerprints would fall and they'd know I wasn't a citizen. Figuring the worst, I made sure I wasn't carrying anything that would make a problem for me. The ankle-high boots had zippers up the insides. They also had steel toes and one hollow heel. I folded five ten-dollar bills tightly to get them inside the heel. Soft money is the best contraband to have when you're locked up. A ten-dollar bill is just about right for a jailhouse transaction-more than enough to get me moved to another tier or for a supply of smokes and magazines. Twenty bucks would get me some private time on the phone and tap me into the rest of my money if it came to that. In jail they let you keep most of your streetside clothes. They don't take everything away until you get sentenced.

I took a shower and shaved carefully, listening to the radio say how warm it was for that time of the year. I've got a good watch, a gold Rolex some rich guy lost in his hotel room, but I didn't put it on. Times have changed-I was just a kid years ago, sitting in the holding cell, watching the cops bring a full-race pimp up to the booking desk. I was still handcuffed but they'd hooked me in front so I could smoke. I was splitting one of my last matches-you put your thumbnails carefully into the cardboard at the base of the match, then you pull up slowly until you have two matches with half a striking-head on each piece. The Puerto Rican kid next to me was holding the matchbook so we could get a light. When he leaned over for some fire he nudged me in the ribs so I'd look up. The pimp was raising hell, mouthing off about how the cops should be careful of his jewelry and how much it cost. The fat old sergeant at the booking desk acted like the pimp wasn't in the room. He picked up all the jewelry one piece at a time, read aloud what it was, and marked it down on the voucher sheet. They'd give it all back to the pimp when he paid his fine. It was all a dance. The sergeant made his list like a guy taking inventory: "One diamond bracelet, gold clasp. One signet ring, onyx and gold, initial 'J,' one pinky ring…" The pimp kept up a running fire about how much all that stuff cost. I think that was when I first got the idea that it was stupid to steal from citizens. The sergeant picked up the pimp's wristwatch. It was thin as a dime, with a dark-blue face and little diamonds all around the rim-a thing of beauty. He looked down at the pimp, who said, "Hey, my man, you best be careful with that watch. It cost more than you make in a year!" The cop looked thoughtfully at the watch for a minute, like he was trying to figure out how it could cost all that cash. Then he slammed it face down on the desk counter. The crystal cracked and little pieces went flying all over the place. The pimp screamed "Hey man!" like it was his head that got cracked. The sergeant looked at the pimp, said, "One man's watch-broken," and wrote it down on his sheet. His expression never changed. I wasn't worried about them doing that to my Rolex. Like I said, times have changed. Now they'd probably steal it.