Andrew Vachss - Strega

It was almost six by the time I was ready to leave. The meeting was for nine, so the timing was just about right. I brought Pansy back downstairs and fixed things so she'd have food and water for at least a couple of weeks if I didn't come right back. I left the back door open a crack so she could get to the roof herself. The open door wouldn't help a burglar much-he'd have to be a human fly to get in the door, and a magician to get out.

I stopped at four different self-serve gas stations along Atlantic Avenue. The Plymouth has a fifty-gallon tank-if I filled it up at one place, they might remember me. Just before I made the turn onto the Inter-Boro I saw a gray stone building on my right. The windows were barred and there was barbed wire on the roof. The door looked like the entrance to Attica. The sign on the front said it was a Day Care Center.

It took less than an hour for me to finally get to the old spot in Forest Park. It was still light enough for the joggers and dog-walkers. I drove through the entire park a couple of times, looking for some other spots to park-and for people looking for me. I finally parked the Plymouth just off the road, opened the trunk, and put on the old raincoat and leather gloves I always keep in there. Then I changed the rear tire closest to the road, taking my time. It was a while before I was finished. I put everything back into the trunk except for the tire iron and the gloves, which I tossed into the back seat.

By the time I settled down to wait, the only thing that didn't belong in all that greenery was me.

WHAT WAS left of the weak sun filtered through the thick trees, making patterns of light and dark all around the Plymouth. By the time the shadows won the war I had stopped listening to my tapes. Headlights shot through the park, cars motored by. Once in a while I'd see a bicycle or even a late jogger wearing reflective foil on his warmup suit. I ground each cigarette out against the car door, putting the butts inside a plastic bag. No point in telling the cops how long I'd been waiting, if it came to that.

It was almost nine when I heard the whine of a car kept too long in a lower gear. The little BMW tore around the far curve and headed right at me. The redhead was running a pair of driving lights on the front bumper-the white light blasted into my windshield as she slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop almost on top of me. As soon as I heard her engine shut off, I started the Plymouth. I heard her door slam and I watched her walk the way women do in high heels on a tricky surface. She was close enough for me to see her face when I pulled the lever into gear and started to creep forward. Her legs were spread wide, anchored to the ground, hands on hips. Her mouth was open to say something, but I pulled past the BMW and stopped, foot on the brake. She walked toward me again, and I pulled forward some more.

She got it. The redhead walked back to her car. I waited until she started it again; then I pulled out slowly so she could follow, heading for the better spot I'd found before. The Plymouth calmly drove through the park; the BMW stuck to my bumper, her damned driving lights flooding the rearview mirrors. I turned the inside mirror backward and made two tours through the park, just in case she brought some friends. I could hear the angry roar of the BMW in the night-she was so close I could have merged with her front end if I hit the brakes.

I found the spot I wanted and pulled all the way in, leaving the Plymouth with its nose pointing back out to the road. The redhead was right behind me, but she didn't have room to turn around-like I wanted it.

I killed the engine.

Her door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass. She stalked over to where I was sitting, her little fox face set and hard.

"You all through playing games?" she snapped.

I got out of the Plymouth, reaching for the flashlight I keep in the door panel. I walked past her to the BMW, opened the door, and shone the light inside. Empty.

"Open the trunk," I told her.

The redhead made a hissing sound, but she turned and reached inside her car for the keys. I shined the light on her to help. She was wearing what looked like half a normal skirt, reaching over to the middle of her thighs. It had vertical black and white stripes and was topped by a wide black belt. Her stockings had dark seams down the back of her legs. She bent inside the car to get the keys-it was taking too long.

"Having trouble?" I asked her.

She looked back over her shoulder. "Just wanted to make sure you got a good look," she said, a bright smile on her face.

"Just get the keys," I told her, an edge to my voice.

She gave her hips a sharp little wiggle, then turned around with the keys in her hand. She walked back to the trunk, opened it, and stood aside. I shined the light inside. Lots of junk, but no humans. I pulled up the carpet, looked inside the spare-tire well. Nothing there either.

I gave her back the keys. "Follow me to the street," I told her. "We'll find a place to park your car and you can come with me."

"No way!" she snarled. "Go with you where ?"

"Someplace where we can talk, okay?"

"We can talk right here."

" You can talk here if you want. You want me in on the conversation, you come with me.

"And if I don't?"

"Then we don't talk."

She ran her fingers through her fiery hair, front to back, thinking.

"Julio…" she started to say.

"Julio's not here," I said.

The redhead gave me one of those "You better not be fucking around with me" looks, but that was her last shot. She climbed back into the BMW and started the engine. I pulled the Plymouth away and headed out of the park.

IFOUND an empty spot on Metropolitan Avenue, pulled past it, and waited. She wrestled the BMW into the space, put a big piece of cardboard in the side window, and walked over to me. I got out and went over to look at what she left. It was a hand-lettered sign-"No Radio." I thought all BMWs came with those signs straight from the factory.

She slammed the Plymouth 's door closed with all her strength. I made a U-turn on Metropolitan back toward the Inter-Boro eastbound. We pulled onto the highway, following the signs to the Triboro.

"We're going into the city?" she asked.

"Just keep quiet," I told her. "We'll talk when we get there."

She didn't say anything else. I checked the mirror. It was a relief not to have her driving lights burning in my eyes. Just before the turnoff to the Long Island Expressway, I pulled off into Flushing Meadow Park. She opened her mouth to say something, but I held my finger to my lips.

Nobody was following us, but I didn't want her saying where we were going in case Michelle's search had given her some ideas.

"How come you use those driving lights even when there's traffic in front of you?" I asked her.

"They look nice," she said, as if that settled things.

I circled the park slowly until I came to the parking lot on the east side. A few cars were already pulled in, facing the sewage the politicians named Flushing Bay. The cars were spaced well apart, the windows dark. The cops used to make a circuit through here, flashing their lights. If they saw two heads in the window they kept on going. They stopped when the merchants on Main Street complained they needed more coverage of their stores.

Couples used to park back in the bushes too, but a gun-carrying rapist working the area stopped all that. Wolfe had tried the case against the dirtbag when they finally caught him. She dropped him for twenty-five to fifty, but people still stuck close to the water's edge.

I pulled in between an old Chevy with a jacked-up rear end, "José and Juanita" painted on the trunk in flowing script, and a white Seville with fake wire wheels. Lights from the incoming planes to LaGuardia reflected off the black water.