Andrew Vachss - Strega

I nodded my head to the redhead and the two other boys didn't waste another minute fading back to the front of the fast-food joint. They weren't there for conversation.

"You want to go for a ride, Terry?" I asked him.

The kid didn't blink, his eyes shifting to the back seat and up again to my face, smelling for trouble, the mechanical smile still in place.

He knew the code. "I have to ask my uncle," he said. "Will you buy me something nice if I go with you?"

"Sure," I said, "where's your uncle?"

"I'll get him," the kid said, his soft white hands on the windowsill of the Lincoln. "Don't talk to any of the other boys while I'm gone, okay?"

"Okay," I told him, lighting a cigarette like I was prepared to wait.

It didn't take long. The redhead disappeared inside the joint, emerged in another minute with a man in tow. The man was in his early twenties, wearing a white sportcoat with the sleeves pushed up to display heavy forearms and a jeweled watch. He had an orange silk T-shirt on underneath, wide flowing white pants, the cuffs billowing over his shoes. The new look for kiddie-pimps-Miami Lice. The man's hair was so short on the sides it almost looked shaved, but the top was grown out and flowed down his back. As he rolled up on the Lincoln, he grabbed the redhead by the waistband on his jeans and hoisted him onto the front fender with one hand. The waistband of the pimp's pants was wide, like a cummerbund. He hooked his thumbs inside the band, pressing his hands together to force the blood into his arms and chest. He wasn't a power-lifter: his waist was too small for that. He could lift the little redhead with one hand, but he was built for show, not go.

The pimp leaned into the Lincoln, his chiseled face filling the open window, sending me a message. "Terry says you want to take him out for some pizza?"

I let a tremor of fear into my face, mumbling, "Uh…yes, I just wanted to…

He cut me off. "I know what you want. I'm responsible for the boy, see? You leave a deposit with me-just to make sure you bring him back on time, okay? Then you go and buy him that pizza."

"A deposit?"

"A hundred dollars," the pimp said. He wasn't going to discuss it.

I put my hand in my pocket like I was reaching for my wallet. Hesitated, watching his eyes. "What I really want…" I started to say.

"None of my business," he said, holding out his hand, turning his head casually to watch the street around us.

I cast my eyes down, looking at his open hand. "Pictures," I said.

The young man was getting impatient. "You want pictures, you take pictures, okay?"

"I want to buy some pictures," I said. "I'm a collector," as if that explained everything.

It did. "We got pictures of Terry. Candid shots. He's a beautiful boy," the young man said. He could have been describing a Chevy.

"How old is he?"

"Terry is"-thinking how low he could pitch this-"he's ten." The young man must have thought I looked dubious. "He's just tall for his age.

"You have pictures of…younger boys?"

"Pictures? Look, man. Take the boy here out for some pizza, okay? Take your own pictures. Anything you want."

"I just want the pictures," I said. "I…can't take them myself."

The young man rolled his eyes up, silently bemoaning the difficulties of his business. "I might be able to get you some pictures. It's a lot of work. Could be pretty expensive.

"I don't care," I assured him.

"Tell you what. You take Terry for his pizza, right? Bring him back to the big ships-you know the West Side Highway, near Forty-fifth? Where they have those navy ships you can walk around on?"

I nodded, eager to please.

"I got a red Corvette. A new one. Drive down to the pier, say around midnight? Look for my car. You bring back Terry-I'll have some pictures for you."

"How many?" I asked.

"How many you want, friend? They're expensive, like I told you."

"How many could I buy for…say, a thousand dollars?"

The young man's eyes flared for a split-second. Only a Class A chump would bargain like I was. "You want action photos or just poses?"

"Action," I whispered, my eyes downcast.

"That's four for a thousand," he said.

"Four different boys?"

"Four different. Action shots. Color."

"I have to go home and get the money," I said.

"Take Terry with you," the young man said. "After you buy him some pizza."

I just nodded, moving my Adam's apple in my throat like I was gulping it all down.

The pimp put his hand on the back of the redhead's neck. The little kid's face contorted in pain, but he didn't say anything. "You be a good boy, now," said the pimp in a dead-flat voice. The kid nodded.

The young man opened the door of the Lincoln, shoved the boy inside. He held out his hand for the hundred dollars.

I handed it over. Making my voice brave, I said, "How do I know you'll be there?"

"You've got my merchandise," the pimp said, pocketing the hundred and walking away in the same motion.

IPULLED out into traffic, grabbing a quick look at the boy sitting next to me. He was huddled against the passenger door, head down. The digital clock on the dash said seven-fifty-six-about four hours until I got to meet the man with the pictures.

I hit the power-door lock button-the boy jumped when he heard it click home. He looked at me, twisting his hands together in his lap. "Are you going to hurt me?" he asked in a calm voice. He wasn't looking to talk me out of it, just asking what was going to happen to him.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kid," I told him in my own voice.

His face shot up. "Are you a cop?"

"No, I'm not a cop. I'm a man doing a job. And I want you to help me.

"Help you?"

"Yeah, Terry. Help me. That's all."

The boy was scanning my face, looking for the truth-probably wouldn't recognize it if he saw it.

"What do I have to do?"

"I'm looking for someone. Out here. I'm going to drive around the streets, looking. I want you to look too, okay?"

"Really?"

"Really."

"Who are you looking for?"

"You know the little black guy with no legs-the one on the skateboardpushes himself along with his hands?"

His face brightened up. "Yeah! Yeah, I know him. I talked to him once. He asked me if I wanted to run away."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"I was still talking to him when Rod came along."

"Is Rod the guy who I was talking to?"

"Yeah, that's him. He kicked the little black guy right off the skateboard. He has legs, you know," the kid said, his voice serious.

"I know," I told him. "You keep your eyes peeled now-we want to find him."

"How come?" he asked.

"He's going to help me do something tonight," I said.

"You're not going to hurt me?" he asked again.

"No, kid. I'm not going to hurt you," I promised him again, keeping my distance.

I made a couple of slow circuits through the cesspool, cruising between Sixth and Ninth on the cross streets, my eyes passing over the action, searching for the Prof. A police car pulled next to us; the cop's eyes were bored. Almost all the people on the street were male-dream-buyers looking for sellers, wolfpacks looking for prey. Hell eats its tourists.

I looped around at 39th, heading back uptown on Eighth. We were across 44th when the boy shouted, "I see him!," pointing excitedly at the front of a gay movie house. The Prof was on his cart, working the traffic, begging for coins with his cup, watching from ground zero like the cops never could. I ran the Lincoln into the curb, pulled the ignition key, and locked the door behind me, leaving the boy inside. The Prof heard my footsteps pounding toward him and looked up, his hand inside his long ragged coat. When he saw it was me, he grabbed some sidewalk and gave himself a heroic shove in my direction. In our world, when someone moves fast, there's trouble behind.