Andrew Vachss - Strega

"Prof, come on," I told him, "we got work to do."

"If you're singing my song, please don't take long," he bopped out, ready for whatever, telling me to get on with it.

I grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him along on his cart to the Lincoln. I opened the trunk. The Prof climbed off his cart and we tossed it inside. I opened the passenger door and the Prof jumped in. He pulled his own door shut as I went around to the driver's side. We were back into the uptown traffic in a minute.

"Terry," I said to the boy, "this is the Prof."

"The Prof?" the kid asked.

"Prof is short for Prophet, my man," said the little black man, pulling off his misshapen felt hat, his spiky Afro shooting up out of control. "I never fall because I see it all."

The kid's eyes were wide, but he wasn't afraid. Good.

"What's on?" the Prof wanted to know. He didn't use my name.

"Tell you soon, Prof. First we need Michelle. You know where she might be working?"

"Avenue C ain't the place to be."

(The Lower East Side was a dangerous place to work.)

"Working the docks is only for jocks."

(The gay hustlers had West Street sewn up.)

"So if you want sex, it's got to be on Lex."

I swung the Lincoln east, moving crosstown on 48th. I lit a cigarette, letting the big car drive itself. The whores wouldn't be working until we got into the Thirties.

"Can I have one?" asked the boy.

I handed him the pack. "How old you are, boy?" the Prof asked, not happy with my child-care techniques.

"I was smoking when I was his age," I told him.

"Yeah, and look how you turned out, bro'," came the response.

A smile flickered across the boy's face, as fleet as a memory. He handed the pack back to me.

The side streets crossing lower Lexington were so clogged with whores that the Lincoln had to creep its way through. I knew Michelle wouldn't be running up to a car-it wasn't the way she worked. The Prof knew it too. "A racehorse don't run with the mules," he said. "Racehorse" was the ultimate compliment for a working girl, reserved only for the very best.

It took us another half-hour to find her, lounging against a lamppost, a tiny pillbox hat on her head, a half-veil covering her face. She had a black-and-white-checked coat that came halfway down her hips over a black pencil-skirt. Ankle straps on her spike heels. Like a bad girl from World War II.

I pulled the Lincoln up to the lamppost, but Michelle never moved. She brought a cigarette lighter to her face, letting the tiny flame show off her perfect profile. If you wanted a ten-dollar slut, you were in the wrong neighborhood.

I hit the power window switch. "Michelle!" I called to her.

She sauntered over to the Lincoln. "Is that…?"

"Don't say my name,' I told her, before she could finish. "I've got company.

She kept coming, leaning into the car, kissing me on the cheek, looking past me to the front seat.

"Hello, Prof," she said, "who's your friend?"

"This is my man Terry," he said. The kid's eyes were round. Even for him, this wasn't a regular night.

"Get in the back, Michelle. We got work."

I climbed out, pulling the kid along with me by his wrist. I found the release lever and the driver's seat slid forward. I put the kid in the back, moving my hands so Michelle could follow him, like I was holding the door for a countess.

"Hi, baby," Michelle said to the kid.

"Hello," Terry said, not a trace of fear in his voice for the first time that night. I don't know how Michelle does it, and I'll never learn.

By the time the Lincoln was halfway to my part of town, they were whispering together in the back seat like the Prof and I weren't there.

INEEDED to set things up for later on. Michelle was the only babysitter I could trust. Someone had to watch the boy, and I didn't want him to see my office or anything else. I tooled down to the pier we always use for private conversations, off the Hudson just before the Battery Tunnel turns Manhattan into Brooklyn. I pulled over, cut the engine. A working girl detached herself from a small group and started to saunter over to the Lincoln. She stopped in her tracks when the Prof and I got out. Whatever we were, we weren't the customers she wanted.

"Be right back," I said to Michelle, motioning for the Prof to follow me.

I lit a smoke, handed the pack to the Prof, and looked at the dark water, thinking of the dark water in Flushing Meadow Park. Thinking of Strega. I was getting off the track.

"What's going down?" the Prof wanted to know.

"I'm looking for a picture. Kiddie porn. My client is concerned that a picture was taken of a certain kid. She wants it back."

"Why don't you just look for a fish out there?" he said, pointing at the silent Hudson.

"I know it's odds-against, Prof. I said I'd try, okay?"

"Where do I come in?"

"I hit the Square, asking around. The kid in the back seat with Michelle? He's hustling. I spoke to his pimp, told him I wanted to buy some pictures. He's going to meet me by the big ships around midnight. I'm supposed to bring a grand in cash, buy four pictures."

"Of who?"

"Who the fuck knows. The freak probably has some pictures. If he figures me for a customer, I'll buy the pictures, ask him for some more. Tell him what I'm looking for."

"And if he figures you for a tourist?" the Prof asked.

"That's where you come in. The Lincoln has one of those power trunk releases, okay? Michelle holds the kid in the front seat, keeps her head down. I climb out, she slides over where I was sitting. Any trouble-she pops the trunk and you come out. I got a scattergun you can use.

"I ain't dusting nobody, Burke," he said, trying to convince himself.

"I didn't say you had to take him out, Prof. Just keep me from getting stomped on, okay? Show him the piece, maybe break a cap in the airthat's all."

The Prof sucked cigarette smoke into his chest. "You going to play this one square.

"If he's got real pictures, I'll buy and I'll ask him some questions. But if he moves on me and you have to brace him, we'll see what's he got on him. Okay?"

"What if he has backup?"

"He's driving a 'vette. Easy to check. And Michelle will be keeping the peek from the car."

"It sounds like a job for Max," he said.

"It's a job for us, Prof. You in or out?"

"I may talk some jive, but I never took a dive," he snapped, insulted.

I patted him on the back. "We'll get Michelle to drop us off near my office. Get the stuff we need, hang out a bit. Okay?"

"Right on," said the little black man, "but if the hound is going to be around…"

"Pansy's cool, Prof. You just have to get to know her."

He looked dubious, but he wasn't arguing. We walked back to the Lincoln -Michelle and the kid were still rapping away in the back.

"Michelle, how about you drop me and the Prof off? Take the car and meet us back around eleven?"

"Terry and I need to get something to eat anyway," she said. "Give me some money.

I handed her two fifties. The way Michelle ate she probably wouldn't bring back any change.

I drove to within a couple of blocks of the office and pulled over to the curb. Michelle climbed out to stand next to me, leaving the Prof inside the car with the boy.

"Walk a bit with me," I told her. She took my arm and we strolled out of earshot.

"The kid's hustling…" I began.

"I know," she snapped. "We talked."

"I'm supposed to bring him back around midnight. Do a deal with his pimp. Cash for merchandise. The pimp might get stupid-the Prof's going to ride shotgun in the trunk. You handle the kid-keep him with you for a couple of hours till you pick us up. Okay?"

"Burke," she hissed, her eyes flaming, "you're not giving that boy back to a pimp!"