Andrew Vachss - Strega

Immaculata shot her hips sideways and was next to Mama in a flash. She must have been working with Max-he'd been trying to teach me karate for a long time-I hoped he was having better luck with her. Mama gave her a generous helping of the soup, watching her bow over the food before eating, nodding her head in approval.

"Max coming?" she asked.

"Yes," Immaculata answered.

"Max good man. Fine warrior," Mama opened.

"Yes," said Immaculata, waiting.

"Good man. Make good father, yes?"

Immaculata's eyes were calm, but her golden skin flushed. She looked directly at Mama.

"You know? Even Max doesn't know."

"I know," said Mama, patting Immaculata's arm, her whole face smiling.

Immaculata watched Mama's face, then broke into a smile of her own. Without a word being said, she knew she wasn't a bar girl to Mama anymore.

MAX CAME out of the kitchen, bowed to everyone at the table, then slammed into the booth next to me, almost driving me through the wall. He pulled out a tattered copy of the Daily News , spread it on the table, and pointed to the charts of Flower Jewel's race with a thick finger. He spread his hands to ask a question-what did this "dq" crap mean anyway?

I used the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers to show him how it had happened. Max nodded, moving his right hand in the "hit me" gesture blackjack players use when they want another card. We were going to bet on Flower Jewel the next time she raced. It wasn't like I had any choice-I handed Max a hundred, ignoring Mama's broad grin and Immaculata's look of benign interest.

Max made the sign of a galloping horse, checked to see that all eyes were focused on him. Then he pounded his chest over his heart, balled his right hand into a fist, and laid his forearm on the table with the underside up. The veins looked like electrical cords. He touched a vein, touched his heart again. Made the sign of the horse.

I got it. Since the blood of Mongol warriors ran in his veins, he claimed to have a natural kinship with horses. I should listen to him.

Mama nodded in agreement. "Good blood," she said. Immaculata blushed again, but Max was too busy proving he knew more about horses than I did to pay attention.

Mama got to her feet as Immaculata stood to give her room to exit.

She took Immaculata's hand, turned it over to see the underside of her forearm. She tapped the delicate veins there, nodded her head sharply. Smiled. "Good blood here too," Mama said, and kissed Immaculata on the cheek.

Max looked at me, puzzled. I didn't say anything-Mac would tell him when it was time for him to know.

I lit a cigarette as the waiter took away the soup bowls, and started to explain why I needed Immaculata.

BY THE TIME I was finished, it was mid-afternoon. Only the clock on the wall gave me a clue-daylight never reached the back booths in Mama's joint.

"You really think you can do it?" I asked her.

"It's not an interrogation, Burke. The little boy has information about what happened to him, but it's not so easy for him to talk about. He feels all sorts of things about the assault…guilt, fear, excitement…"

"Excitement?" I asked her.

"Sure. Children are sexual beings, they respond to sexual stimulation. That's why, if we don't treat a child who has been sexually abused, he's likely to go on looking for the same experience."

"Even if it hurt him?"

"Even so," she said.

"What would make him talk?" I asked her.

"You don't make him talk. He wants to talk about it; he wants to get it outside of him…put down the pain. But first he has to feel safe."

"Like that nobody can hurt him anymore?"

"That's it. Exactly."

"So it's easier if he was assaulted by a stranger, right? So his family can protect him?"

"Yes, it is easier if the assault wasn't by a family member. If someone you trust hurts you, it changes the way you look at the whole world."

"I know," I told her. "If I can get the kid, where would I bring him?"

"Bring him to SAFE, the Safety and Fitness Exchange-where I work. I told you about it, remember? It's the best place for this-lots of other children around, and we know how to act around boys like this one. He'll know nobody can hurt him when he's with us."

"You think he'll come with me?" I asked her.

"Probably-I don't know. It would help if someone he trusted said it was okay for him to go-promised him he'd be all right. Probably the best way would be for you to bring the child's parent, or anyone he trusted, with you. We work with relatives of abused children all the time."

"You wouldn't want to work with this one," I told her.

Max tapped his chest, folded his arms. The kid would sure as hell be safe with him, he was saying. I tapped my fist against his shoulder to thank him, bowed to Immaculata, and went back through the kitchen to Bobby's Lincoln.

ISTASHED the Lincoln in my garage. Strega had already seen one car; that was enough. Pansy chomped on the heavy beef bones Mama had given me for her, snarling anytime she felt the slightest resistance. Her life would have been perfect right then if I could have gotten pro wrestling on the tube, but only the cable networks carry it during the day. The hippies downstairs must have cable-their lives wouldn't be complete without MTV. I'd have to get the Mole to make the necessary adjustments.

It was getting near time to leave. There's only two ways to ride the subways in New York: dress up like a carpenter or a plumber-anyone who routinely carries tools around with him-or carry a gun. I didn't handle tools like I knew what I was doing, and if I got dropped holding a piece I was looking at some serious time upstate. I put on a dark suit over a blue chambray shirt with a darker-blue knit tie. A hard-working architect. I pulled my new attaché case from under the couch. Its black fabric sides expand to hold a lot of stuff, but that's not why I wanted it. This attaché case is made of Kevlar-the same stuff cops use for bullet-proof vests. It looks like nylon, but it'll blunt a knife and stop a bullet-it even has a shoulder strap so you can keep your hands free.

I unzipped the case and threw in a pack of graph paper, some pencils, an old blueprint of a sewage plant, and a little calculator. I added a telescoping metal pointer, the kind architects use to point out features on their blueprints; it works just as well for keeping people from getting close enough to stab you. Then I hunted around until I found the clear plastic T-square the Mole made for me. It looks like the real thing, but if you wishbone the two ends in your hands and snap hard, you end up with a razor-edged knife. Perfect for stabbing and not illegal to carry. The CIA uses these knives to beat airport security machines, but their best feature is the way they break off inside a body-you can put a hell of an edge on plastic, but it stays very brittle.

I caught the E Train at Chambers Street, under the World Trade Center. That was the end of the line-the return would take me right out to my meeting with Strega without changing trains. And I got a seat.

The first thing I did was open my briefcase and take out my blueprints and T-square. I made a desk of the briefcase in my lap and sat there watching. During rush hour, the trains belong to the citizens. By the time we got into midtown, the car was packed with people. An Oriental man, his dark suit shiny from too many cleanings, face buried in a book on computers, shut out the train noises and concentrated. A dress-for-success black woman was reading some kind of leather-bound report-all I could read on the cover was "Proposal" stamped in gold letters. A pair of middle-aged women sat facing each other, arguing over whose boss was the biggest asshole.