Andrew Vachss - Strega

IWOKE UP slowly to the smell of dog food. Pansy's face was inches from mine, her cold-water eyes unblinking, waiting patiently. Something was floating around at the top of my brain-where I couldn't reach it. Something about the boy's pictures. I lay there, ignoring Pansy, trying to get it to come back to me. No good. Lots of dreams never come to you again.

I took a shower and went out to get some breakfast, still trying to figure out what was bothering me. Whatever it was would have to get in line.

Pansy ate her share of the cupcakes I brought back. It wasn't until I put down the paper that I realized I hadn't even looked at the race results. Depression was coming down as surely as the Hawk-what people around here call the winter. They call it that because it kills. I had to get word to Immaculata that I was going to have the boy for her to interview. And after that, I had to wait.

I stopped at a light at the corner of the Bowery and Delancey. A big black guy with a dirty bandage over half his face offered to clean my windshield for a quarter. A used-up white woman with a cheap wig riding over her tired face offered to clean my tubes for ten bucks. I paid the black guy-V.D. isn't one of my hobbies.

The alley behind Mama's joint was empty, like it always is.

I slumped down at my table in the back, catching Mama's eye. One of the waiters came out of the kitchen with a tureen of soup. I waved him away-I wasn't hungry. He put the tureen down in front of me anyway. Bowed. If Mama told him to bring soup, he was bringing soup.

Mama came back in a few minutes, hands in the side pockets of her long dress. "You no serve soup?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry, Mama," I told her.

"Soup not for hunger. Not food-medicine, okay?" she said, sitting across from me. I watched her work the ladle, giving us each a generous helping. Women don't listen to me.

"I have to call Mac," I said.

"I do that. You want her to come here?"

I just nodded. "Good," said Mama. "I want to talk to baby."

"Mama, she won't have a baby for months yet."

"Too late-talk to baby now-prepare baby for everything, okay?"

"Whatever you say," I muttered. I wasn't in the mood for her voodoo that morning.

I ate my soup, keeping quiet as Mama loaded the bowl again, smiling her approval. I lit a cigarette, looking at Mama. "You going to call Mac today?" I asked.

"Call soon," she said. "You get call here. Last night."

I looked at her, waiting. "Man say he has name for you. Say to call the Bronx."

The Mole. "Thanks, Mama," I threw over my shoulder, heading for the phones in the back. I dialed the junkyard-he picked up on the first ring.

"You have a name for me?"

"Yes."

"Can I come up?"

"I'll meet you. At the pad."

"When?"

"Day after tomorrow," the Mole said, and cut the connection. I walked back inside the restaurant. The Mole would be at the helicopter pad just off the East Side Drive past Waterside Towers in two hours. With a name. It was a stupid place to meet, but there was no point arguing. The Mole loved helicopters.

Mama was still at the table. "I get Immaculata now?" she asked.

"Sure. Thanks, Mama."

"You feel better, Burke?"

"Yeah," I told her. And I did.

IWAS HALFWAY through a platter of roast duck, spare ribs, and fried rice when Immaculata came in. I got up from my seat, bowed to her, and indicated she should sit down and have something to eat. I was piling some of the fried rice onto her plate when Mama appeared over her shoulder. She shoved in next to Immaculata, pushing the plate away from her, barking something in Chinese. Another of the waiters came on the run. I don't know what Mama said to him, but he immediately started taking all the food off the table except for the plate in front of me. He was back in another minute, carrying a couple of plates with metal covers on top. Mama served Immaculata ceremoniously, arranging the food on her plate like an interior decorator.

"What was wrong with my food?" I asked her.

"Okay for you, Burke. You not mother, right?"

Immaculata smiled, not arguing. "Thank you, Mama," she said.

"Only eat best food now. For baby. To be strong, okay? No sugar, okay? Plenty milk."

I polished off the rest of my food, pushed the plate away, lit a cigarette.

"Smoke bad for baby too," Mama said, glaring at me.

"Mama," I told her, "the kid isn't here yet."

"Be here soon enough," Mama replied, "yes, baby?" she said, patting Immaculata's flat stomach.

I ground out the cigarette. "You think it will bother the baby if I talk to Mac?" I asked Mama.

"Talk in soft voice," Mama said. "And pay baby respect when you talk, okay?"

"What?"

"You talk to mother-first you tell baby hello, right? You finish talk, you tell baby goodbye. Very easy-even for you, Burke."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, looking back at Immaculata for sympathy. She looked back, her eyes clear. It apparently made sense to her too.

I bowed slightly to Mac. "Good morning, honorable infant," I said. "I have to speak to your beautiful mother, who is going to help me with something very important. You are the most fortunate of babies to have a mother and father so committed to you. I am certain you will have your mother's beauty and intelligence and your father's strength and courage. May all your days on this earth be blessed with love. I am Burke, your father's brother."

Mama nodded approval. Immaculata bowed slightly, the faintest of smiles playing about her lips.

"Mac, you know the kid I told you about? I figure he saw a lot of things when they took that picture of him. If you speak with him, maybe he'll tell you things he hasn't told anybody yet."

"He might," she said. "But it sometimes takes a while. The safer the child feels, the more he can tell us. His own therapist would be in the best position to get this information."

"He's not in therapy."

"Why is this?"

"His motherother relatives…they feel the best thing is for him to forget it…go on with his life."

"That doesn't work," she said. "Kids who have been sexually abused have a lot of issues to work through. Guilt, fear, anger. Especially the anger. It's abusive not to give the child this opportunity."

I was thinking of prison again. If a kid was raped inside the walls, he had a shortage of choices: Keep on getting fucked by anyone who asked. Escape. Take a P.C. for the rest of his bit. Kill himself. Or kill the guy who did it to him. Only the last choice made any sense-the only way to get back to being treated like a human being. Instant therapy.

"Could you treat this kid?" I asked her.

"The interview you want me to do-that is the beginning of treatment. It would be unethical for me to simply work with the child to get some facts and then abandon him. It doesn't have to be me that works with him, but someone has to."

"I'll make that part of the deal," I told her. I glanced at my watch-time to get on the road and meet the Mole. "When can we do this?" I asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon I have some time free. Can you bring the child to SAFE around three o'clock?"

"Can we make it the day after, Mac? The kid's people need a day's notice."

"Okay. Thursday, then. But make it four instead."

"You got it." I stood up to leave, bowed to Mama and Mac. Mama's eyes were hard on me. "Goodbye, baby," I said to Mac's belly. "It has been a pleasure to be in your company once again."

Mama smiled. By the time I was halfway to the kitchen, she was deep into a discussion with Mac about cribs. I couldn't wait for Max to show up-Mama would probably want him to open a bank account for the kid's college education.

ITOOK the East Side Drive to the 23rd Street exit, appreciating my cigarette even more than usual thanks to Mama's new edict. A guy on the radio was blubbering something about a political scandal in Queens -in the Parking Violations Bureau this time. Political corruption in New York isn't news, but they keep reporting it the same way they keep telling you the weather. People like to know about things they can't do anything about.