Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"Square business?"

"Square business. I got no beef with you. Just run it down— where, when, like that, okay?"

She looked up at me, dark eyes glinting over high cheekbones. "Look, honey, all I did was what I do, okay? I mean, I figured she had a job of work, she pays me to get word to you. After that, you're on your own, right?"

"Right."

"And, the way I figure it, if you make out good on the job, maybe you'll come by, take care of Mary."

"I just did that, take care of you. You don't like the way I did it?"

"Come on, honey. You know that isn't what I meant. It's just…you sound like you're mad at me for something."

"Mary, I came to your place, didn't I? I was mad at you, I wouldn't come here, give everybody a good look at me, would I?"

"I…guess not."

"And I came alone, didn't I? Showed you respect?"

"Yes…"

"So give it to me, girl."

She got up off the bed, walked over to a night table, knocked a cigarette out of a pack, tapped the filter against one long thumbnail. "You got a match?" she asked, coming over to where I was standing.

I cracked a wooden match into flame. She cupped my hand in both of hers, taking the light. "Sit down," she said. "You're making me nervous."

I took an easy chair near the foot of the bed, lit a smoke of my own. Mary walked in little circles, gesturing with her cigarette. "This Roxanne chick, she called me. Here. We're not supposed to get personal calls here, but Rudy— you know, the guy who let you in— he doesn't ride too hard. Anyway, she wanted to meet me. Said there was good money in it. I met her in Logan's. You know that bar on— ?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Anyway, that's a safe place. I mean, I picked it and all. And Rudy went with me. This Roxanne, I never saw her before. Not her friend either."

"Her friend?"

"Blonde girl. I think it was a wig…like too much hair for her face, you know? Kind of fat, you ask me. Too much makeup."

"She tell you her name, the blonde girl?"

"No. She didn't say much of anything. But I could tell it was her pulling the strings— this Roxanne, her motor's not hitting on all cylinders, you understand?"

"Yeah," I said, making a "get on with it" gesture with my right hand.

Mary took a deep drag from her cigarette, buying herself a little time. "Anyway, she said she was having trouble with her man. She wanted to jet, but she was scared of him. Happens all the time, right?"

"Sure."

"So I asked her, does she want to hire Rudy, take care of it? And— "

"Rudy? The skinny guy who answered the door out there?"

"Oh yes, honey. Rudy maybe can't bench–press fifty pounds, but he's quick as a snake with that blade of his. Quiet too."

"Okay. So…"

"So she says no. She wants you. Burke, she said. She knew your name. Said she heard you was real good at this. I told her, everybody on the street has peeped your hole card a long time ago— if it don't have nothing to do with kids, you not gonna do any heavy work."

Wesley flashed across my mind. Wesley, the maybe–dead ice–monster. The perfect killer, good for nothing else, but better at it than any man alive. Wesley telling me I had a bull's–eye on my back. A weakness. Kids. Get rid of it, he told me in his deadman's voice. I wish I'd listened then. I put the cigarette to my lips, making a smoke screen for my eyes. "So what happened after that?" I asked Mary.

"She said it was about kids, kind of. Anyway, she'd pay me to get word out to you."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Five yards," Mary said. "I figured, it must be big, she was gonna pay that much for just a message. Figured, you were gonna get paid big too."

"So she paid you how much up front?"

"The whole thing. Only, she didn't actually pay me— it was the blonde chick."

"And that's all you know?"

"That is all I know, honey. I even told her— I can get word to you, but I can't promise you'll do anything about it. She just told me where her stroll is, told me to tell you that."

"You'd know the blonde girl if you saw her again?"

"I…think so. Like I said, she didn't say much. And it's dark in there, so— "

"Okay, Mary. Thanks." I got up to leave.

Mary opened another button on the pajama top, flashing a smile. "You paid for some time, honey. You want me to earn it?"

"If you told me the truth, you just did," I said, reaching behind me to open the door, watching Mojo Mary all the time.

I drove back downtown, working it over in my mind. Coming up short again. That last bit stunk worse than aged sushi. Mojo Mary has a hooker's soul. She's all whore in her heart— no way she gives up pussy for free. But she didn't seem scared, the way she would if she thought she'd sold me out and I was still walking around. She was guilty all right, but lightweight guilty— figured she could work it off. Just didn't add up.

Only the white dragon was in Mama's window. I pulled around to the back, walked through and found my booth. Mama came over, clapping her hands for soup. This time, she didn't wait for the ceremony, just sat down across from me.

"What is all this?" she asked me, gesturing in a wide circle.

"I don't know, Mama. Mojo Mary gave my name to a street girl. Girl wanted me to ice her man, take him off the count. Mary knows I don't do that kind of work…"

"Mary is street girl too?"

"Yeah. Only she works inside."

"So! Maybe she… hear something. From long ago…"

I kept my mind away from that, away from the past. Too many "Father Unknown" birth certificates— too many unmarked graves. Who knows what the pimps gossip about in their after–hours joints, where flash counts heavier than cash? Who knows what Mojo Mary heard? "Maybe you're right, Mama," is all I said.

I sipped my soup in silence, expecting Mama to go back to her cash register. But she stayed where she was, face composed, watching me.

"What?" I finally asked her.

"Why you not ask about lady police?"

"I already know her," I said. "Belinda. The same one who's been calling here all along, remember?"

"Short girl, kind of…"

"Plump?"

"No, not plump. Like…solid. Strong."

"Yeah, that's her."

"Blue eyes?"

"I don't remember," I told her. It was the truth.

"Blond hair?"

I looked up from my soup, paying attention for the first time. "No. It's kind of reddish–brown."

"This one blonde."

"You sure?"

Mama gave me a look of intense pity, clearly wondering how I got to be as old as I am despite being so stupid. "Yes," she said. "Sure. Blonde."

"Maybe she dyed her hair. Women do things like that, right?"

"Not dye hair," Mama said. "Blond wig."

I felt a hammer drop somewhere in my head. Maybe I was getting too old for this. Who strips a blow–job whore looking for a wire? That blonde girl, the one on the same corner as Roxanne…I tried to replay the image, but I couldn't get the screen to clear. Belinda? Belinda getting me on tape, agreeing to kill a man for money?

But I hadn't gone for it.

I was in a long corridor. A long mirrored corridor. I couldn't see the end. Just reflections. Images. I couldn't see, so I listened.

And all I heard was that special–ugly slammer–sound when the jailers rack the bars closed at night.

"Mama," I asked, "you still have that loft over on Mott Street?"

"Sure."

"Anybody staying there now?"

"No. Nobody till next month."

"Can I borrow the key?"

Mama reached in one of her kimono pockets, handed it over. "Take Max," she said.

I used the phone in the back to reach out for the Prof, came up empty. He wasn't at the gym. Not at any of his usual spots either. I left word.

Mama's is a good place for waiting. It's quiet and peaceful, the food is great…you can make a call or get one, read the racing form, take a nap if you want. Mama always keeps a stock of English–language international newspapers around. I opened one idly, glanced through it, enjoying the soup the waiter had poured into a thick coffee cup for me.