Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"How about this? I pay Mary for her time, right? Toss another yard at her for a tip before she even opens her mouth, okay? Then, after she gives up the information, she offers me a free ride. And when I talk to Mama about Belinda, turns out she was there. In the restaurant. In person. And she's wearing a blond wig."

"Bitch wanted you on tape," the Prof said quietly.

"Sure. She has a tape like that, I have to dance to her tune. Especially because that fucking Morales, he's still on my case."

"That last clue is true, brother. Morales, he's got a memory like a damn herd of elephants. Bad business, you get on the bad side of that roller. And he ain't got no good side."

"How does it scan to you?"

"Got to be this, schoolboy: this Belinda bitch, she's working with Morales, setting you up on a conspiracy rap, leverage you into dimeing everybody on that old stuff. You go back a long way with that blue coat…Hard to see him working with a woman, though. He's an old East Harlem head–breaker, that's more his style."

"His partner's gone now. So maybe he's— "

"No way to tell," the Prof mused. "Hell, maybe it's just the broad. Maybe she's got something she wants you to do. Something off the books."

"I'm gonna meet her," I said.

The Prof just nodded, covering it all.

It was 5:05 am. when I punched Belinda's number into a pay phone on Canal Street. She answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"You wanted to talk to me?" I said, gentle–voiced.

"I sure do," she said, recognizing my voice too quickly for someone who hadn't heard it in years…and never over the phone. "I've been trying for—"

"Tomorrow night okay with you?"

"I don't get off work until after two in the morning."

"How about if I pick you up there?" I asked, like I didn't know what she did for a living.

"Uh…no, that wouldn't work. I need to take a shower, change my clothes, put on some perfume…. Or a body mike, I thought. But I told her, "Whatever you say. How about five in the morning, that suit you?"

"That would be great. I'll meet you at— "

"I can come to your place," I said innocently.

"No, that's okay. I could meet you at the restaurant. You know, the one where I— "

"It's closed by then," I lied smoothly. "How about the corner of Canal and Mulberry?"

"It's a date," she replied.

I hung up the phone, putting the lies on Pause until we could do it again in person.

I had almost twenty–four hours to set things up— I wouldn't need them all. I stopped in an all–night deli on Broadway and cruised the aisles like a lunatic in a gun shop, looking for something to catch my eye and speak to me.

A slightly built kid with an olive complexion and a long ponytail was restocking shelves— he was already on the last aisle. The kid's ears were covered with stereo headphones plugged into a tape recorder hooked onto his belt, his lips moving in silent–sync to the lyrics pumping through his head. On a low deep shelf I spotted a flat tray of dark–chocolate–covered coconut bars. I reached in and took three of them from the front. A young woman dressed in head–to–toe I'm Serious black gave me a pitying look before she reached all the way to the back of the shelf to take some for herself. Her glance said it all— any idiot knows they stock the shelves with the freshest goods at the back so they can move the stale stuff first.

Maybe in Iowa. In this city, the hipper you think you are, the easier you are.

I picked out an assortment of cold cuts, a loaf of rye bread, and a half–dozen bottles of Ginseng–Up, then walked it all over to the register. Behind the counter was a whole wall of glass, designed to display the refrigerated collection of .40–caliber malt liquors. The oversized bottles are best–sellers. The kids take one of the baby cigars— Philly Blunts are the favorite— razor it open, load it with marijuana, and mix tokes with sips. The big booze brand is called Crazy Horse. Real classy, like naming a vodka after Chernobyl.

When I got back to my office, I shared the food with Pansy. All except the soda— she hates the bubbles.

For dessert, I cracked one of the coconut bars— it was as fresh as a just–burst rosebud. I hoped the hipster chick didn't crack one of her expensive caps on the ones she bought.

After supper, me and Pansy each got a handful of Dismutase tablets. One tab's the equivalent of about a quart of wheat sprouts. Vets give them to dogs who've had broken bones— they say it's the best thing for arthritis. Pansy's a long way from being a pup— sometimes her bones give her trouble, especially in the winter. I tried some on her— in a few weeks, she was moving a lot easier. No way a dog reacts to a placebo, so I figured the stuff had to be doing the job. I have trouble with my hands— the right one's been broken too many times and I can feel cold weather right through it. Since I've been taking the Dismutase along with Pansy, they don't hurt as bad.

I measured out the dose. You start with one tab per twenty pounds of dog, then switch to one tab per forty pounds as maintenance. We're both on maintenance now. We weigh about the goddamned same, too— she's really packed on the poundage the last couple of years.

While she was up on her roof, I fiddled with the TV set. Once I got a channel to come in, I kicked back on the couch, eyes closed. Pansy came back downstairs, walked over and put her massive head on my chest. She does that sometimes. I got her when she was a tiny puppy, not even weaned. I had to let her nurse from a baby bottle. When you first pull a pup from the litter, it's a good idea to wrap a towel around a wind–up clock and put it next to them— the ticking makes them think of their mother's heartbeat and they sleep better, safer in their minds. I didn't have one of those clocks, so I slept on my back with Pansy on my chest. Seemed to work pretty good. Every once in a while, I don't know why, she wants to hear my heartbeat again. I scratched behind her ears until she settled down. She took her head away, curled up on the floor to watch TV with me, making that noise that sounds like a downshifting diesel truck to show she was about to relax.

After a few minutes of product–pushing perjurers, I got lucky— an old episode of the Andy Griffith show— one I hadn't seen before. There was this guy, came to Mayberry from some other place. And the townspeople, they really treated him like shit, like he was a foreign spy or something. Finally, Sheriff Andy read them all the riot act…about how they should be flattered that this guy picked Mayberry to be his home town…how most folks don't have a choice. Kind of like the difference between adoption and birth.

I don't have a home town. New York isn't anybody's home town. It's different in other places. If you're a Chicago boy or a Detroit girl, the local papers treat you special. You're home–grown, and that counts for something.

Not here. In this city, PTA groups are more worried about the metal detectors' working than whether their kids are learning to read. Confidence is crumbling faster than the infrastructure. People with options flee this city— then they sit around in the suburbs whining about how much they miss the "energy."

When I got out of prison one time, I went over to Two Dollar Dominick's to get a haircut. I don't know why they called it that— there never was a guy named Dominick there. It was a little two–chair shop. Full service, though— you could get a manicure, your shoes shined, bet on a horse, borrow some cash…the works. Anyway, a haircut always used to be two bucks, but I'd been away a long time. When Angelo was finished cutting my hair, I asked him, "How much does a haircut go for now?"

The old man hadn't seen me for five years or so. He just looked me in the eye, said, "For you, it's still two bucks."