Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

In some cities, the citizens have actually mastered the art of staggered lane merging— one from the right, one from the left, until it's all done. It'll never happen here— if you're in the lane that needs to merge you don't hope for courtesy, you watch for weakness.

A tired old black Buick finally came up on my right, laboring and sputtering along, an elderly Hasid at the wheel. Everybody was cutting him off, jumping ahead of him— he was acting so unaggressive he became fair game. Just before the left lane ended, I tapped my brakes to let him pull ahead of me, then slipped in behind. He chugged on ahead, reaching his left arm out the window to wave a thank–you to me. It felt good. I like that kind of stuff. If motherfuckers would just let me be, I swear I would be a polite, respectful man.

Then I heard the angry blare of a horn, glanced in the mirror. A white Nissan sedan had been behind me, but it got pinched off when I let that other guy in.

So what? I worked the middle lane for a piece, saw my opening, and rolled once more to the right, setting up for the exit to the BQE. The white Nissan pulled up on my left, running parallel. The driver and the two in the back seat were black males— there was a black woman in the front passenger seat. She rolled down her window. I hit the switch to drop mine too.

She leaned out her window, screamed "You fucking Jew bastard!" at me just as the Nissan pulled away, obviously concluding she'd been the victim of still another Zionist plot.

I thought about how much fun it would be to lock her in a room with old Cline–as–in–Patsy.

After I completed all the necessary loops, I climbed onto the BQE, heading for Queens. As I passed the Flushing Avenue exit I spotted a congenital defective driving a Cadillac in the left lane. Driving slow. Posting up so everyone had to pass in the middle lane and then cut back in. Nobody did it calmly— some of them shot the finger, others waved fists. One cut back in so close the Cadillac had to stand on its brakes.

I dialed my mind to calm, waited for my shot, then swept around the fat Cadillac. I got back into the left lane and settled in, punched the button for the all–news station, half–listened as I drove. The news came out in little blips:

Down South, another anti–abortion maniac gunned down a doctor going into a clinic. An equally freakish misfit killed two nurses and a secretary somewhere in New England. Good thing there's no waiting period for buying a handgun— makes it so much easier to act on impulse.

A nine–year–old girl writes an essay for school. "Daddy Raped Me" it was called. She gets an A on her paper— nothing else. Months later, the scumbag gets himself arrested for some other stuff— turns out he has AIDS. Some group promises a protest.

Another baby killed in another crossfire. The only difference between certain neighborhoods in this city and Bosnia is that we're better armed here.

The New York weather report: cold and vicious.

I switched to FM, punched the oldies station. They were playing music from the '70s, as impossible as that sounds.

I slammed in the one sure cure: a Judy Henske tape. That broad's got enough rich, dark juice for a grape arbor, every word dripping with promise. I had a scheme to meet her in person, years ago. It worked out the same as most of my schemes.

Traffic crawled once we got over the Kosciusko Bridge— the halfass government was doing something stupid to the highway again. I grabbed the LIE eastbound, still in no hurry. Just before the Elmhurst Tanks, I spotted a downed Lincoln Continental in the right lane. I wasn't the first to see it— one of the vulture vans that cruise the city expressways looking for crippled cars was already on the scene. A pro team was at work— one guy had a hydraulic jack under the back wheels while his partner had popped the hood. Give them a half–hour, they'd turn a wounded car into a corpse.

I exited at Woodhaven Boulevard and worked my way toward Forest Park. I found a quiet spot. Pulled over to a roadside pay phone and punched a number in.

"What?" came the rust–bucket greeting.

"You been looking for me?" I asked.

"ID me something," the voice demanded.

"Baby Pete," I said.

"More."

"I found him. Where you said he couldn't be."

Baby Pete. Big Peter's grandson. Kidnapped, held for ransom. Big Peter never went near the Law. Paid in full. Never got the boy back. After that, he reached out for me. I found the little kid. In the basement of Big Peter's next–in–line. Found his ashes and a few bone fragments— the furnace hadn't finished its work. The next–inline was impatient, but he needed a war chest before he made his move. Big Peter hadn't called the Law about that one either.

"Ask the question again?"

"You looking for me?"

"If I wanted to find you, I would," he said softly. "I know how to do that."

"Yeah. That's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have some problem— "

"With you?" he interrupted.

"Yeah. Some strange stuff is happening. And I heard a name today…."

"Say it."

"Julio."

"Oh." The line was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, "Come see me."

"Where?"

"At the house."

"When?"

"Now. I'll wait."

"Twenty minutes," I told him, and hung up.

The house was a simple wood–frame two–story in Ozone Park. Only the chain–link fence looked serious. The gypsy cab dropped me off in front. I walked around to the side of the house and rang the bell.

Big Peter opened the door himself. He stood about five feet four, weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. There's a number of stories about how he came into his name— none of them are pretty.

"Sit," he said, pointing at a kitchen table with four padded chairs.

He took the chair opposite me, looked me over, nodded his head. Said, "So?"

"I got a case," I told him. "There's this guy doing time. A sex killer. There's this cop hired me to look into it, claims he's innocent. I went to see the guy's lawyer, the one he got for the appeal. Raymond Fortunato. This Fortunato, he asks me, would I maybe like a favor done? I tell him No. So he pays me the money that was promised…for this case. To look into it, all right? Then he says Julio always spoke well of me. I say, I haven't seen him in a long time. Then Fortunato says, Julio's dead. I ask him: When? How?…like that. He tells me, says they know who did it. The way he looked at me, I couldn't tell if he was selling wolf tickets or what. So I thought I'd ask you."

"You ain't afraid of Raymond fucking Fortunato," Big Peter said. A flat statement, not a question.

"I'm afraid of you," I told him, just as flat.

"I would never hurt you," he said. "I would never let anyone hurt you. I would never forget what you did. For me, Too late for my grandson," he said quietly, one knuckle to his eye like he was expecting a tear. "I shoulda listened to you first. I wanted to trust…and I got my grandson dead."

"He was gone from the moment they took him," I said. "He was a smart kid, would've ID'ed them in a minute."

"Yeah…" The old man stayed quiet for a minute. Forgiving himself, tricking me…no way to tell. Finally, he looked up. "You're not afraid of me either," he said. "That was true, you wouldn't come here. Unless you was wearing a wire."

I stood up, started to unbutton my shirt.

"Sit the fuck down, okay? I was just jerking your chain. You want something from me, there's something I can do for you, just ask."

I looked down at my cigarette, at the long ash, realized I hadn't dragged on it at all. I snubbed it out in the glass ashtray, deciding. I could hear my heart— I slowed it down, took a deep breath, and plunged in. "There's a cop, brought a case to me. It's a woman, a lady cop. I met her a while ago, when I was doing something else. She never told me she was a cop— I found out by accident. She's been calling me ever since. I never returned the calls. Then she turned up the pressure. Came to…a place where I hang out sometimes. Something else…She got a hooker to offer me a job. A homicide job. I turned it down, but…it's starting to look like a box."