Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

On my way out, I stopped by the weasel's office to thank him for his courtesy. He wasn't at his desk.

I carried the money I'd gotten from Fortunato over to Mama's. As I was crossing Lafayette Street, a tall slender Chinese girl shot by on Rollerblades, her long black hair flying behind her. She was a pro at it— had a backpack strapped on, a whistle on a chain around her neck, and black kneepads against a possible spill. A pair of business–dressed guys saw her too. One told the other the girl had another use for the kneepads. His pal laughed in appreciation. I figured the guy who made the crack was an expert— probably on his way to do the same thing to his boss.

Anytime I forget how bad I hate this place, somebody's always good enough to remind me.

When I handed Mama the money, she didn't react with her usual happiness as she extracted her cut. When Mama doesn't smile around money, it's a storm warning. I gave her a look, waiting for it to hit. But she just sipped her soup in silence. Patience is one of my few virtues, but I knew better than to try outwaiting Mama.

"What?" I asked.

"You like this woman?" she answered my question with one of her own.

"What woman?"

"Girl with wig. Police lady."

"No," I told Mama. "I don't like her."

"Why you work, then?"

"For money," I responded, playing the one card that Mama always recognized as trump.

"This money?" Mama asked, holding up the bills I'd just handed her, a disgusted tone in her voice.

"Yeah."

"Not much," Mama said. "You have money. From…last time, yes? I know." She did know. Hell, she was holding most of it. "Balance," she continued, looking at me straight on. She held out her hands parallel to the tabletop, palms up, raising first one, then the other, imitating a scale.

"Yeah," I told her. "I'm impressed. You gamble all the time yourself," I said, thinking of her endless fan–tan games and her love of lotteries.

"Gamble with money, sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders to show that was of little consequence. "Horses, cards, dice. Even buy a fighter, yes? All you lose is money. Always get more money."

I knew what she was saying. Hell, any professional thief knows the odds. You measure risk against gain, and take your shot. A B&E in a slum neighborhood is easy— not much chance of the cops' even coming around, much less dusting for prints and all that techno–stuff. Only problem is, the score's going to be low. Try the same stunt on Park Avenue, you raise the chances of being caught— but the take is a lot better if you pull it off. And you don't just look at the score, you look at the penalty too. You stick up a grocery store, you're probably looking at some serious time Upstate. If you're lucky enough to get out of there alive, that is— every self–respecting bodeguero has a gun somewhere under the counter. But if you embezzle a million bucks out of some widow's estate, you're probably looking at probation and community service.

You have to pick out the right scores too. If I was going to rob someone in Grand Central Station, I'd stick up a beggar instead of a guy in a business suit. I asked a beggar there for change of a five once, and he pulled out a roll thick enough to choke a boa constrictor. All I'd probably get from the suit would be an ATM card.

"You think there should be more money?" I asked innocently.

"Not enough money for this," Mama said, her tone serious, unrelenting. "This woman is bad. Immaculata, she say that too."

"This is…what? Woman's intuition?" I smiled at her.

"This is truth. You do something because you like a woman, it is not wise."

"I wouldn't— "

"You do it before," she interrupted.

I didn't need Mama to remind me. I still hurt for Belle— for what happened to her. My fault, all of it. Mama wouldn't have used such a heavy hammer on me unless she was scared about something.

"Mama, I don't like this girl. That's the truth. I think I'm in a box, and I think she's part of it. There's no way I can hide from her. I have to go down the tunnel, look around for myself."

"Take Max," she suggested.

"Maybe. Maybe later. I have to see first, okay?"

Mama nodded her head, reluctantly agreeing.

When I checked in later, Mama told me I had a message from Belinda. "That woman," Mama called her. It wasn't much of a message— just an address in the Village and a time.

The address Belinda left was on Van Dam, a few blocks south of Houston, just off Sixth Avenue. Ten o'clock, she said. I left my car on Fifth, just north of Washington Square Park, figuring I'd walk the rest of the way.

When I was a kid, I used to come here a lot. By myself. There was always something to see: the chess hustlers on the permanent playing boards, folksingers trying out new stuff, pretty girls walking— gentle, safe stuff. I was so young then that I thought the sun had something to do with it— that all the bad stuff only happened after dark.

Or inside houses.

Even a kid wouldn't believe that anymore. The sun burned fresh–butter bright, but it didn't mellow the shirtless man wearing a heavy winter hat with flapping earmuffs, viciously arguing with a schizophrenic inner voice. And it didn't have any effect on the drug dealers and assorted lurkers. It didn't calm the nervous citizens looking over their shoulders.

An open–top, pus–yellow Suzuki Samurai slowly prowled past, a boom box on wheels, aggressively smashing its hyper–amped sound violence at hapless citizens in a scorched–earth assault. The latest city ugliness— the sonic drive–by.

A long–haired white man in a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled by, pushing one of those metal shopping carts they give you in supermarkets. The homeless love those carts— they pile all kinds of stuff in them and wheel them around the streets. The carts are stainless steel— they don't break easy and they never rust. They're real expensive too, and the supermarkets hate to lose them. In fact, they have a contract with a business that gets a flat rate for every one they recover.

The stroller wasn't homeless, he was a thief. There's a guy works out of a vacant lot off Houston on the East Side— he's got a standing offer to buy all the carts you can bring in.

On MacDougal, the precious–special shops looked depressed, pounded into near–submission by the sidewalk vendors. It was prime–time out there for cruising, but I didn't see many tourists. A man urinated against the side of a building. A woman sat on the curb, picking at her head, her blackened fingernails no match for the lice. Another boom–box Jeep rolled by, this one full of young men all decked out in brand–name gangstah–gear. Even the scavenging pigeons looked more degenerate than usual.

I stopped at a corner, right behind two guys on bicycles. They were pro messengers— you could tell by their gear. Not the Speedo pants or the fingerless gloves or the whistles on cords around their necks. Not even by the crash hats— open–weave padded leather fitted tight over their heads. No, what gave them away was the heavy combat chains wrapped around the base of the bicycle seats, always ready. One of them had his chain in his hands, talking urgently to the other.

"Motherfucker tried to door me, check it out! I laid it down, but when I come up swinging, pussy decides to bail!"

The other messenger high–fived his endorsement of biker self–defense as I stepped around them to move on. Three black youths approached, spread out in a fan across the sidewalk, blocking the way. One wore a T–shirt with "Back The Fuck UP!" on the chest. Another had a picture of Mike Tyson silk–screened on it, with "I'LL BE BACK!" below. I guess that was a political statement— Tyson gets convicted of raping a young girl and all of a sudden he's Emmett Till.