Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

Because I didn't give a damn how long I waited, the F train rolled through smoothly, precisely on time, dropping me off at Forty–second and Sixth. I spent the ride admiring a new look— a black man with a perfectly sculpted short natural was wearing a robin's–egg blue tuxedo jacket over a pleated–front white shirt and knife–edged jeans, but that wasn't what was attracting all the attention. Instead of laces, his gleaming black shoes were held together by a row of gold collar bars— he just threaded them through the eyelets and screwed on each individual cap. Half a dozen teenagers were scoping the man's style. By tonight, avant–garde would be five minutes ago.

I climbed out of the subway and walked over to Fortunato's office, still taking my time. The receptionist took my name, picked up the phone, and buzzed me in a few seconds later.

Fortunato was at his big desk, a cigar already in his hand. I walked in, sat down. "You're looking for me?" I said.

"Yes. I wanted to…straighten some things out. Between us, I mean."

"What things?"

"Look, you may have gotten the wrong impression from our last conversation. Or I may have spoken out of turn. If I did…or if you took it that way, I apologize. I just wanted you to know that Julio always spoke highly of you. And when I said we knew who…was responsible for his death, I was speaking generically."

"What's that mean?" I asked, playing my role.

"It means we know where it came from, that's all. The direction it came from, not the actual person. And that's old business. Old, finished business. Are you following me?"

"I don't follow people unless I get paid," I told him. "And I don't like them following me."

He took a puff on his cigar. His hand was shaking, just a shade past a tremor, but easy enough to see— if you were looking for it. "I'd like you to stay on the case," he said. "George likes you. I do too. You've only got friends here, understand?

"Uh–huh."

"What do you say to two more weeks, same rate?" Fortunato asked. "No reports, no checking in…just nose around, see what you can find out. Do we have a deal?"

"When I get paid," I told him.

Soon as I saw his shadow, I knew I was in the wrong part of town— I'd never make it back across the border in time for a call to Mama to do me any good. I cut south on Park, working my way east, hoping to pick up the IRT local, give me a few options with each new station. I never got there— Morales caught up with me on Fortieth, wrapping a thick arm around my shoulders, chesting me into a parking lot, against the wall. His face was all blotchy, red and white— his eyes were swirling. I could hardly hear him talking through clenched teeth.

"You're in the big time now, huh, cocksucker?" he snarled, his face right in mine.

"What?"

" Don't you fuck me around! " he said, ready–to–snap tight. "Don't you play with me. Push me, just keep pushing me, I'll take your heart! Understand me? Got that fucking straight now?"

"Say what you got to say," I told him, as calm as he was crazed, the way you gentle your voice when a dog growls at you— a big dog, off–leash.

He nostriled a deep breath, mouth not moving. "Now you work for Raymond Fortunato, huh? You playing with gangsters, punk? Or, maybe, you're working on a special case? Am I getting close?"

"You'll never be close, Morales. For that, you'd have to have a clue."

"Oh, I got a clue all right, pussy. I got more than one. I know who hired you. And I know what for. Here's a free one— on the house. Walk away. Walk away fast, and don't look back, understand? You ain't a real player, Burke— you're just a fucking poker chip. Not even a blue one. Me, I'm gonna sweep the fucking table, see? Everything goes. You stay in it, you go too."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said quietly. "You're spooking at shadows. Maybe you oughta see a shrink."

I thought that last crack had done it. His eyes narrowed down so far I could only see a little piece of liquid in the folds of the sockets. A thick, violent vein pulsed in his neck. I could hear his teeth grind. Saw his right hand twitch, clenching and unclenching. I knew his pistol was close— I could feel how bad he wanted it.

A long three seconds passed. His hand came up so fast I didn't see it, an open–handed slap to the left side of my face. It rocked me— my hands came up on their own. Morales stepped back, an ugly smile on his face. "Come on, chiquita ," he whispered. "Make it easy."

I dropped my hands.

" Maricón ," he sneered. "I knew you was nothing but a no–balls cocksucking fucking faggot piece of shit."

I just watched him, back inside myself again. Back inside, where nobody could hurt me. I was good at it by now— I'd had plenty of practice when I was a kid.

I held Morales' glare, breathing shallow through my nose, calming myself in case he came at me again. If he did, I'd take it.

He hawked up a thick glob, spit it at my feet. Then he grabbed at his crotch, said "Pussy!" one more time and walked away.

I went down to Jersey to see Frankie fight that Friday— I got a ride down with Hauser.

"I didn't know you were interested in prizefighting," I said when he first mentioned it.

"I got to go down in that area anyway," he said mysteriously. "If you're sure you can get back on your own, no problem."

On the drive down, Hauser was uncharacteristically silent, not even rising to the bait when I tried to get him to speculate about Belinda.

I left the side window open, smoked in silence. We passed right by the Trenton exit, but it wasn't close enough to feel the heat.

We picked up the tickets the Prof had left at the door, found our seats just past the Golden Circle, where chumps get to sit at little tables and get called "sir" by the hostess the same way they do in the casinos.

Frankie was first on the card. I told Hauser I'd be right back, then I walked around to the locker room. Frankie was lying down on a table, face–up, a towel over his eyes. The Prof was talking a mile a minute. Clarence sat quietly on a bench.

"When he walks away, he's gotta pay, understand?" the Prof said. "Take what he gives you. He plays that way, break his back, Jack!"

"What's that all about?" I asked Clarence.

"This guy we are going to fight, he is very cute, mahn. He has this trick he used all the time in the amateurs. What he does, when it gets tough, he just turns his back and walks away….Then he spins and throws a right hand over his left shoulder. He has hurt many fighters with that move. My father, he wants our gladiator to chase him, stay very close, see?"

"Yeah. Frankie's in good shape? His mind is right?"

"His spirit is strong, mahn."

I walked out, leaving all three of them in the same positions as when I came in: Frankie lying back, the Prof whispering his incantations, Clarence watching. And watchful.

It was another forty minutes before they got it on. Frankie came into the ring first, wearing his black–and–white convict's stripes. He stood still, waiting, but I could see he'd already broken a good sweat. The Cuban's corner made Frankie wait, but they couldn't drag it out too long— Montez may have been undefeated, but he wasn't ranked— didn't even hold one of those cheesy belts they give out for showing up enough times in some states.

When he climbed through the ropes I could see he was much bigger than Frankie, looking even bigger in a white satin robe with glitter dust on the wide lapels. The announcer called out his weight at two twenty–nine, but he looked fifteen over that to me.

At the bell, Frankie came out faster than he had before, almost at a trot. He bounced into a crouch, came up firing with the right hand. Montez spun, catching it on the biceps. He stepped to the side, smoked a fast left jab a couple of times, then backed off. Frankie pursued, like he always did, but he was moving sharper now, more focused. He pinned the Cuban against the ropes, but the bigger man clinched and the ref took his time breaking them.