Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

They got back together in the center of the ring, and Frankie went right back to work, throwing murderous hooks, his hips torquing every blow. Montez suddenly stopped, turned and just walked away….Frankie charged after him, throwing a long right that caught the Cuban in the back of his head. Montez put both hands on his head and tried walking away again— Frankie rammed a vicious shot to his liver, and Montez went down. Some of the spectators booed and hissed, but the ref started the count.

Montez never got up.

The ref raised Frankie's hand. Two of the Cuban's handlers jumped into the ring and started for Frankie….Frankie whirled to face them, a ghastly smile on his face. They stopped in their tracks.

"That's why it says Protect Yourself at All Times," the ref said to the Cuban's corner, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He turns his back, it's on him. There's no disqualification."

The crowd boiled a little bit, then simmered down.

"It's all right to do that? Hit someone in the back?" Hauser asked me.

"If they turn their back, sure. Otherwise, you could buy a breather anytime you wanted one…like calling a time–out."

"Okay," Hauser said, whatever sense of morality he had about the whole thing appeased. "I'm going to take off now— I'll get in touch with you in a couple of days. You know where to reach me if anything jumps."

"Same here," I said, signing off.

When I went back to the lockers, Frankie was already in the showers. I didn't see the guy he KO'ed anywhere around. That was good— sometimes boxers don't want to leave the fight in the ring.

"We smoked the dope," the Prof crowed. "We downed the clown. We got one, maybe two more to do, then we ride , Clyde."

"He looked good," I acknowledged. "Seems like he's faster too. Or sharper, maybe."

"It's all focus ,"the Prof confided. "Frankie's on the case, Ace. He's gonna play that tune straight to the moon, I can feel it."

"Me too," I said.

"What's wrong, schoolboy?"

"Who said— ?"

"You don't need to say nothing, Burke— I can read your cards like they face–up."

I took a deep breath. Let it out. Spun it a couple of times in my mind. Then I said, "Here's what I know…so far," and told him the truth.

The ride back to the city was relaxed. Almost sweet with certainty, with triumphs assured. A future for Frankie…maybe one for us too. The Rover hummed through the night, Clarence at the wheel, the Prof riding shotgun. I was in the back with Frankie.

"I wish it would never be over," Frankie said.

"Tonight?" I asked him.

"Not that fight. I mean, not any particular fight. Just…fighting. I feel…right doing it. Like it's what I'm supposed to do."

"You can't fight forever," I told him. "You stay too long at the fair, you know what happens."

"Schoolboy's right," the Prof said, leaning over the back of the bucket seat. "This is about money, honey. We get the green, then we split the scene."

"I…guess so," the kid said. "I suppose I don't need to worry about it until the time comes, right?"

"Right," I assured him.

Saturday morning, I got up early. It was still dark out when I loaded Pansy into the Plymouth, figuring I'd give her a chance to run around a bit. I had plenty of time stretching out ahead of me— I was happy enough to take Fortunato's money, Piersall's actually, I supposed— but I wasn't going to do anything for it.

"Walk away," Morales had told me, so crazy–wild with rage that I couldn't even ask him what he meant.

But when the Prof weighed in on the same side, I knew it was the right one. "Some mysteries don't need solving, schoolboy," he said. "If the price is too high, just roll on by— with that stone–crazy motherfucker Morales in it, somebody's gonna die."

That's the thing about dynamite— once you got it lit, you better throw it away…fast.

I drove in a gentle, leisurely loop, checking the mirrors for tags, not surprised to find them empty. I went east on Houston, then south on Forsyth. I spotted a glowing dot of red. Refocusing, I could make out a pair of young men on one of the stoops. Very alert young men, sending off a signal as clear as a neon street sign flashing in the night— Keep Moving.

I drove the length of Allen Street. A hooker in black hot pants and yellow spike heels stepped off the curve, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and shot a hip at me in a halfhearted attempt to make one more score before it got daylight. At least a half–dozen working girls had been taken off that same block. Got into cars, got dropped off in the river. Streetside hooking, it's like playing roulette, with only the double zero paying off— the reason you don't see too many old hookers isn't because they lose their looks.

An old Chinese woman crossed in front of us at a light, a long pole across her shoulders with a bag suspended from each end. Like the yoke her ancestors had probably used in the fields— only this one helped her carry two giant clear plastic bags full of abandoned bottles. She was heading for the recycling center, where she could turn her harvest into cash.

I looked to my left. The cement railing next to me was topped with a line of wine bottles, carefully arranged like a menorah with the sacred Night Train as the center candle. The old woman passed them by without a glance— those bottles weren't any more recyclable than the losers who left them there.

Central Park had more room, but there had just been another bunch of rapes there. At that hour, it would be lousy with cops. Or should be, anyway. Besides, Pansy was a perimeter dog— she never ran far, even off the leash.

I took a left on Delancey, then cut left again on Chrystie, heading for this vacant lot next to the Manhattan Bridge. It used to be a hobo jungle, home to the homeless. A pair of activists had even pitched a big tepee there and lived in it— walking the walk, you had to give them that. But then some low–level drug dealer thought he'd been burned by one of the homeless guys. He came back at night with a few gallons of gas, did some burning of his own. One of the residents died. The city tore everything down, then bulldozed it. The evacuation was peaceful— the only way the cops would shoot to kill would be if the homeless occupied the stadium where they held the U.S. Open— sacred ground to our last pitiful excuse for a mayor. We got a new mayor now. The city's the same.

I parked on Chrystie and climbed out. Ahead was a stop sign. The only way you could turn was right— to the left was a one–way discharge road for traffic exiting the Manhattan Bridge. A good spot— perfect sight–lines in all directions. I snapped the lead on Pansy's collar and crossed Canal Street to the vacant lot. Pansy's huge head whipped back and forth, a low rumble came from somewhere inside of her.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked her.

She just growled some more. Looking down, I could see the fur standing up at the back of her neck. I swept the street with my eyes. It wasn't empty— it never is— but there wasn't anything spooky around.

Once we got across the street, I unsnapped Pansy's lead. She loped away from me, moving in wide figure–eight loops, checking out the territory. Legend has it that Neapolitan mastiffs came over the Alps with Hannibal— if they were all as clumsy as Pansy, I'm surprised they didn't flatten the mountains. She crashed through piles of litter with abandon, occasionally scaring up a rat. She wasn't fast enough to catch one, and none of them were stupid enough to hang around, so every bout ended in a draw.

I leaned against what was left of a metal railing, lit a smoke, watching the morning light break over the top of the tenements to the east. Pansy appeared and disappeared over and over again in the shadows, her dark–gray coat blending perfectly. I heard the motorcycle before I saw it, the unmistakable sound of a Harley backing off through its pipes. The rider didn't even slow at the stop sign, just downshifted and turned left, going against one–way traffic, heading right for me. The driver's head was covered with a dark helmet and full face shield, but I knew who it was.