Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

Morales pulled up to the curb. Sat on his bike watching me through the face shield for a long minute before he turned off the engine. He climbed off the bike slowly, pulled the helmet off his head with both hands. He kept those hands empty as he closed the ground between us, moving with the confidence of a man who could handle anything he was likely to run across. Which told me one thing for sure— he hadn't seen Pansy.

But I had. The big dog started to amble over to me. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay"— she stopped dead in her tracks, rooted and alert.

I turned to face him, keeping my hands well away from my body. He came closer, pulling down the front zipper of his leather jacket, taking his time.

"What?" I asked, opening my hands wide in the sign language for that question.

He halted a few feet away from me, grabbed his left wrist with his right hand, spread his legs wide to brace himself. "You're slicker than I thought," he said, his voice strangely calm.

So are you , I thought— tailing me on a motorcycle was smarter than I gave him credit for. "I can't keep doing this," I told him aloud. "Guessing what you're talking about every time."

"That's okay, punk," he said. "I'll do the math for you. I can't be in two places at once, you already figured that out for yourself. And you know I'm working solo too, right? You're a slippery sonofabitch, I'll give you that. You know I'm on you, so you use me for an alibi. I had the roles reversed— I guess you knew that too. I thought you were doing the work. Now I know better."

"You don't know anything better, Morales. Why don't you just lay it out, give me a chance to set you straight?"

"I'm already straight," he said, still relaxed. "It took me a while to put it together, but now I got it. And I'm gonna leave you on the street until I finish it. Leave you out here, dangling in the wind. Either you're running this whole thing or else you're just a tool. Don't matter to me— anytime I want, you're going down."

"You're out of control," I told him. "I don't know what you got your nose open about, but it isn't me. I'm not in it."

"It's gonna be real easy," he said. "Anytime I want. Just find you alone— like now. You wouldn't be the first ex–con who resisted arrest."

I made a waving motion with my right hand. Pansy broke out of the shadows and started walking toward me, rolling her shoulders, moving with more confidence than Morales could ever put out, a "You talking to me ?" expression on her face. Morales' head spun on his thick neck. "What the— !"

Pansy kept coming, padding forward noiselessly. Not playing anymore— working. I pointed to my left, keeping my hand stiff. Pansy hit the spot, turned to face Morales.

"You better keep him back," Morales said, his right hand flickering against the zipper to his leather jacket.

"She," I told him. "Pansy's a girl."

"Pansy? Looks like you and the dog got your names switched. You sure her real name ain't Burke?" Morales sneered. Not giving ground, playing by jailhouse rules— you turn your back, you get stabbed. Or fucked.

"She's my girl," I said. "You see how it is. Don't do anything stupid."

"You better back her off," he warned. "She'd never make it…"

I stepped to my right, putting more distance between me and Pansy, widening the triangle, letting him see the truth. "I'm gonna say something to her," I told Morales. "Don't listen to the word— it don't mean what you think. She's gonna lie down, understand? Just relax…"

Morales took a step back with his right foot, ready to draw, but he didn't say anything.

"Pansy, jump!" I snapped.

The huge Neo dropped to the ground, but her eyes stayed on target, pinning Morales. She looked pretty harmless lying down, but I knew the truth— Pansy could launch out of that position as fast as a badger charging out of a burrow.

"You see how it is?" I asked Morales. "No way you get both of us. Not quietly, anyway. And it's gonna cost you something if you try."

Morales slipped his hand inside his jacket. Slow, watching Pansy, ignoring me. The pistol slid out. He held it against his waist, barrel pointing to the side. A semi–auto, not a revolver— I'd forgotten that they let NYPD boys carry nines now. "Take your best shot," he said. He was calm saying it— a hundred eighty degrees from the maniac I met in the parking lot a few days ago. Crazy then, calm now. Dangerous always.

"There is no shot," I said. "Like you said…another time, right?"

"I can get you alone. Anytime. Get you where there aren't any witnesses."

"That's what the Rodney King cops thought too," I said.

A thin smile played over his lips, but his ball–bearing eyes pinned me as tight as Pansy's pinned him. "I don't know how dirty you are," he said. "I don't know exactly what you done. So I'm gonna do you a solid— for old times' sake. Drop this shit, Burke. Drop it now. Stand aside. Don't get in my way."

"You want me to stay away from this Piersall thing, you got it," I told him. "I wasn't really gonna— "

"You know what I mean," he said. "Don't pull my chain. You chumped me off, but you can't middle me. There is no motherfucking middle on this one, understand?"

"Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Do the right thing," he said in his piano–wire voice. "Do the right thing. Or else, the next time you see me, you're gone, understand?"

"No," I told him, as honest as I'd ever been with a cop in my whole life.

"Then you're a dead man," Morales said, backing away.

I snapped my fingers. Pansy came to her feet, walked over to stand beside me. Morales straddled the bike, switched on the engine. He pulled on his helmet, watched us through the face shield for a while. Pansy watched back, immobile as stone. Morales suddenly twisted the throttle and the bike shot off, still going the wrong way on a one–way street.

Maybe I was too.

I picked up a Daily News on the way back to my office, read it through while Pansy was up on her roof, looking for coverage of last night's fight. Not a line— I'd have to wait for a later edition.

Morales said he'd been my alibi. All I could make of that was that he must have been at the fights. Didn't make sense. He could tail me around lower Manhattan early in the day easy enough, especially if he didn't care about red lights or one–way streets. He had my car pegged. But so what? Even if he ran the plates, he'd only come up with Juan Rodriguez, the guy who lends me his car whenever I want. Juan Rodriguez is a hell of a citizen. Pays his taxes, stays out of trouble.

I'm Juan Rodriguez. It's not illegal to change your name if there's no intent to defraud. I did it a long time ago. Got a lawyer, did it right. You fill out this petition, explain why you want the name change. Then you publish a public notice that you're doing it, so if any creditors are out there they can move on you.

Actors do it all the time. Some people just don't like their names. Jews used to do it so they could get jobs. Irish guys did it so their mothers wouldn't know they were prizefighters instead of dock–workers. It's no big deal. Costs a few hundred bucks and then you're done.

When I filled out my petition, I said I wanted to honor the foster family who took me in when I was a kid. The judge liked that— it showed respect.

The foster parents I had when I was a kid, their name wasn't Rodriguez. And if I ever found them, I'd pay my respects all right…show them how well I learned what they taught me.

So I changed my name. From Anderson to Rodriguez. The only place I ever saw "Burke" written down was on my birth certificate. Baby Boy Burke, it said.

A train of lies, running on a crooked track. When I ran from that foster home, they locked me up. They kept doing it until I learned how to survive out here. Learned from the Prof, mostly.