Andrew Vachss: Footsteps of the Hawk

"But for a first fight…"

"Look, Burke. Frankie got a whole bunch of fights before this. Amateur, sure, but plenty of fights."

"How'd he do?"

"Ah, he was jobbed most of the time. He fights pro–style. Body punches, chopping down the tree, see? But the amateurs, it's all about pitty–pat. Slap each other like bitches in a pillow fight. That wasn't Frankie."

"That's where you found him? In the amateurs?"

"Nah. He was in this club over to Jersey. Fighting smokers. In the basement, you know how it works. You get paid to cook, but it's off the books. Don't go on your record, neither."

I looked over to where the kid was skipping rope under Clarence's watchful eye. "Speaking of records…" I let it trail away.

"Down twice," the Prof came back. "One in the kiddie camps, once upstate. Assault, both times. Kid's got a real nasty temper."

"Who's he been…?"

"Anybody, babe. He was a brawler. Half–ass burglar too. Booze was his beast. But now that's all done, son. My man don't touch a drop, and that's a Medeco lock."

I watched the kid spar for a while. Nothing spectacular— steady and dedicated, learning the fundamentals. I slipped the Prof the five grand from Mama, told him she was in. Then I signaled Max it was time to split. He would have happily stayed there all goddamn day, but I had work to do.

I pulled the Plymouth into the garage of the warehouse where Max lives. He pointed up, making a "come on" gesture, inviting me to say hello to Immaculata and the baby, Flower. I tapped my watch, held my thumb and forefinger close together, showing him I didn't have time.

I stood on the sidewalk, watched the Plymouth disappear behind the descending garage door. As soon as it disappeared, I walked over to the subway on Chrystie Street and dropped into the underground, heading uptown.

A small group of people clustered near the middle of the platform. Timid rabbits— knowing one of the herd would be taken, praying it wouldn't be them, never thinking that together they could have a fox for breakfast. I walked away from them, toward the rear. The end of the platform was deserted. I stood there quietly, settling into myself. A bird flew past my face, almost too quick to see. I was used to rats in the subway, but I'd never seen a bird before. I trained my eyes on where the bird had vanished. Nothing. Then I heard a chirping noise and refocused. A nest was neatly tucked into the hollow part of a crossbeam. The mother bird hopped about anxiously, trying to quiet them down. I walked a few feet back toward the center of the platform, turning my back. In a minute, the mother bird swooped by again. A sparrow, she looked like. Down here, the squatters aren't all humans.

The train finally rolled in. It wasn't crowded at that hour. I found a two–person seat at the end of the car. Two stops later, a pair of black teenagers got on, doing the gangstah strut. One of them sat next to me, bumping my shoulder slightly. I stiffened my left arm, ready for a move, but the kid said, "Excuse me, sir," in a polite voice. His pal took the seat facing us, and the two started a rapid–fire conversation.

"Ain't no way the bitch gets away from me," the kid next to me said. "My game is too strong."

"Why you gotta be referring to sisters like that?" the guy across from us said.

"What you mean?"

"I mean, man, what is all this bitch thing with you? You not showing no respect. Why you call your own woman a bitch?"

The kid next to me considered the question for a minute, then he leaned forward, said, "Well, what else I gonna call the ho'?"

His pal gave me a "What can you do?" look. I nodded to show I understood his dilemma. When the train rolled up to my stop, they were still going at it.

The private clinic was housed in a discreet brownstone on a quiet East Side block. I rang the bell, standing so the video eye could pick up my image easily. In a minute, the door was opened by a young woman in jeans and a white T–shirt. "You're Mr. Burke?" she asked. I nodded to tell her she had the right man but she had already turned her back to me and was walking away. I followed her into a small room just past a receptionist's desk, took the seat she indicated. She walked out without another word.

Doc showed in a couple more minutes. Medium height with a husky wrestler's chest, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses he always wears.

"Thanks for coming, hoss," he said.

"I owe you one," I told him. It was the truth. Hell, more than one, maybe. "Besides, I wanted to see how your new setup was working out."

"So far so good," he said.

"It's a long way from Upstate," I told him. Upstate— the prison— where we first met. I was a convict, Doc was the institutional psychiatrist. Later, they put him in charge of all the institutions for the criminally insane. I'd heard he packed it in. Quit cold. Moved down here to the city to open up this clinic for damaged teenagers.

"I'm still the same," Doc said, just a faint trace of Kentucky in his voice.

"Me too," I assured him.

Something shifted behind the lenses of his glasses. A microscope, focusing. "Heard you might have bought yourself a bit of trouble a while back."

"That wasn't me," I said.

Doc just nodded. I lit a cigarette. "I used to— " he started.

"I heard this before," I interrupted. It was self–preservation.

Doc's a great storyteller, has a real narrator's gift. But it doesn't work so well from a soapbox— I'd heard about his heroic triumph over evil cigarettes too many times already.

"Okay, hoss. Whatever you say. Here's the deal: we have a client who's expecting— "

He stopped talking when a teenage girl burst into the room. A brunette with long, thin hair flowing all the way down past her shoulders. Her face was a skeleton, her body too scrawny to cast a shadow. Her skin was that dull–orange color starvation freaks get from a heavy carrot diet— there's some bullshit going around about how carrots fill you up but have no calories— every teenage girl in the world seems to believe it.

"I'm not going to— " she started.

"Susan, I'm with somebody," Doc said mildly.

"I don't care! They can't make me— "

"Nobody is going to make you do anything, Susan. But if you don't— "

"I won't. I know what I'm doing. I…"

Doc held up a hand, palm out like a traffic cop, but it was no good. The girl just charged ahead. "Just let me explain, all right? Let me tell you why. Please?"

"As soon as I'm finished with— "

"No! Now! I don't care if another shrink hears— "

"Burke isn't…" Doc started to say. He caught my eye. I nodded, He went with it, settling back in his chair, spreading his arms, palms out and open. "Tell me," he said.

"There's a reason for it," the girl said, standing with her hands on what should have been her hips. "I don't have anorexia. I mean it's not an addiction or anything. I'm not like Aurora."

"Tell me the reason," Doc said, gently.

The girl's face contorted. She shook off the spasm, wrapped her arms around herself, whispered: "I don't want to look sexy."

"Susan…" Doc tried.

"I won't! " the girl lashed out. "You can't make me."

"How old were you when it happened?" I asked.

Her face whirled around toward me. Only her head swiveled— her body was still facing Doc. "What?"

"How old were you when…?" I repeated, holding her close with my voice, cutting off the exit roads.

Her eyes screamed at me, but her voice was low–pitched. "Nine," she said.

"You have a lot of curves then?"

"What?"

"Did you look sexy then, Susan? Like a woman?"

"No…"

"You keep starving yourself, you end up looking like a child again. No curves, no shape. All flat lines, right? Like a skinny little girl again."