Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

Ever since, I've been trying to blame the State for that too. But I knew better. And maybe Morales did too.

About eleven that night, I was still thinking about it. I have guns. Cold guns, impossible to back–track to the source. Fine guns, in perfect working condition. And I know where to get more, That used to be a feat in this city, but any punk can get one now— it's a fashion accessory, part of the Look.

Don't get me wrong. New York has gun–control laws. Real tight ones too. You want to carry a pistol, you have to have a damn good reason— like being a rent collector for a slumlord or needing something to show off at penthouse parties. If you work in a dangerous neighborhood, you can probably carry a piece legit. But if you live in one of those neighborhoods, that's too fucking bad, Jack.

Getting my hands on a gun was no problem. But I couldn't do it. Not out of guilt, out of fear. Afraid of what I might do…start fixing things with bullets. I had tried that. Tried real hard. But the only thing I could kill with guns was people.

And not the people who had hurt me so deep when I was a kid, only secondhand substitutes.

I took a long piece of razor–edged dull–gray plastic out of my desk drawer. One end was wrapped in friction tape, double–sided so it would be sticky wherever I grabbed it. The way you use it, you stab deep, then you twist it, hard. The plastic will cut into anything, but it snaps real easy— you leave a big chunk inside.

I took my old army field jacket down from a hook. It's a burglar's special, custom–made by a tailor I know over on Broome Street— the old man's been making them for years. It's got a Kevlar lining, several thin layers— for bullets. The sleeves are heavily padded, with a layer of chain mesh inside. That's for dogs— no matter how well they're trained, most of them will take a sleeve if it's offered. The inside pockets are perfect for stashing stuff like jewelry or cash. But it wouldn't hold a stereo or a TV set— an outfit like this isn't for amateurs.

I slipped the plastic knife into the left sleeve, anchored it in place with a piece of Velcro loop. The jacket is designed to get past any street cop's pat–down— no bulges. The knife didn't show. Neither did the speed key for handcuffs resting flat just under the back panel.

There's a place for a set of lock picks, another for a couple of pairs of surgeon's gloves with the talcum powder already dusted on their insides. I left the lock picks, kept the gloves.

I climbed into a pair of chinos, pulled them down over a pair of work boots. Not for construction work, for my work— thick crepe for the soles, steel caps for the toes.

You see kids dressing this way all the time now: big baggy pants, torn sweatshirts, clunky lace–up boots. Industrial–look gear, it's the in thing now. Makes sense when you think about it. Kids copy the life style , not the life. A while back the boys were all sporting thick gold–chain ropes, four–finger rings, ultra sunglasses. Even fake beepers. All to look like drug dealers, the ultimate ghetto role model. Those kids didn't deal drugs— and the ones modeling industrial gear this year don't work jobs either.

In America, the more useless it is, the more we love it. Those monfucious 88 Double–D cups you see on some of those poor little bitches who went way over the top with the implants so they could be headliners in the strip bars— you think they're there so those girls can nurse entire litters?

Amateur criminals are like thrill–killers. All they really get out of crime is a sick little buzz— that's their pathetic loot. You show me some geek night–stalking in a Ninja outfit, I'll show you a full–race disturbo. The first rule of stalking is to blend. When I walked out the door that night, I looked like just another ex–soldier in the army of disconnected men who pound the pavement until they merge with it.

Me, I was going to work.

It takes a different head to use a knife. Guns, they're a video game you play in your head. A knife is personal.

If it was Belinda, if tonight was when it happened, the knife would have to do. Harder to make a mistake when you're working close.

I walked up Broadway in the opposite direction from the traffic flow, stopping in doorways to scan behind me. It looked clear. Felt that way too.

I made the right into Leonard Street, staying on the south side of the block so I could see into the alley. No cars. Just the usual soggy piles of litter around the pair of big blue Dumpsters awaiting the early–morning pickup.

Leonard Street runs past the Criminal Court on Centre, then crosses Lafayette past the Family Court. It's a one–way street. Most folks could say the same thing about the courts.

I watched the alley mouth. Usually you could see right through to Franklin Street on the other side, but the view was blocked by a pair of semis, backed in side–by–side, like they were waiting for the off–loaders. I wasn't going in there until I saw her. With the semis parked at one end, it was even more of a box than usual— it'd be too easy to block the opening and just hose it down.

I could make out the outline of a homeless man. He was lying on a bed of flattened cartons, shrouded by a tattered old parka, about ten feet away from the alley's entrance. Couldn't tell if it was the Prof, but I figured that for his best spot. I watched the man steady for a few minutes— he didn't move.

It was quiet in the street. All the action was a few blocks away in either direction. To the east, night arraignments at the Criminal Court— a dull–gray mass that squeezed everyone tight, sometimes extruding a lucky chump, mostly just grinding, grinding. To the west, the whole bullshit "downtown" scene, with its grunge–dressed club kids all looking exactly the same different.

A few minutes before midnight, a white compact— Toyota? Honda? no way to tell— nosed its way around the corner from Lafayette. The car slowed, came to a stop just past the alley, then reversed and backed in. Backed in deep— if you passed by the alley, it would be hard to spot. The headlights blinked off. The driver's door opened. The interior light came on. One person inside— or maybe just one person visible above the windshield line.

Someone got out, wearing a bulky jacket and a slouch hat. Belinda? Hard to tell in that light— I gave it a little more time. Whoever it was took off their jacket, then bent forward and leaned on the car's front fender. Then they extended one leg backward, flexed it. Did the same to the other. Like warm–up exercises for a race. When my night vision kicked in, I could see it was her. When she turned sideways and stretched, reaching her hands way over her head, I was sure.

I slipped out of the doorway, walked back up the block, crossed the street and started back down. When I got to the alley, I turned and walked in.

"Hi!" she said when she spotted me, pulling the hat off her head and waving it like I might have to pick her out of a crowd. It would work just as well as a signal to someone across the street, but I was already committed…had to trust my own backup.

I kept walking, closing the distance between us.

"Thanks for coming," she said, her voice a little higher–pitched than usual.

"Like I promised," I said in reply.

"You want to sit inside?" she asked. "It's getting a little nippy out here."

I didn't answer, just walked over to her car and opened the door. The light went on inside— the car was empty. "You leave the keys in the ignition?" I asked.

"Sure. How come…?"

I reached in, pulled out the keys. Then I went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. No light went on, but I had my pocket–flash ready, one of those mini–Mag lights that don't take up space but cover a lot of territory. The trunk was empty. Too empty for a car anyone used. I dropped the flash, bent to pick it up. Came away with a read on the license. A Z–plate— the little white car was a rental.