Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

"Satisfied?" she asked, hands on hips.

"Yeah," I told her, stepping past where she stood. I opened the car door again, took the keys in my hand and stuck them into the ignition. But as I backed out, I slid the keys out of the ignition and dropped them softly to the floor.

I stood next to her. Close enough to smell her perfume, a biting citrus cover–up. Her eyes were dark in that alley, unreadable. "You wanted to meet," I said.

"He did it again!" she whispered. "In Westchester. It was in the— "

"I know."

"He's gonna get crazy now. He must be crazy— they'd never let him investigate an out–of–town case— he has to know that."

"Morales, you mean?"

"Who else? Who else could it be? George isn't gonna make it, Burke. He's not gonna live to take advantage of this."

"What do you mean? If the cops— "

"It's too late for that," she said, urgency overamping her voice. "There's a contract out. On George. In the prison. They're gonna kill him!"

"Who?"

"Who? I don't know who— what does it matter? Whoever Morales got to, whoever he paid. It's gotta be now, before it's too late."

"What do you think I could— ?"

"He's gotta get out, do you understand? Out! Out and away. After this is all cleared up, he can come back in. Surrender himself. After they find the real killer and clear him."

"How could I— ?"

"You could do it, Burke. I know you could do it. People have escaped from there before— there has to be a way. All it takes is money, right? I've got the money. If you would only…"

"There's a big risk— "

"It doesn't matter," she interrupted urgently. "Whatever the chance, we have to take it…before it's too late for anything."

"I'm not talking about a risk for him ," I told her. "It's a risk for anyone who helps, inside or outside. He's gonna need a getaway driver, a change of clothes, some hair dye and a razor. And a place to hole up. A local place— if he tries for the Turnpike, they'll have it roadblocked."

"I know, but— "

"And he can't go back to his house. Can't go near it. Or near anyone the cops know about, Your best bet is out of the country. Central America— Costa Rica, maybe Honduras. And that takes long green, understand? Enough so he can keep paying the tab month after month."

"I can get all that. From Fortunato— he says there's a way to 'invade' the trust or something. I don't really understand it all, but he said we could get a couple of hundred thousand, easy."

I lit a cigarette, cupping my hands to give me an excuse to scan. Nothing was moving. It was so quiet in the alley I could hear pieces of paper rattling every time a faint breeze came by. Escaping from Trenton State Prison…it could be done— I know guys who have pulled it off. The joint is an old catacombs, with secrets only the convicts will ever know. There's lots of ways out of prison: Your case gets reversed on appeal, you score a parole, you get a pardon from the Governor. You can wait for Work Release and then just not come back. You can get yourself into an outside hospital and make your break from there. All those ways, it takes juice. The old way— over the Wall— that takes something else. I got the cigarette going, turned to look at Belinda. "Why me?" I asked her. "You know what it takes, and you say you've got the ticket. Why don't you just go do it?"

"I will do it," she said. "You want me to wait outside, drive the getaway car…anything…I'm down to do it, all right?"

"So you need me for…what?"

"To set it up. Somebody has to pull strings in there. George isn't going to escape if he's locked in solitary— that's where he is now. He doesn't know enough about how the place runs. But you do. You could get it done."

"And I get…?"

"Money. A lot of money," she said. "And anything else you want…from me."

I spent most of my younger years doing time— now all I wanted was to buy some. "It'll take a while," I told her. "Couple–three weeks, minimum. You can't wait that long, there's nothing I could even think about doing."

"That's okay. That's good, honey."

That last word was a test flight. I nodded— not shooting it down, but not turning on the landing lights either. "I need the money— "

"Up front," she said. "I know."

"Soon as I have it, I'll— "

"Can't you get started now? You know I'm good for it."

"I know that," I lied. "But there's no way I tell people inside the walls about you— I have to keep you completely out of this, for your own protection."

"Okay…I understand. I'll talk to Fortunato tomorrow It'll take a few days, but— "

"That's okay," I said. "Just let me know when you've got it."

"You're a doll," she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss the corner of my mouth. I felt her tongue flickering soft against my lips, opened my mouth just a fraction, put a little pressure into my kiss–back. "Can I give you a ride anywhere?" she asked, another test flight.

"No thanks. I'm going over to the courts," I said, pointing to my right. "There's a few things I can do. Preliminary things. Whatever little cash that costs, I can front myself."

"Okay," she said, opening the door to her car. "I'll call you as soon as— "

"Take care," I told her, turning my back and walking away, toward the courts.

I was halfway down the block when I heard a car pull out of the alley. I turned, looked over one shoulder. The white car was speeding up the block. I trotted back to watch just as it made a hard left through a red light.

I crossed Leonard and took up my old post, just in case Belinda made another pass. After ten minutes, I figured she wouldn't. Still watching the homeless man asleep on his hard pallet, I crossed over to the alley. Standing over him, I said "All clear," in a calm, quiet voice.

The figure in the parka–shroud stirred. "I do not see how they do this every night, mahn. I myself would rather be in jail." Clarence rolled onto his side and got up stiffly, rotating his neck to work out the kinks. His pistol was in his hand. He caught me looking at it, said, "I could not draw it from such an uncomfortable position, mahn. It was better to be ready"

"So where's the Prof?" I asked him.

"This way, mahn," Clarence said, walking into the alley. I followed him, one pace behind and slightly to his side. He walked up to one of the Dumpsters, smacked the side of his hand against it three times. The Prof's head popped up. Clarence and I each took one of his hands, pulled him free. A sawed–off shotgun dangled against the Prof's chest, held up by a loop of rawhide around his neck. When he landed on the ground, he make a quick motion with his right hand— the scattergun disappeared into the folds of his coat. "When it gets down to the clutch, I never lose my touch," the little man said, a wicked grin on his face.

Clarence pulled out a cellular phone, punched a single button. After a couple of seconds, he said "Come on," into the speaker.

Just as we were about to exit the alley, I heard the squeal of tires. Car coming, fast. "Chill," the Prof said. "It's Frankie Eye, and that's no lie."

Sure enough, a charcoal–gray Lincoln Town Car pulled to a jerky stop at the curb. The door opened and Frankie got out gingerly, favoring his left arm, which was wrapped and cradled in a white sling. He walked around the back of the car, opened the rear door and slid in. The Prof followed. Clarence took the wheel, I got the shotgun seat.

The Lincoln pulled away, a lot more smoothly with Clarence at the wheel.

"The fuck's all this?" I asked the Prof, nodding my head in Frankie's direction.

"I'm okay," Frankie answered for him. "The bullet went right through— just took a piece from inside my upper arm, under the shoulder. No bones broken, nothing. The docs cleaned it and packed it, gave me a shot. Just a butterfly thing, no stitches. I got to wear this sling for about three–four weeks, that's all."