Andrew Vachss: Footsteps of the Hawk

"I…"

"They don't want grown women," I told her, sharing the truth— we both knew who "they" were. "They want little girls," I said quietly. "You're not keeping them away, Susan— you're playing your old tapes."

"I hate you!" she shrieked at me. Then she started to cry. Deep, racking sobs. Her bird's–wing ribs looked like they were going to snap from the pressure and Doc was on his feet in a split–second, arms around the girl, crooning something soft in her ear, patting her back until she stopped holding herself so rigid, walking her out the door.

I finished my cigarette, looking around the office, someplace else in my head. But I wasn't that far gone— I used the time to slip a couple of Doc's Rx pads into my pocket.

Doc was back in a few minutes. If he noticed the missing pads, he didn't say anything. "You should have been a therapist, hoss. We've been discussing how we could confront Susan with her real agenda for weeks now."

"I'm sorry. I— "

"Don't be sorry. I wasn't kidding you— that was what she needed. I guess it was better hearing it from a stranger. She was sent to us for anorexia, but we weren't getting anywhere. Another week and she'd have had to go on IV."

"Who sent her?"

"Her dad."

"The same one who…"

"No. It was her grandfather. Happened maybe ten, twelve years ago. They never did anything about it. Oh sure, they kept her away from him, but that was it. They thought everything was fine until she just stopped eating."

"The weight she's trying to lose, it's got nothing to do with calories, huh?"

"Right on the money, hoss. But now we got ourselves jump–started. And Susan got herself a chance." Then he leaned back in his chair and told me what he wanted.

I told Doc I couldn't handle a 24–7, but he promised that his client's daughter would be on the midnight bus out of Cincinnati. That was the job— a runaway. At least that's what she thought. The kid's parents made the arrangements with Doc. She'd go right into his clinic. And she wouldn't have to go home if she didn't want to. If you wanted Doc to treat your kid, you had to sign that last part. Notarized.

I didn't ask Doc anything else. I got up to leave but he stopped me, using the same traffic–cop gesture he'd used on the girl with the carrot skin.

"You know, Burke…the way you handled that thing with Susan…I don't understand why you live the way you do."

"You don't know how I live," I told him, trying to shut this off.

"I've got an idea," Doc replied. "Look, I know you — I know you a long time. Even back…inside…you were always studying something. Reading, asking questions. You've got an amazing vocabulary— it's almost like you're bilingual— sometimes you sound like a mobster, sometimes you sound like a lawyer, sometimes you— "

"I do have a great vocabulary," I interrupted. "It's so fucking big, I even know what the word 'patronizing' means.

Doc nodded— like he'd tried his best, but the case was hopeless.

When I walked in the Eighth Avenue entrance everyone was in their places. The Prof was sitting on his shoeshine box, industriously working over a pair of alligator loafers. Clarence was in the loafers, eyes sweeping the terminal. Max was slumped on a bench, his body disguised under a filthy old raincoat, a battered felt hat shielding his eyes.

I was wearing one of the suits Michelle had made me buy. Gray silk, fall weave. Carrying a black anodized–aluminum attaché case in my left hand.

I strolled past a bank of pay phones, listening to a United Nations babble— all kinds of people, calling home. Calling home is a big business in this city. You can find special setups in any heavy ethnic neighborhood— phone centers, they're called. They set them up almost like tiny apartments— nice comfortable chair to sit in, couple of spares in case you want to crowd the whole family in too. Some of them have desks, shelf space, writing paper. And their rates are cheaper than you could get on your own phone, because the guys who run it buy blocks of trunk time to specific locations. In Flushing, it's Korea, India, Southeast Asia: two seventy–nine for the first minute, then seventy–five cents for each additional minute. In Jackson Heights, it's Colombia: a buck twenty–six for the first, forty–nine cents after. People who use the centers, they're not thinking of a quickie call— some of them stay for hours.

Down in the Port Authority, they have the low–rent version— you make your call with someone else's credit card. Thieves rent the credit–card numbers— all you can use for twenty–four hours, one flat fee. The Port Authority is the best place to use them— plenty of pay phones always available, impossible to stake out, anonymous.

My watch said it was eleven–forty. Plenty of time even if the bus was on schedule. The Port Authority cops were all around, watching for runaways. No shortage of pimps either, trolling for the same fish, using different bait.

It went so smooth I almost didn't trust it. While the predators hovered, I walked straight on through. I met the bus, told the girl I was with Project Pride, a safe house for runaways. Promised her a nice private room, free food, and counselors to help her find a job. She told me she was going to be an actress. I told her lies of equal weight. She got into my Plymouth. I drove her to the clinic, half–listening to her stream of chatter, hating how easy anyone could have gotten this little girl to come along with them.

I found a place to park, rang the bell. The door opened. I left the kid there.

The next morning, I went back to work. Ever since I got back from Connecticut, I've been bottom–feeding, picking at carrion. I run my scams in the Personals— promising whatever, delivering never. I also use my P.O. boxes— offering losers a real pipeline to "mercenary opportunities." The only mercenary they'll ever meet that way is me. Kiddie–porn stings don't have much bite to them today— the freaks all want to sample the merchandise over a computer modem before they buy. Or they want you to fax a teaser. And even the pedophiles who want hard copy insist you use FedEx so the federales can't bust you for trafficking through the U.S. mail. But that's okay— there's never a shortage of targets who can't go crying to the cops when they get fleeced.

I deal with citizens too. Every time the government adds a new tax to cigarettes, the market for bootleg butts goes bullish. And brand–name counterfeiting is always a sure thing: Mont Blanc pens, Rolex watches, Gucci bags— they're all best–sellers for street merchants. Most of it's made in Southeast Asia, where child labor is real cheap. In Thailand, the Promised Land for baby–rapers, it's so cheap that the freaks organize tours: for one flat rate you get round–trip to Bangkok, a nice hotel…and babies to fuck. The planes are always filled to capacity.

But even if hustling, scamming, and grafting all dried up, I could always sell firearms— hate never goes out of style. I only deal in bulk, like a case of handguns. And I won't touch the exotics— titanium crossbows that cost three grand, mail–order SAMs— that kind of stuff's for the borderlands, the far–out frontier where psychosis and technology overlap.

I sell to the usual suspects, mostly far–right dim–bulbs who sit in their basements stroking the gun barrels…the firearms equivalent of the inflatable women they sell in the freak–sex catalogs. Most of my customers are pretty easy to scope out, but when an unsmiling young woman in overalls and a flannel shirt wanted to buy enough plastique to level a high–rise, I raised my eyebrows in a question. She told me she was an animal lover, like that explained it all.

I passed on that one. I don't play much— and when I do, it's with my deck.