Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

I knew the color he meant. Blue. "Listen, brother," I said. "I know what you mean, and I'm not arguing. I wouldn't disrespect you like that. But here's the thing: if one of them is bent, and I do the other, then I'm boxed. Down for the count. 'Cause one thing's sure, Prof— whoever's doing it, they're watching me. Watching you too— this wasn't hatched up in one night."

"I stand with my father," Clarence said. "Last time, they did what we should do— shoot first. This time, I will be ready, mahn."

"I'm gonna play it out," I told them. "We got two trains coming on the same track from different directions. I'm standing in the middle. All I gotta do is jump out the way just before they hit. I pull it off, and it's done. I don't and I am. It feels…right. It's gotta play the way I say."

"Your rhyme ain't worth a dime," the little man said. "But I love you, schoolboy. And I promise you this— you don't jump in time, I'll take what's mine.

Even when I was a little kid, I knew the truth. If I wanted to stand my ground, I'd have to steal some first.

My family is my ground now. All I've got. Everything.

If I screwed it up, if it didn't play the way I figured it…then I knew what had to be done. Knew I wouldn't be around to do it.

The Prof can do many things, but he's no assassin. I couldn't let him die trying.

So I did the right thing.

I went over to Mama's. Sat down in my booth and told her everything. She never made a note, but I knew it was engraved in her mind.

If I didn't jump off the tracks in time, Max the Silent would visit the people who had shoved me down there.

It was another three days before it happened. Almost midnight when the cellular phone in my jacket chirped like a damn cricket, jolting me awake. I opened the channel.

"What?"

"She call. Say you call back, quick."

"See you later, Mama," I said.

"You still— ?"

I cut the connection.

"Hello…" Her voice was trembly, trailing off to a whisper–breath.

"It's me," I said.

"I've got it," she said. "The proof. Certain–sure. And I'm scared. He could be— "

"Say where and when."

" Now! Right now. Can you— ?"

I said Yes. She gave me the address.

It was on Charlton Street, close by the river. Her name was on the bell: Belinda Roberts. I rang it, got buzzed in. It was a walk–up, four flights.

The door was standing open. Belinda stuck her head out, waved me on. She was wearing only a black jersey bra and a pair of white shorts. I closed the gap between us. As I walked into the apartment, she stepped to one side. I could see from the way it was laid out that it was the only apartment on the floor.

"Have a seat, she said, pointing down the hall. The place was L–shaped, turning a corner as you walked in. The floor was wood, bleached so white it looked unreal. The left–hand wall was all bookcases. The right was all windows, a thick cage of steel bars blocked most of the view. Straight ahead was darkness, the only light a baby spot, its rose–colored light illuminating a big wooden chair. The chair…I walked closer, took a look. It was an execution chair, or a damn good replica. Complete with heavy leather straps on the arms and a metal electrode cap. Above it, a glossy black–and–white poster: a photograph of an electric chair— the same chair? maybe…At the top of the poster, in blood–red letters:

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

SOMETIMES IT'S A FATAL MISTAKE!

"What's this supposed to be?" I asked, turning around to face her. That's when I saw the big automatic in her hands. She held it trained on my chest, feet spread in a combat shooting stance, close enough for me to see the sweat on her face…and the long tube silencer screwed into the barrel of the gun.

"It's your turn now, she said, holding the gun dead steady. "Remember? Remember when I came to your place? Remember what you made me do? Well, now it's you I don't trust. I'm too scared to play around."

"What do you want?" I asked, watching her eyes— so I wouldn't have to look at the pistol.

"I want what you wanted," she said. "To know I can trust. If you're wired…if you're with him , I'll…"

"I'm not with anybody," I told her.

"Then show me," she said. "Do what I did. Take off your clothes. All of them. Slow."

"Watch my hands," I said quietly. "I can't take this stuff off without reaching, you understand? There's no wire. I'm doing what you want. Just don't get nervous, all right?"

"Why would I be nervous?" she snorted. "Because I'm a bitch, is that it?"

"Anybody would be nervous," I said. "I'm nervous. Probably more than you, okay? But I'm not pointing a gun at anyone."

"Just do it," she said. "Do it now."

I removed my army jacket. Very slowly. I dropped it to the floor, knowing the padding wouldn't let any of the metal clank. I pulled my black sweatshirt and white T–shirt over my head, dropped them on top of the jacket. I held my hands over my head, turned around completely.

"Do the rest," she said.

I unbuckled the black chinos, unzipped the fly. I went to one knee, careful to keep my hands where she could see them. Then I pulled off the boots, one at a time. Socks too. When I stood up, the pants fell down. I stepped out of them, waited to see if…

"Come on," she said, her voice as unwavering as the pistol she was holding.

I pulled my shorts down, stepped out of them too.

"Step away," she said, her voice deliberately harsh, the way cops learn on the street— keep control of the guy you're arresting— keep the reins tight — don't talk, demand.

"Not to the side, back! More. Get away from those clothes— now!"

I backed off. She came forward, closing the gap, walking splay–footed, keeping the pistol centered, perfectly balanced.

"Further," she ordered. The back of my legs touched the electric chair. "Stop," she said.

I raised my hands again, trying to reassure her.

"Sit down," she said. "In the chair."

I did it.

Belinda circled to my left, as careful as a wasp stalking a scorpion. My eyes followed her, but I held my body straight. "Put your arms where they're supposed to go," she said, almost out of my peripheral vision. "I've got to look through your stuff, and I can't do it while I'm holding a gun on you.

I laid my forearms on the broad flat wood arms of the electric chair as she stepped in behind me. I felt the barrel of the pistol in the back of my neck. "I'm going to fasten the straps," she said. "I can do it with one hand. If you move, you're dead."

I sat still, breathing through my nose to keep the panic at bay. I heard the metal–on–metal as the restraints snapped into place. She pulled another strap around my waist. I heard that one snap closed too, somewhere behind me.

Belinda circled back in front of me, walked over to where I'd dropped my clothes. She put the pistol on the floor, started pawing over my jacket. "You got toys, huh?" she said, pulling out the Velcro panel, holding up the handcuff speed key.

"I never leave home without one," I said, hoping for a smile. I didn't get one— she went back to work, rooting through my clothes.

"No lock picks?" she asked.

"Never use them," I replied, still trying for flip.

"Don't worry," she said. "I've got some."

Before I could ask her what the hell that meant, she turned back to her task, her face tightened in fierce concentration. I kept it quiet— maybe after she saw I was clean…

Finally, she stood up. "No wires," she said. "No guns either."

"I'm playing it straight," I told her, sick of games, scared real deep, trying to sound calm, keep her from spooking.

"Yeah. Maybe you are." She walked back toward me, pistol in her hand again. "You've got a nice body for a man your age," she said. "Pretty thin, though. You work out?"