Footsteps of the Hawk (9 page)

I measured out the dose. You start with one tab per twenty pounds of dog, then switch to one tab per forty pounds as maintenance. We're both on maintenance now. We weigh about the goddamned same, too—she's really packed on the poundage the last couple of years.

While she was up on her roof, I fiddled with the TV set. Once I got a channel to come in, I kicked back on the couch, eyes closed. Pansy came back downstairs, walked over and put her massive head on my chest. She does that sometimes. I got her when she was a tiny puppy, not even weaned. I had to let her nurse from a baby bottle. When you first pull a pup from the litter, it's a good idea to wrap a towel around a wind–up clock and put it next to them—the ticking makes them think of their mother's heartbeat and they sleep better, safer in their minds. I didn't have one of those clocks, so I slept on my back with Pansy on my chest. Seemed to work pretty good. Every once in a while, I don't know why, she wants to hear my heartbeat again. I scratched behind her ears until she settled down. She took her head away, curled up on the floor to watch TV with me, making that noise that sounds like a downshifting diesel truck to show she was about to relax.

After a few minutes of product–pushing perjurers, I got lucky—an old episode of the Andy Griffith show—one I hadn't seen before. There was this guy, came to Mayberry from some other place. And the townspeople, they really treated him like shit, like he was a foreign spy or something. Finally, Sheriff Andy read them all the riot act…about how they should be flattered that this guy
picked
Mayberry to be his home town…how most folks don't have a choice. Kind of like the difference between adoption and birth.

I don't have a home town. New York isn't anybody's home town. It's different in other places. If you're a Chicago boy or a Detroit girl, the local papers treat you special. You're home–grown, and that counts for something.

Not here. In this city, PTA groups are more worried about the metal detectors' working than whether their kids are learning to read. Confidence is crumbling faster than the infrastructure. People with options flee this city—then they sit around in the suburbs whining about how much they miss the "energy."

When I got out of prison one time, I went over to Two Dollar Dominick's to get a haircut. I don't know why they called it that—there never was a guy named Dominick there. It was a little two–chair shop. Full service, though—you could get a manicure, your shoes shined, bet on a horse, borrow some cash…the works. Anyway, a haircut always used to be two bucks, but I'd been away a long time. When Angelo was finished cutting my hair, I asked him, "How much does a haircut go for now?"

The old man hadn't seen me for five years or so. He just looked me in the eye, said, "For you, it's still two bucks."

That was the closest I ever felt to having a home town.

Angelo, he's gone now. To the one retirement community where everybody gets the same pension.

I
slept in late the next morning—I knew I'd be up a long time once it got dark. I had breakfast with Pansy, then I went over to the restaurant to find Mama debriefing Max about last night's fight. The Mongolian was showing her each and every move, acting it all out. Mama's eyes had that glazed–over look people get when they're stoned on boredom, but Max was relentless. I never saw Mama so glad to see me.

"Burke! Our boxer won, yes?"

"Did it easy," I told her.

"How much money we make?"

"Mama, we didn't make
any
money. The whole purse was only a thousand dollars and—"

"So! A thousand dollars. How many investors?"

"No, Mama, that's not the way it works, okay? We have to pay the training expenses…like for the use of the gym and all. And we have to keep getting Frankie money so he can pay his rent and eat and all. This isn't any part–time gig with him—he has to be in training all the time. He's gotta go a long way before we can start taking money out."

"But what if he wins championship? That is worth millions, yes?"

"Sure. But that's a long dark road to walk. And it's booby–trapped too—if he keeps winning, the other guys won't want to fight him. You need connections to move up in that business."

"Boxing is crooked?" Mama asked, as though shocked by the very possibility.

"Sure. The big thing is, you gotta know people, understand?"

"Oh yes, understand. I know people too." She smiled.

I shook my head sadly. Mama knew money was the grease that lubed the gears of government, but she was used to Hong Kong style, where a bought politician
stayed
bought—that kind of honorable corruption doesn't play down here. "It's pretty tricky, Mama," I told her.

"Oh, okay," she said happily. "You fix it, yes?"

"I'll do my best," I promised.

I
explained what I needed from Max, but he acted like I wasn't coming through clearly. I tried to change channels on him—he wasn't going for it. He kept it up until I signed we could go up to the gym….All of a sudden, he was reading me perfect.

I wasn't sure Frankie would be back to work so soon after last night's fight, but as soon as I spotted Clarence at the door, I knew he was.

"We got another bout. Two weeks," the Prof said, watching Frankie spar against a big, flabby Latin guy. The gym was quieter than usual, most of the fighters watching the action in the ring. Frankie wasn't as quick as you'd think for his size. He was only a few pounds over the cruiserweight limit, but he slogged along like an out–of–shape heavy. The Latin guy was leaning all over Frankie, smothering him with his bulk, crowding away Frankie's punching power.

"Give him angles!" the Prof screamed. Frankie stepped to his left, dropped his left shoulder, but instead of the left hook the Latin guy figured was coming, Frankie looped his right hand over the top, catching the Latin flush on the chin. The Latin guy grinned to show he wasn't hurt, opening his hands wide to invite Frankie in. Frankie accepted the invitation…and stopped in his tracks when the Latin flashed a quick left to the heart. Frankie's knees trembled, but his body kept moving forward. Both fighters were still punching when someone rang the bell.

The Prof stepped to one side of Frankie, me to the other. "That's enough rounds for one day," the Prof said to the kid. "Three is the key."

"One more round,
blanquito
?" the Latin yelled across the ring.

"What's that mean?" Frankie asked.

"Means 'pussy,'" the Prof said before I could tell the kid the truth.

Frankie came off his stool, gloved hands fumbling with the chin strap to his protective headgear, pulling it off his head. He spit out the mouthpiece halfway across the ring. "Come on, bitch!" Frankie shouted.

The Latin launched off his stool, spit his own mouthpiece to the floor as the crowd started cheering. He was probably forty pounds heavier than Frankie but his hands were faster. He caught Frankie two quick ones to the face—blood blossomed around Frankie's mouth, his teeth flashing white underneath. Frankie drove the bigger man backward with a relentless barrage of punches, finishing with a vicious shot just below the belt. The Latin went down cupping his groin. Frankie loomed over him, right hand cocked, not retreating to a neutral corner. Half a dozen people jumped into the ring, but Max was first, throwing his body between Frankie and a pair of Latins who wanted to pick up where their pal had left off. Max wrestled Frankie back to his corner, and then out of the ring entirely. The warrior kept his grip on the kid, walking him over to a bench against the far wall.

Clarence dabbed at Frankie's face with a rag that smelled of peroxide.

The kid was breathing easily, but his eyes were still wild. "Nobody calls me a—"

"He didn't," I interrupted. "
Blanquito
just means 'whiteboy.' It ain't no gesture of respect, true enough, but it's a long way from 'pussy.'"

"So why'd the Prof—?"

"To see if you went lame when they called your name, fool," the Prof said over my shoulder—I hadn't seen him come back.

"You got to—" the Prof started, then stopped when he felt Max's paw on his shoulder. The warrior stood in front of Frankie, making sure he had the fighter's attention. Then he pointed at me, flattening one hand so he could sign without the kid seeing what he was doing. Max made one of the few universal gestures, the kind that you don't need either sign language or speech to understand—he gave me the finger, hidden behind his other hand. Then he nodded rapidly and stood back. Max and I were facing each other so Frankie was looking right between us.

Max held up his index finger. One. Then he nodded at me again. I shot Max the finger—he responded by cowering, covering his face as if in terror. After a few seconds, he shook his head from side to side. NO.

Max held up two fingers. Two. He nodded at me. I repeated the finger gesture—Max leaped forward, snarling, perfectly miming a man out of control. Then he shook his head again. NO.

Then Max held up three fingers, but this time the warrior turned to face Frankie flush, extending his right arm as far forward as it would go, one finger pointing out from his closed fist. Then he did the same with his left arm, two fingers pointing out in that direction.

Max took a small step backward, bringing his two hands together in a flowing gesture of harmony. When his hands were precisely in the middle of his body, he crossed his wrists, holding three fingers out from each hand.

"You get it?" I asked Frankie.

"I…think so. He's saying it's no good to be afraid when you fight. And no good losing your fucking temper either."

"Right. Max is telling you about being centered. It's somewhere between the two. A peaceful place. You
use
the adrenaline, see? But your mind is calm…like the eye of a hurricane. You can't get mad in a fight—it knots your muscles, slows you down, stops you from thinking."

"You know how to do that?" the kid asked. "What with him teaching you and all?"

"He only
told
me, Frankie," I said. "He didn't
teach
me. The best teacher in the world can't help you if you're not ready to learn."

"You was a fighter?" he asked.

"Schoolboy could hit a little bit, back when we was inside," the Prof conceded reluctantly. "But he just put up a show—he wasn't no pro."

Max thrust his way forward, searching Frankie's face. The kid returned his gaze, calm, not aggressive. Max smiled. Bowed.

The kid bowed back.

I sat next to Frankie, asked: "Last night, just before you touched gloves, what'd the other guy say to you?"

"Said he was gonna fuck me
up.
" Frankie grinned.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Told him he was too late."

I watched the fighter's face. Caught the fineness of his bone structure, the slightly off–center Roman nose, the blue eyes with their little deep dots of banked fire.

Fuck, I thought to myself, maybe the kid
could
make it happen.

I
was at the corner of Canal and Mulberry by four–fifteen in the morning, the Plymouth safely docked, me alone in the front seat, a cellular phone at my side. I always hated the damn things—they work off radio waves and too many geeks stay up nights in their rooms, monitoring the phone traffic the way they used to eavesdrop on CB radios. But the Mole told me he had the whole thing wired so they all worked off the same encryption device. If your unit wasn't keyed to the encoding, all you got was static when you tried to listen in. We had four of the phones, passed them around on an as–needed basis. We didn't worry about the billing either. All you need is the serial number of a legit phone—any phone, it doesn't matter. Then you can reprogram the chip in your own phone to match that serial number…and some chump gets a bill he can't
begin
to explain. The Mole does it all the time, switching them every few weeks. There's a guy who works in an electronics store in Times Square. What he does, he checks the numbers on the new phones, before they're even sold. Takes him a few minutes, and he gets fifty bucks for each one. Pretty stupid to be an armed robber these days—there's so many easier ways to steal.

Canal and Mulberry is a border crossing—Chinatown to one side, Little Italy to the other. The border is constantly shifting, with the Orientals taking more and more territory every year. It was still a bit early for the Chinatown merchants to open up, but I knew they were busy behind the closed doors.

Time and people passed, at about the same speed. I know about that—in my life, I've killed some of both. I learned something too—killing time is harder.

The cellular phone purred. I picked it up, said "What?" in a neutral voice.

"Here she comes," the Prof said. "Walkin', not talkin'."

The Prof was stationed on the northeast corner of Broadway and Canal. If you looked close, all you'd see would be another soldier in the homeless horde of discharged mental patients that blanket the street in the early–morning hours, grabbing those last few minutes of peace before they had to go to work. Some of them vacuum garbage, looking for return–deposit bottles. Some beg for money Some threaten for it. There's still guys who try and clean your windshield with dirty rags. And there's those who don't know where they are. Or why.

Belinda was a few blocks away. On foot. And alone, far as the Prof could tell. Okay.

I spotted her before she saw me. A medium–sized woman who looked shorter than she was because of her chunky build. Wearing a baggy pink sweatshirt over a pair of dark jeans, white running shoes on her feet, a white canvas purse on a sling over one shoulder. She walked with a beat cop's "I can handle it" strut, hands swinging loose and free at her sides, chestnut hair tied behind her with a white ribbon.

I slipped out of the Plymouth, closed the door quietly, the cellular phone in my jacket pocket. Then I crossed the street to intersect her path. She saw me coming, waved a hand in greeting.

I closed the gap between us, eyes only on Belinda, as if I didn't even consider the possibility she wouldn't be alone.

"Hello, stranger," she said, flashing a smile.

"We can walk it from here," I replied.

A puzzled expression flitted over her face. Then she shrugged, holding out one hand. I took it—a soft, chubby hand, the pad of her palm a deep, meaty slab.

We walked along in silence for a minute, not in a hurry. Couple of lovers coming home after a late–night downtown party, it might look like.

The question was: who was looking? If the cellular phone in my pocket rang, I'd know we had company—maybe Max can't talk, but he can punch numbers on a keypad. And in this part of town, he was even more invisible than the Prof.

"I tried—" she said.

"Later," I told her, tugging just a slight bit on her hand. She came along, not resisting.

The loft was on the third story of the building on Mott Street. I know Mama owned the whole building—that story about renting it as a crash pad for visitors was just her way of maintaining the façade. You ask Mama, she'd tell you she was poor, didn't know
what
the hell she was going to do in her old age. I used the key she lent me to open the downstairs door, made a sweeping gesture with my left hand to show Belinda she should go up the stairs ahead of me. She put a lot into the effort—hard not to admire those fine flesh–gears meshing. A woman who can't look good climbing a flight of stairs doesn't have a chance on level ground.

At the second–floor landing, I made the same gesture…and watched the same way. The stairwells were lit with low–wattage bulbs in little wire cages—just enough to see by.

On the third floor, we came to an orange steel door with some Chinese characters painted in black in a narrow band down the left side. I used the downstairs key to open the door, ushered her inside.

"Good morning," a lyrical voice greeted us. Oriental, with a faint trace of a French accent. Immaculata was calmly seated in a straight chair of black lacquered wood standing between a matched set of end tables of the same material. She was dressed in her Suzie Wong outfit: red silk sheath with a Mandarin collar, slit all the way up to mid–thigh, dragon–claw fake fingernails in a matching shade, heavy stage makeup. If Belinda was like most Europeans, she'd never recognize Mac's face if she ever saw it again.

"Good morning," I greeted her, bowing slightly.

If Belinda was taken aback, she gave no sign, standing silently to one side.

"Come with me," I told the lady cop, walking across the gleaming hardwood floor to a closed door. I opened that door, and Belinda followed me inside.

"Have a seat," I told her, gesturing toward a black leather easy chair. She sat down. So did I, in a matching chair a few feet away Nobody ever really slept here. Mama had designed the negotiation suite herself—no one could gain status by claiming a certain piece of furniture—every piece had its twin.

"The reason I—" she began.

"Don't say anything yet," I stopped her. "Just listen, okay? Don't waste my time. This isn't about a date. I may not know who you are, but I know what you do. For a living, I mean. And I know this much too: you're a woman. A prideful woman. This was about a date, you would have stopped calling a long time ago."

"It was, at first. Then I—"

"Let me finish, tell you what the rules are down here. I don't do auditions for the police, understand? You want to talk, I got to know you're the only one I'm talking to."

She made a face, tossed her canvas purse over to me, and crossed her arms into a good imitation of a push–up bra. I stood up, walked over to a flat table in the corner. The table was covered with black felt. A telescoping wand held a white quartz bulb. Mama's guests used it to examine jewelry—it would work just as well for this.

I took a pair of thin white cotton gloves from a flat drawer inside the examining table and slipped them onto my hands. Then I emptied the purse onto the table and flicked on the observation lamp.

First, a chrome cylinder of lipstick—Rose Dawn, it said on the bottom. I uncapped it, cranked the soft pink tube all the way out, shook it to see if it rattled. No.

Next, a dark–brown leather folding wallet. Inside, an NYPD gold shield—a detective's badge. The photo ID confirmed it.

A ring of keys—looked like car, apartment, couple of others…storage locker maybe? safe–deposit box?

Some crumpled bills, less than a hundred total. Subway tokens. A pair of sparkling earrings for pierced ears—probably CZ—no way to tell without a jeweler's loupe.

An orange pencil–stick of eyeliner.

A blue steel .38. S&W four–incher. I popped the cylinder, turned it upside down to catch the cartridges as they spilled out, set them aside.

A cellophane packet of tissues, half–empty.