Strega (10 page)

23

"W
HAT NEXT?" the redhead wanted to know, in a voice meant to tell me she was just about out of patience.

"Now we drive someplace else, and you tell me your story," I said, throwing the Plymouth into gear. We drove over to the West Side Highway in silence. I turned south, looking for a safe parking place near one of the abandoned piers on the Hudson River. I wheeled the car off the highway, pulled up to the pier, and backed in. From that spot, I could see every piece of traffic except the boats. If the redhead had friends with her, I'd know soon enough.

I hit a switch on the dash and both front windows opened. Another switch locked her door, just in case.

I lit a cigarette, leaned way back in my seat so I could watch her and watch the street too. "Okay, lady, what is it you want?"

The redhead shifted her hips so she was facing me on the seat, her back to the window. "I want you to find a picture for me."

"A picture like a painting?"

"A photograph—a photograph of a kid."

"Lady, will you just tell me the whole story? I don't have time to drag it out of you piece by piece, okay?"

"This isn't an easy thing to talk about."

"Then
don't
talk about it," I told her. "I didn't ask you to show up. I'll drive you back to your car and you find somebody else, okay?"

"No! It's
not
okay. Can't you give me a fucking minute to get myself together? It took me a long time to find you."

"Yeah. But you
did
find me, right? When you see Julio, tell him I'll remember this."

"Don't blame Julio. All he gave me was that phone number…the one the Chinese lady answers.

"I got your messages."

"So why didn't you call me?"

"Because I don't know you. I don't speak to strangers on the phone."

"That's why I had to find your car. Vinnie told me what you looked like—and your car. One of Julio's crew saw you at the courthouse this morning and he called me."

"Vinnie?" I said, thinking that I'd have to get the car painted and some new license plates.

"The guy who delivered the money to you from Julio."

"I don't know what you're talking about, lady."

"I told Julio why I needed to talk to you. He said it was none of his business—not family. He probably knew you'd never return my calls. So I told Vinnie to ask you for me.

"Nobody asked me anything."

"I know. He told me you wouldn't talk to him."

"I don't know what he told you. I don't care. I don't like people threatening me."

"Vinnie threatened you?"

"I don't know any Vinnie.
You
threatened me. In the parking lot, right? Either I talk to you or you keep hounding me."

"I didn't mean to threaten you."

"You're threatening me with this whole conversation. Julio's got his people on the street looking for me? Very fucking nice."

"Julio doesn't know anything about this. Vinnie did me a personal favor—and so did the guy who spotted you this morning."

"People like to do you these favors?"

She moved her lips in something between a smile and a sneer. "
Men
like to do me favors. You find that very surprising?"

"If this Vinnie is your idea of a man, no."

"You don't like any of us, do you?"

"Who's this 'us' you're talking about? An old man with a loose mouth? A punk kid? A woman who threatens me?"

"Us Italians."

"I don't like people who don't mean me any good, okay?"

"Okay," she said in a quiet voice, "but now that I went to all this trouble—now that we're here—will you listen to me and see if you're interested?"

"And if I'm not?"

"Then that's your decision. I won't bother you anymore.

"On your word of honor, right?"

Her eyes narrowed in on me. I thought I saw a tiny red dot in each one—it must have been the reflection from her hair. "You don't know me," she said.

"I don't
want
to know you," I told her.

She reached in her purse, fumbled around with her hand. Her eyes never left my face. "I'll pay you five hundred dollars to listen to what I have to say—why I want you to work for me. You don't take the case, you still keep the money. Okay?"

I took a minute to think about it. If I listened to her story and told her I wasn't interested, there was at least the chance that she'd go someplace else. And there was a filly pacer running at Yonkers that night that I just knew was going to break her maiden with a big win. She was due to snap a long string of losses. So was I.

"Okay," I told her.

The redhead. ran her fingers through her hair in an absent–minded gesture. The diamond flashed on her hand. "My best friend has a…"

"Hold it," I told her. "Where's the money?"

"You listen to me first."

"No way."

"I thought only lawyers got money up front. You're only a private detective."

"Lady, you don't have the slightest idea what I am," I said, "but I'll give you a hint. I'm a man who's going to listen to your story—
after
you put five hundred dollars on the table."

Her hand darted into her purse. Out came five new century notes. She fanned them out—held them up. "Is this what you want?" she snapped.

"It's half of what I want."

"You mean you want a thousand?"

"I mean I want you to tell me your story and then get out of my life—like we agreed," I told her.

She released her grip on the money. It dropped to the seat between us. The street was still quiet—plenty of people around, but no problems. I picked up the money and pocketed it.

"So?" I asked her.

"My best friend, Ann–Marie. She has a little boy, only two years older than my daughter. He was in like a nursery–school thing during the day. Someone there did something to him. A sex thing. And they took pictures of him. We didn't even know about the pictures until the therapist. explained it to us. But the boy, Scotty, he keeps saying they have his picture. Like they have his soul."

"This picture…he's doing something in it?"

"I think he must have been doing something…but he won't tell us. The therapist is working on it. I think if he got that picture, and we tore it up right in front of him…then maybe he'd be okay again."

"Just one picture?"

"That's what he said—he saw the flash."

"Lady, that picture's either in some freak's private collection or it's out on the street. For sale, you understand? It's just about impossible to come up with the stuff you want. And even if I found one print, the people who do the marketing make thousands of copies. It's a better business than cocaine: as long as you have the negative, you can make as many copies as you want."

"All we want is one picture…he's too young to know about making copies. I want to be there when we tear it up in front of him."

"It's a real long shot, you understand?"

"Yes. But it has to be done."

I looked directly at her—the little gangster princess wasn't going to take no for an answer. She wasn't used to it. "Why come to me?" I asked.

She had the answer ready. "Because you're friends with the Nazis."

24

I
LOOKED straight ahead through the windshield, trying to get a grip on what she just said. If she knew about the Nazis, then she knew about some of the scores I'd pulled over the past few years—home–grown Nazis are a con man's delight. Knowing an old hotel address was nothing, it wasn't the trump card she thought it was. But the Nazi thing—she could hurt me. A cold wind blew through my chest. She held better cards than I thought.

Nothing moved in my face. I lit a cigarette, throwing the question at her out of the side of my mouth. "What're you talking about, lady?"

"Julio said you were friends with them. In prison. He saw it himself."

The weight came off my chest.
Those
Nazis were a different breed.

"Julio's got a lot of medical problems, doesn't he?" I asked.

"What medical problems? He's in perfect health, specially for an old man.

"No, he's not," I told her, my voice quiet and calm now. "His eyesight hasn't been good for a long time. He's losing his memory. And his mouth is out of control."

She understood what I was saying. I wouldn't have to do anything to the old man myself—if some of his bloody brothers got the word that Julio was writing his memoirs, he was gone.

"He only told me," said the redhead, her voice tight with tension, trying to convince me. "He wouldn't tell anyone else."

"Sure."

"I
mean
it. I
made
him tell me. I was desperate, okay?"

It wasn't okay. I took a close look at her. I might have to describe her someday and I didn't think she'd pose for a picture. The red hair framed a small, heart–shaped face. Her eyes were big and set far apart, the color of factory smoke. Her makeup looked like it was done by an expert: dark–red lipstick outlined in black, eye shadow that went from blue to black as it flowed from her eyebrows to the lashes, blended blusher on her cheeks, breaking right at the cheekbones for emphasis. Her teeth were tiny pearls—they looked too small for a grown woman, and too perfect to be real. Her nose was small and sharply bridged, slightly turned up at the tip. Piece by piece, she wasn't beautiful, but the combination worked. It was hard to think of that red slash of a mouth kissing anyone. Her hands were small, but the fingers were long, capped with long, manicured nails in the same shade as her lipstick. The redhead's eyes followed mine as they traveled over her—she was used to this.

"And you're
still
desperate, right?"

"Right," she said, as if that settled everything.

It didn't settle anything for me. I turned the ignition key, listened to the motor catch, and moved the lever into Drive. The Plymouth rolled off the pier, headed back to the courts.

"Where are we going?" the redhead wanted to know.

"
We're
not going anywhere.
You're
going back to your car."

"What about this job?"

"I said I'd listen to you. I listened to you. We're square—that's all there is.

She sat in silence for a couple of minutes. I could feel her eyes on my face. She cleared her throat a couple of times, but nothing came out. As we pulled onto Centre Street near the courthouse parking lot, she reached across the seat and put her hand on my forearm. I turned to look at her. Her big eyes were even bigger, as if tears were only a second away. It was a good trick.

"All this for a lousy picture?" I asked her.

"Yes."

"It doesn't add up for me."

She pulled at my arm so I'd look at her. "I gave my word!" she said, each syllable spaced and heavy.

Now it made sense. The redhead's ego was on the line. So what? Better her ego than my body. I wheeled next to her BMW and waited for her to get out. But she wasn't ready to give up. She shifted her hips, pulled her long legs up underneath her so she was kneeling on the seat facing me.

"What can I do to make you change your mind?"

"I haven't made up my mind, okay? Write your phone number down and I'll call you when I know."

"How do I know you'll call?"

"You don't."

Her face darkened under the makeup. "You call me. I know what you did in the park. One phone call…"

She let it hang there as she shifted position again and got out. Before I could pull away she was standing in front of the Plymouth, looking through the windshield. Then she came around to my side of the car, leaned in, and whispered to me: "I am very serious about this."

I locked eyes with her, spoke quietly. "I'm serious too, lady. Threats make me nervous. I'm likely to do something stupid when I'm nervous."

She didn't bat an eye. "I'm used to getting what I want. I'm spoiled—more than you'll ever know. I pay for what I want. You just tell me the price."

"Not everything has a price."

"That's a cliché," she whispered, her face close to mine. She put her head inside the car, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and quickly moved away. I watched her snake–hip her way back to the BMW. She looked back once before she pulled away.

"So are you, bitch," I thought to myself. As it turned out, I was half right.

25

T
HAT WAS the end of it, I thought. The little princess wouldn't get what she wanted for once in her life and she'd get over it. And I had five hundred bucks. It wouldn't balance the scales, but it would do for today.

I parked behind Mama's apartment, opened the back door, and stepped inside. The door's never locked, but when you open it some kind of bell goes off in the kitchen. When I stepped through the doorway, the short, squat Chinese Mama calls a cook was smiling at me, a butcher knife in one hand. He was ready to chop something—when he saw it was me, he settled for a slab of beef on the counter. I didn't bother to say hello to him—he never answered.

The restaurant was about half filled. Mama was in her usual perch by the cash register near the front door. I caught her eye and made a motion like dialing a telephone. She bowed her head—all clear. I stepped back inside the kitchen, went down a corridor to my right, and found the pay phone.

My call went to another pay phone, the one in Julio's social club.

"Yeah?" barked the receptionist.

"Put Julio on, okay?"

"Who?"

"Julio, pal. You know the name. Tell him he's got a call."

"From who?"

"This is private business, okay? Just tell Julio. He don't want to talk to me, that's his business."

I heard a thunk at the other end, telling me the receiver was swinging against the wall in the club. Julio came on the line.

"Who's this?"

"It's me. You know my voice?"

"Yes," he said, clipped, but not cold.

"I need to talk with you."

"So?"

"Face to face."

"About?"

"About three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. At the Eastern District." Julio didn't answer, just hung up. Anybody listening to the conversation would think Eastern District meant the federal courthouse in Brooklyn. What it meant to Julio was the pier at the end of Jay Street, only a few blocks from the courthouse, but in another world. And tomorrow meant in one hour. If I wanted two hours, I would have told him the day after tomorrow. It was a good place to meet, open on all sides—Julio wouldn't be coming by himself.

I dialed another number, let it ring until it was picked up by my broker.

"What?" Maurice snapped into the receiver.

"Burke. Yonkers, tonight, in the seventh. Two yards to win on Flower Jewel."

"Flower Jewel, two on the nose in the seventh at Yonkers, that right?"

"Right."

"Bring the cash by closing time tomorrow."

"What if I win?"

"Come on," he sneered, "you've already had your quota for this year."

"I haven't hit one fucking race yet this year," I told him.

"I know," said Maurice, and hung up.

I went back inside the restaurant, took the booth at the rear, the one I always use. I wrote Julio's name on a napkin, folded it around the money for Maurice, and waited. Mama spotted me. She left her post and walked back to the booth. I stood up until she was seated.

"So, Burke. You have soup, okay?"

"Yes, Mama. But not too much—I've got work to do."

"Good thing, work. Max work with you?"

"Uh…not on this, I don't think. But take this money and give it to him, okay? Tell him to give it to Maurice tomorrow if he doesn't hear from me." I handed her the napkin wrapped around two hundreds and a twenty. Max would keep the twenty for himself if he made the delivery. And he'd go see Julio if I didn't come back.

Mama didn't make a move, but one of the so–called waiters came over, listened to her rapid–fire Cantonese, and vanished. He came back in a couple of minutes with a tureen of hot–and–sour soup. Mama served me first, like she always does.

"I may have a new case," I told her.

Mama lifted her eyebrows, the soup spoon poised near her mouth.

"I haven't decided yet," I said in answer to her unspoken question.

"Good case?" Mama wanted to know—meaning was I going to get paid.

"Sure. Good case, bad people."

"That woman who call you here last week?"

"Yes."

"You say you not call her back, right? When I tell you who"

"She found me, Mama."

"Oh. At your office?"

"No. She doesn't know about that place. But she looked all over and got lucky."

"That girl very angry."

"Angry? Why? At who?"

"I not know this. But very angry. You feel in her voice."

"She didn't seem angry to me."

"Angry," said Mama. "And dangerous."

"To me?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes," she said. She didn't say anything else while I finished my soup. When I got up to leave, Mama asked, "You take Max with you?"

"Not today."

"When you do work for this girl?"

"I don't know if I'm going to work for her yet."

"Yes, you know," said Mama, a little sadness in her voice. She bowed her head in dismissal and I went out the back to meet Julio.