Strega (15 page)

38

I
FOUND an empty spot on Metropolitan Avenue, pulled past it, and waited. She wrestled the BMW into the space, put a big piece of cardboard in the side window, and walked over to me. I got out and went over to look at what she left. It was a hand–lettered sign—"No Radio." I thought all BMWs came with those signs straight from the factory.

She slammed the Plymouth's door closed with all her strength. I made a U–turn on Metropolitan back toward the Inter–Boro eastbound. We pulled onto the highway, following the signs to the Triboro.

"We're going into the city?" she asked.

"Just keep quiet," I told her. "We'll talk when we get there."

She didn't say anything else. I checked the mirror. It was a relief not to have her driving lights burning in my eyes. Just before the turnoff to the Long Island Expressway, I pulled off into Flushing Meadow Park. She opened her mouth to say something, but I held my finger to my lips.

Nobody was following us, but I didn't want her saying where we were going in case Michelle's search had given her some ideas.

"How come you use those driving lights even when there's traffic in front of you?" I asked her.

"They look nice," she said, as if that settled things.

I circled the park slowly until I came to the parking lot on the east side. A few cars were already pulled in, facing the sewage the politicians named Flushing Bay. The cars were spaced well apart, the windows dark. The cops used to make a circuit through here, flashing their lights. If they saw two heads in the window they kept on going. They stopped when the merchants on Main Street complained they needed more coverage of their stores.

Couples used to park back in the bushes too, but a gun–carrying rapist working the area stopped all that. Wolfe had tried the case against the dirtbag when they finally caught him. She dropped him for twenty–five to fifty, but people still stuck close to the water's edge.

I pulled in between an old Chevy with a jacked–up rear end, "José and Juanita" painted on the trunk in flowing script, and a white Seville with fake wire wheels. Lights from the incoming planes to LaGuardia reflected off the black water.

I cracked my window and lit a cigarette. By the time I turned to the redhead, she was already unbuttoning her blouse.

39

W
HAT THE HELL are you doing?" I snapped at her, my voice louder than it should have been.

"What does it look like?" she asked. "I'm showing you I'm not wearing a wire." She smiled in the darkness, her teeth so white they looked false. "Unless you have your little whore–friend with you in the back seat…" she said, looking over her shoulder.

"There's nobody here," I told her.

She kept unbuttoning the blouse like she hadn't heard me. She wore a black half–bra underneath, the lace barely covering her nipples. The clasp was in front. She snapped it open and her breasts came free, small and hard like a young girl's, the dark nipples pointed at me in the cool air. I didn't say anything, watching her. When I felt the cigarette burn my fingers I pushed it out my window without looking back.

The redhead reached behind her and pulled the wide belt loose. "I have to unzip this. I've got a big ass for such a small girl and the skirt won't go up. I'm sure you noticed."

I wanted to tell her to stop but maybe it was a bluff…maybe she was wired and this was a game. I kept quiet.

The zipper made a ripping sound. She wiggled in her seat until the skirt was down past her knees. Her panties were a tiny black wisp, the dark stockings held up by wide black hands across her thighs. If she was wired it had to be inside her body.

"Yes?" she asked.

I just nodded—I'd seen enough. But she took it the other way. She hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her underpants and pulled them down too. There wasn't enough light to see if her flaming hair was natural.

"Look out the window—smoke another cigarette," she hissed at me. I heard her struggling with her clothes, muttering something to herself. A tap on my shoulder. "Okay, now," she whispered, and I turned around.

"You have another cigarette for me?"

I gave her one and struck a wooden match. She came close to catch the fire. She didn't move her face, but her eyes rolled up to look at me.

I reached over and took her purse from her. She didn't protest while I went through it. She had her own cigarettes, a matchbook from a midtown restaurant, a few hundred in cash, and some credit cards. And a metal tube that looked like lipstick. I pulled off the top. Inside was a nozzle of some kind and a button on the base. I looked a question at her.

"Perfume," she said.

I pointed it outside the window and pressed the button. I heard the thin hiss of spray and smelled lilacs. Okay.

"I'm listening," I told her.

The redhead shifted in her seat so her hips were wedged into a corner, her back against her door, legs crossed, facing me.

"I already told you what this was about. I want you to do something for me—what else do you need to know?"

"Is this a joke? You're nothing to me—I don't owe you anything."

"It's not a joke. I'm not a joker." She drew in hard on her cigarette, lighting her face for a second.

"You don't owe me but you owe Julio, right?"

"Wrong."

"Then why did you do that other thing?"

"What other thing?" I asked her.

"In the park…"

"You're riding a dead horse, lady. I don't know anything about a park. You got me confused with someone else."

"Then why did you come out here at all?"

"Because you're pushing me. You're playing some silly rich–girl's game. I want you to get off my case, and I wanted to tell you to your face so you'd get it."

"I don't get it," she snarled at me. "And I won't get it. You work for money—like everyone else—I've got money. And I need you to do this."

"Get someone else," I told her.

"No!" she snapped. "You don't tell me what to do. Nobody tells me what to do. You think I want to use you for this? I told you, Julio said you know the Nazis."

"What's this about Nazis? It sounds like Julio lost it during his last stretch."

"Julio never loses anything," said the redhead, "and you know it. It's got to be you, and that's it."

"Because of these 'Nazis'?"

"Yes. And because they're the only lead I have."

I lit another cigarette. The air in the car felt charged, like just after a hard rain. The redhead sounded like she wasn't playing with a full deck, but what she had left were all wild cards.

I got out of the Plymouth and walked down toward the water's edge, not looking back. Before I got more than a few feet I heard the car door slam angrily behind me. I heard the tap of her high heels on the pavement and then felt her hand on my arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" she said, trying to pull me around to look at her.

"To the water," I told her, as if that explained everything.

She kept pace with me, tottering on the heels when we hit the grassy area, but hanging on.

"I want to talk to you!" she snarled.

The moon was out—almost full. Maybe it was making her crazy, but I didn't think so. Maybe she just didn't know how to act. I stopped at the water and grabbed her tiny chin in my right hand, holding her face so she couldn't move. I put my face close to her. "I don't give a flying fuck
what
you want, understand? You're not my boss. Julio's not my boss. You and me are square, okay? You think I'm some senile old uncle like Julio, you make a big mistake."

She squirmed in my hand, twisting her face but keeping her hands down. Her eyes slashed at me, but she didn't open her mouth.

"And if you think I'm some halfwit cock–hound like Vinnie, you're even stupider than you've been acting, understand?" I said, giving her face a quick shake. Her eyes flashed—I knew it hadn't been Julio's idea to send the Cheech with my money.

"Let. Go. Of. Me," she whispered, every word a separate sentence.

I pushed her face away from me, hard. She went sprawling away from me, lost her balance, and hit the ground. I walked away from her until I found one of the vandalized benches and sat down. Looked at the water. Tried to think my way out of the box I was in.

It was another couple of minutes before she sat down next to me, fumbling in her bag for a cigarette. I didn't light this one for her.

"You get your kicks shoving women around?"

"I wasn't shoving you around, princess—I was shoving you
away
.

"Don't do that," she whispered, her face close to mine again. "Don't do that—I can make it all right, just give me a chance, okay?"

I didn't say anything, waiting.

"I want this so bad," said the redhead. "I don't have much to go on. If I go to some private detective agency they'll just rip me off. I know that. I know the whole thing's a long shot."

I kept staring at the water, waiting.

"Let me just sit here with you. Like I'm your girlfriend or something—let me tell you the whole story. If you don't agree to help me when I'm done, we're quits. You take me back to my car and that's the end."

I lit another cigarette, still quiet. She put her hand on my arm—a fat diamond sparkled in the moonlight—cold fire.

"You swear?" I asked her.

"I swear," she said, her eyes big and glowing and full of lies.

I looked down at the diamond. "Tell me," I said.

40

S
HE GOT off the bench and walked around behind me. She leaned over against my back, her elbows on my shoulders, her lips near my ear. Like she'd been doing it all her life. Her voice was breathy, but she wasn't trying to be sexy now—she just wanted to get it all out.

"This is about Scott. He's my friend's little boy, like I told you. He's the sweetest little boy in the world—blond hair, blue eyes. He's a perfect little boy, always has a smile for everyone. Nobody's spoiled him yet— he loves everyone. He loves my Mia the most.

"My friend took him to a kids' party at the mall—where all the stores have clowns and singers and storytellers and all that, you know? Scott was having a great time until one of the clowns came up to him. All of a sudden he starts to scream and he runs away. His mother has to run and catch him. He won't tell her anything—he just wants to go home.

"He seems okay after that—like he just had a bad day or something. But a couple of weeks later, one of his father's friends comes over to the house. He has a Polaroid camera with him and he's taking pictures. When Scott comes downstairs, he sees the camera, and he goes rigid…like catatonic…he just freezes up. They take him upstairs and soon he's like okay again, but by then my friend figures something's really wrong and she takes him to a therapist.

"But he won't talk to the therapist. I mean, he won't talk about what's wrong. It's like he's himself most of the time, but something's really eating at him. He doesn't want to do things like he did before—he doesn't want to play, doesn't want to watch TV nothing. The poor little guy is so sad.

"Anyway, my friend brings him over. She figures…he just
adores
my little Mia maybe he'll play with her. But he doesn't want to do that either. And now Mia gets all upset too. 'Fix it, Mommy,' she says to me. What was I supposed to do? Mia…I
had
to fix it."

The redhead turns her face, gives me an absent–minded kiss like she's telling me "Don't move." She walks back around to the front of the bench and climbs into my lap—snuggles in to me like she's cold. Like I'm a piece of furniture. Her face is against my chest but I can still hear her when she talks.

"I tell my friend to stay in my house and I take Mia and we go out and buy a Polaroid. I come back to the house and I get this big hammer from the garage. I bring everything out to the patio and then I take Scott by the hand and bring him outside with me. I open the box and show him the camera and he starts to pull away from me. Then I take the hammer and pound that fucking camera until it's just a bunch of little parts all over the patio. I must have gone crazy for a minute…I'm screaming something at the camera I don't even know what. And little Scott…he comes over to me. I give him the hammer and he smashes the camera too. And then he starts to cry—like he's never going to stop. I hold him and Mia too—all together.

"Finally he stops. I ask him, 'Is it all okay now, baby?," and he says, 'Zia Peppina, they still have the
picture
!,' and he cries until I tell him I'll get the picture for him. I
promise
. him. I
swear
to him on my daughter. On Mia, I swear to him I'll get this picture for him.

"And then he stops. He smiles at me. The little guy's got heart for days—he knows that if I swear that, it's done—it's done. He has trust in me."

She was quiet against my chest. I reached in my pocket, took out a smoke for myself, and lit it. She pushed her face between my hand and my mouth, took a drag from my hand. Waited.

"You know what's in the picture?" I asked her.

"Yeah. I know," she said.

"Because he told you or?"

"I just know."

"You did something to find out, right?"

She nodded against my chest.

"What?" I asked her.

"He used to go to this day–care center. Out in Fresh Meadows. One day they took him someplace—he says out in the country—in the school–bus they use. There was a guy dressed in a clown suit and some other stuff. He can't tell me. He had to take his clothes off and do something—he won't tell me that either. And someone took pictures of him."

"Where was this place?" I asked her.

"I don't
know
!" she said, fighting not to start crying, biting her lower lip like a kid.

I patted her back in a careful rhythm, waiting until it matched her breathing. "What else did you find out?"

"A woman came there. An old woman, he said. She had two men with her. Big, scary men. One had a little bag—like a doctor's bag? With money in it. The old woman took the pictures and the clown got some of the money.

"And?" I prompted her.

"Scott couldn't tell me what the men looked like, but he saw the hands of the man who carried the little bag. There was a dark–blue mark on one of them. Scott drew it for me." She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. It was covered with all kinds of crosses and lines, drawn in crayon like a kid did it. Down in one corner was something in blue, with a red circle around it. I held the match closer. It was a swastika.

"This was on the man's hand?" I asked her.

"Yes."

"Back of his hand?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?" I asked her.

The redhead took a breath. "I showed the drawing to Julio. He took one look and said, 'Jailhouse tattoo.' I asked him if there were Nazis in prison. He said he really didn't know too much about it. I pressured him—I made him tell me. And that's when I got your name—he said you knew them."