Strega (25 page)

76

L
ILY TOOK us to her office, at the end of the corridor. It looked like a kid's playroom except for the computer screen on the desk. I looked at the keyboard—there was no lock–out device. "How do you keep someone from getting into your records?" I asked her.

She laughed, tapping some keys. "Want to play a fast game of Zork before we get down to business?" The screen had some kind of mazes–and–monsters game on it.

"That's all you have it for?"

"Sure," she said, looking at Immaculata as if I was an idiot.

I lit a cigarette, looking around for an ashtray. "Use this," Lily said, handing me an empty water glass.

Immaculata sat behind the desk; Lily perched on a corner. I stood against the wall and listened.

"Scotty was going to a day–care center every day after school. He'd get there around one in the afternoon and his mother would pick him up when she got out of work. Around six o'clock. One day a woman came to the center. Scotty said she was an 'old lady,' but that could mean anyone older than his mother. She had a van and a driver—a big, fat man with a beard. She told the kids she was going to take them to see the clowns and who wanted to go? Scotty went with some other kids. It took what he said was 'a long, long time' to get there. A big house with a high fence around it. There was a clown there—a big, fat clown, like the driver. His face was all made up like a clown, and he had presents for all the kids. The clown and the old lady took Scotty out of the group where he was playing with the other kids. They took him into the basement, where they had a puppy. They told him he could have the puppy if he would be a 'good little scout.'

"To be a good scout you have to take your pants off. They let him keep his shirt on. It was red and black stripes. He has it in his closet at home," Mac said, answering one of the questions I'd told her to ask.

"The clown took off his pants too. His penis was very large. It scared the boy. They asked him if he wanted ice cream. They rubbed some on the clown's penis and told Scotty to lick it off. He started to cry. The old lady told him if he didn't do what he was told, they would hurt the puppy. He still refused. The clown strangled the puppy in front of him. Scotty didn't want to watch but he had to. He has bad dreams about the puppy. He's always scared."

The cigarette burned into my fingers. I threw it on the floor, stepped on it. Immaculata's face was closed—a soldier doing her job.

"The man put his penis in Scotty's mouth—told him to suck very hard. The woman took a picture with a Polaroid and a flash. White stuff came out. Scotty cried. The old woman told him if he ever told anyone about this his mother would get very sick and die. They took him back upstairs and put him into the van with the other kids. The other kids all had a great time."

"How does he know it was a Polaroid?" I asked.

"He doesn't know the name, but he said a camera where the picture comes out the front."

"Did he see the picture?"

"I think so. At least the fact that there
was
a picture." She took a breath. "Scotty never told anybody—he was scared something would happen. But his mother took him to a therapist, and he told the therapist about bad dreams. That's all. He was afraid of the therapist—he had a beard like the big, fat clown.

"Later he told some of it to the redheaded woman who brought him to the parking lot today—he calls her 'Zia.' He told her that the old lady came to the day–care center with a big, strong man who had a leather bag. The man took money from the leather bag and gave it to the lady who runs the day–care center. And there was some strange mark on the big man's hand. That's it," she said.

"He's going to need help with the dreams," Lily said.

"I know," Immaculata replied.

"He's not still afraid of anything happening to his mother?" I asked her.

"No," she said, smiling faintly, "Max told Scotty he would guard his mother."

"What was that bit with the table, Mac?" Lily wanted to know.

"Scotty drew a picture of the big, fat clown. Max told him he was going to find the clown and break him in little pieces. He was showing Scotty what he meant."

I lit another cigarette. "Does he have any idea at all where the big house is? You think he could find it if we went over the route?"

"Not a chance," Mac said. "He wasn't paying attention on the drive out there—and he was too scared on the way back to the center."

"If this woman is running a big operation, maybe Wolfe would know about her," I said, looking at Lily.

"I'll talk to her," Lily replied.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Max. He held one hand to his eye, tapped his finger against the hand. Taking a picture. He pointed at me, made binoculars of his fists around his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm looking for that picture," I told him.

Max tapped his chest, dealing himself in.

We all left the office together to pick up the boy.

77

S
COTTY WAS in the middle of a group of kids, all trying to push a giant beach ball in different directions. "We have to go?" he asked Immaculata. Not so happy about it.

"We'll come back, Scotty. And we'll play some more and talk some more, okay?"

"And Max too?" the kid demanded.

Immaculata took his hand. "Max has to work sometimes, Scotty. But he's never too far away. And his work is very important."

"Like watching Mommy?"

"Yes, like that. Okay?"

Scotty smiled. Max smiled too—the way an undertaker does. The boy waved goodbye to his new friends. Lily gave him a hug. And we were out the door.

Scotty was cheerful on the drive back. It was almost eight by the time I pulled up right in front of the Family Court. The Mercedes was sitting there, smoke coming from its exhaust. The driver's door popped open and Strega climbed out, Mia in tow. I got out too, halfway between the cars.

"I have to talk to you for a minute," I said.

"Mia, take Scotty and wait in the car, okay, sweetheart? Mommy will be there soon."

The little girl looked at me. "You're not handsome," she said solemnly. "My daddy is very handsome."

"Good," I said.

"In the car, Mia," Strega told her. She took Scotty's hand and went off. Immaculata stayed in the Lincoln, looking straight ahead.

"What happened?" the redhead asked.

"It went well," I told her, picking my words carefully. "We got a lot of information. But the more he gets comfortable with these people, the more we find out, understand? He needs to come back, like once a week for the next few weeks at least."

"Not for therapy?" she asked, a warning note in her voice.

"For information," I told her, lying as smoothly as the rug on that pedophile's floor. "If you want the picture…?"

"You got it," she snapped. "I want to talk to her"—pointing to the car.

I waved Immaculata over—no point in Strega seeing Max.

They didn't greet each other this time. "Is Scotty going to be all right?" Strega asked.

"In time, yes. He had an ugly experience. It's a process. You are going to bring him back?"

"Once a week, right?"

"Yes." Immaculata watched Strega's face, making up her mind about something. "You should not attempt to debrief this child," she said, her voice clear as crystal and just as hard.

"Debrief?"

"Ask him what he said, what we talked about. He will not want to do this now. In his own time, it will come. If you put pressure on the child now, you will set back his progress, yes?"

"If you say so," said Strega.

"I
do
say so. It is very important. Scotty is a strong child, but this whole thing was a severe trauma. You, as his mother…"

"I'm not his mother," Strega snapped.

"This is his aunt," I said to Immaculata. "Zia."

Immaculata smiled. "You must be very close with this little boy for him to have told you what he did. He loves you and he trusts you. When the time comes, we will need you to help us with the last stages of the healing. Will you do that?"

"I'll do whatever Scotty needs done," Strega said, a faint smile touching her lips. Responding to praise just like a kid.

I took Immaculata's arm to go back to our car. Strega plucked at Mac's sleeve.

"Is Burke your boyfriend?" she asked.

Immaculata smiled—a beautiful thing to see. "Good God, no," she said, and bowed to Strega.

We watched as the redhead climbed in her Mercedes and drove sedately off.

78

I
LET Immaculata and Max off at the warehouse and drove back uptown looking for Michelle. She wasn't working any of her usual stands. The Prof was off the streets too. Like a hard wind was coming down and they had enough sense to get out of the way.

I thought about catching some of the later races up in Yonkers, but the thought slid by. The digital clock on the Lincoln's dash said it was ten–fifteen—a couple of hours gone. I thought about Flood—like biting into your own lip to make sure your teeth are working. When I started to think about calling Strega, I realized I had to talk to someone.

Dr. Pablo Cintrone's clinic would be open until at least midnight. Pablo is a Harvard–educated psychiatrist, a Puerto Rican who battled his way through the stone walls of prejudice circling the miserable slum that liberals love to call
el barrio
. He is a man without illusions—the pieces of paper he got from Harvard would fly him out of the neighborhood, but he'd have to make the trip alone. The people in his community call him "
el doctor
" in reverent tones. And if they know he runs an organization called Una Gente Libre they don't discuss it with the law.

Una Gente Libre—A Free People—a very low–profile group as terrorists go. They didn't pull armored–car robberies, no bank jobs, no bullshit "communiqués" to the newspapers. UGL wasn't interested in symbolic bombings or ego politics either. What they did best was take people out—simple, direct homicides—no "trademark" assassinations, no revolutionary slogans left at the scene. Somehow, people always knew when it was a UGL hit, though the
federales
were never sure. They knew the group existed, but they could never get inside. Without informants, they couldn't catch Jesse James if he was still doing trains on horseback.

A few years ago a suspected UGL triggerman was busted for blowing away a dope dealer who took his business too near an elementary school. The
federales
offered him pure immunity—a walkaway if he'd testify about the organization. No sale.

The gunman's trial was no revolutionary showcase—very straightforward. He pleaded "not guilty," claimed the dealer had a gun too and was beaten to the draw. Pablo was just one of a dozen character witnesses, all neatly dressed, solid citizens. No revolutionary slogans, no picketing, no clenched fists in the air.

The defense attorney was good—a hard piece of work. A heavy–set, bearded guy from midtown, he pounded away at what a slimeball the dead dealer had been, never compromising, fighting the prosecutor and the judge every step of the way. The gunman was tried for murder— the jury was out three days and finally came back with manslaughter. The judge gave the gunman five to fifteen.

Everybody walked over to congratulate the defense attorney. He'd done a hell of a job to pull this one out—if the gunman fell for murder, he was looking at twenty–five to life. The lawyer sat at the counsel table, tears in his eyes, bitter that he hadn't won the whole thing. Not too many lawyers like that left, and they're worth whatever they cost.

The gunman went upstate and did some
good
time—a man of respect. He never had a blank visiting day, his commissary account was always full to the brim. And his wife hit
bolita
—the Spanish numbers game—for a big piece of change. Just lucky, I guess, but it took good care of his family while he was down.

When he hit the bricks, they threw a block party for him that lasted four days. He's still on parole, a driver for the ambulance service that works out of Pablo's clinic. To the cops, he's another ex–con. To his people, he's a POW returned to his home country.

If it was business, I would have called first. From a safe phone. But I just wanted to talk. I pulled the Lincoln into the empty space that's always in front of the clinic. Before I could even turn off the ignition there was a tap on the window. The glass whispered down into the door with a push of the little button. The guy tapping on the window wasn't too tall, but his width matched his height. A head the size of a basketball grew out of massive shoulders without benefit of a neck. Half his face was covered with old razor scars surrounding a glass eye—and that was his good side. The guy was ugly enough to need an exorcist.

"No parking here,
hombre
," he snarled.

"I'm here to see Pablo
el doctor
?"

"Who you?"

"Burke," I said.

The monster held out his hand, palm up. I pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them over. He growled something and left.

He was back in a couple of minutes, his lips twisted in what he probably thought was a smile—his teeth were broken stumps. He jerked a thumb in a hitchhiker's gesture. I climbed out of the Lincoln. A young guy in a bright–red shirt worn outside his pants came up. The monster handed him the keys and the young guy climbed inside. They'd leave the Lincoln someplace—I could pick it up when I left. UGL's version of valet parking.

The monster gently shoved me ahead of him, guiding me through the maze of cubicles inside the clinic. A Spanish woman in a white nurse's uniform sat at the reception desk, the hard lines in her face the price of survival, not marring her beauty. The monster nodded to her as he prodded me forward, paying no attention to the activity around him. Phones rang, people yelled at each other, doors slammed. The people in the waiting room looked subdued, but not dead the way they do in the city hospitals.

Pablo's office was all the way in the rear. He was typing something on an ancient IBM when we came in. His eyes sparkled behind the round glasses he wore as he jumped to his feet to greet me. Pablo's got to be damn near as old as I am, but he looks like a young man. With his clear brown skin and neatly cropped hair he could get by any Puerto Rican mother in the world. He has four children that I know about and he's financed more abortions than Planned Parenthood.

"
Hermano
!" he shouted, grabbing my right hand in both of his, then embracing me in a hug.

The monster smiled again. "
Gracias, chico
," Pablo said, and the monster threw a salute and went back outside.

"I got to talk to you, Pablito," I told my brother.

"Not business?"

"Just in my head," I said.

Pablo pointed to a couch in a corner of his office, sitting back down behind his desk.

"Tell me," he said.