Footsteps of the Hawk b-8 Page 20

  "Satisfied?" she asked, hands on hips.

  "Yeah," I told her, stepping past where she stood. I opened the car door again, took the keys in my hand and stuck them into the ignition. But as I backed out, I slid the keys out of the ignition and dropped them softly to the floor.

  I stood next to her. Close enough to smell her perfume, a biting citrus cover–up. Her eyes were dark in that alley, unreadable. "You wanted to meet," I said.

  "He did it again!" she whispered. "In Westchester. It was in the— "

  "I know."

  "He's gonna get crazy now. He must be crazy— they'd never let him investigate an out–of–town case— he has to know that."

  "Morales, you mean?"

  "Who else? Who else could it be? George isn't gonna make it, Burke. He's not gonna live to take advantage of this."

  "What do you mean? If the cops— "

  "It's too late for that," she said, urgency overamping her voice. "There's a contract out. On George. In the prison. They're gonna kill him!"

  "Who?"

  "Who? I don't know who— what does it matter? Whoever Morales got to, whoever he paid. It's gotta be now, before it's too late."

  "What do you think I could— ?"

  "He's gotta get out, do you understand? Out! Out and away. After this is all cleared up, he can come back in. Surrender himself. After they find the real killer and clear him."

  "How could I— ?"

  "You could do it, Burke. I know you could do it. People have escaped from there before— there has to be a way. All it takes is money, right? I've got the money. If you would only…"

  "There's a big risk— "

  "It doesn't matter," she interrupted urgently. "Whatever the chance, we have to take it…before it's too late for anything."

  "I'm not talking about a risk for him," I told her. "It's a risk for anyone who helps, inside or outside. He's gonna need a getaway driver, a change of clothes, some hair dye and a razor. And a place to hole up. A local place— if he tries for the Turnpike, they'll have it roadblocked."

  "I know, but— "

  "And he can't go back to his house. Can't go near it. Or near anyone the cops know about, Your best bet is out of the country. Central America— Costa Rica, maybe Honduras. And that takes long green, understand? Enough so he can keep paying the tab month after month."

  "I can get all that. From Fortunato— he says there's a way to 'invade' the trust or something. I don't really understand it all, but he said we could get a couple of hundred thousand, easy."

  I lit a cigarette, cupping my hands to give me an excuse to scan. Nothing was moving. It was so quiet in the alley I could hear pieces of paper rattling every time a faint breeze came by. Escaping from Trenton State Prison…it could be done— I know guys who have pulled it off. The joint is an old catacombs, with secrets only the convicts will ever know. There's lots of ways out of prison: Your case gets reversed on appeal, you score a parole, you get a pardon from the Governor. You can wait for Work Release and then just not come back. You can get yourself into an outside hospital and make your break from there. All those ways, it takes juice. The old way— over the Wall— that takes something else. I got the cigarette going, turned to look at Belinda. "Why me?" I asked her. "You know what it takes, and you say you've got the ticket. Why don't you just go do it?"

  "I will do it," she said. "You want me to wait outside, drive the getaway car…anything…I'm down to do it, all right?"

  "So you need me for…what?"

  "To set it up. Somebody has to pull strings in there. George isn't going to escape if he's locked in solitary— that's where he is now. He doesn't know enough about how the place runs. But you do. You could get it done."

  "And I get…?"

  "Money. A lot of money," she said. "And anything else you want…from me."

  I spent most of my younger years doing time— now all I wanted was to buy some. "It'll take a while," I told her. "Couple–three weeks, minimum. You can't wait that long, there's nothing I could even think about doing."

  "That's okay. That's good, honey."

  That last word was a test flight. I nodded— not shooting it down, but not turning on the landing lights either. "I need the money— "

  "Up front," she said. "I know."

  "Soon as I have it, I'll— "

  "Can't you get started now? You know I'm good for it."

  "I know that," I lied. "But there's no way I tell people inside the walls about you— I have to keep you completely out of this, for your own protection."

  "Okay…I understand. I'll talk to Fortunato tomorrow It'll take a few days, but— "

  "That's okay," I said. "Just let me know when you've got it."

  "You're a doll," she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss the corner of my mouth. I felt her tongue flickering soft against my lips, opened my mouth just a fraction, put a little pressure into my kiss–back. "Can I give you a ride anywhere?" she asked, another test flight.

  "No thanks. I'm going over to the courts," I said, pointing to my right. "There's a few things I can do. Preliminary things. Whatever little cash that costs, I can front myself."

  "Okay," she said, opening the door to her car. "I'll call you as soon as— "

  "Take care," I told her, turning my back and walking away, toward the courts.

  I was halfway down the block when I heard a car pull out of the alley. I turned, looked over one shoulder. The white car was speeding up the block. I trotted back to watch just as it made a hard left through a red light.

  I crossed Leonard and took up my old post, just in case Belinda made another pass. After ten minutes, I figured she wouldn't. Still watching the homeless man asleep on his hard pallet, I crossed over to the alley. Standing over him, I said "All clear," in a calm, quiet voice.

  The figure in the parka–shroud stirred. "I do not see how they do this every night, mahn. I myself would rather be in jail." Clarence rolled onto his side and got up stiffly, rotating his neck to work out the kinks. His pistol was in his hand. He caught me looking at it, said, "I could not draw it from such an uncomfortable position, mahn. It was better to be ready"

  "So where's the Prof?" I asked him.

  "This way, mahn," Clarence said, walking into the alley. I followed him, one pace behind and slightly to his side. He walked up to one of the Dumpsters, smacked the side of his hand against it three times. The Prof's head popped up. Clarence and I each took one of his hands, pulled him free. A sawed–off shotgun dangled against the Prof's chest, held up by a loop of rawhide around his neck. When he landed on the ground, he make a quick motion with his right hand— the scattergun disappeared into the folds of his coat. "When it gets down to the clutch, I never lose my touch," the little man said, a wicked grin on his face.

  Clarence pulled out a cellular phone, punched a single button. After a couple of seconds, he said "Come on," into the speaker.

  Just as we were about to exit the alley, I heard the squeal of tires. Car coming, fast. "Chill," the Prof said. "It's Frankie Eye, and that's no lie."

  Sure enough, a charcoal–gray Lincoln Town Car pulled to a jerky stop at the curb. The door opened and Frankie got out gingerly, favoring his left arm, which was wrapped and cradled in a white sling. He walked around the back of the car, opened the rear door and slid in. The Prof followed. Clarence took the wheel, I got the shotgun seat.

  The Lincoln pulled away, a lot more smoothly with Clarence at the wheel.

  "The fuck's all this?" I asked the Prof, nodding my head in Frankie's direction.

  "I'm okay," Frankie answered for him. "The bullet went right through— just took a piece from inside my upper arm, under the shoulder. No bones broken, nothing. The docs cleaned it and packed it, gave me a shot. Just a butterfly thing, no stitches. I got to wear this sling for about three–four weeks, that's all."

  "Yeah, terrific," I said. "But what's this about you driving? And where'd you get this car?"

  "I can drive fine," the kid said. "My right arm's perfec
t. And I scored the ride from a guy I know in the neighborhood. A good guy— we go back— I was inside with him."

  "And he wouldn't get upset if you wrecked his car? Or if we got stopped and the cops impounded it?"

  "Nah," Frankie said, "he's cool. Besides, it's not really his car— they clouted it over in Brooklyn. Soon as we get it back, it's going straight to the chop shop."

  "Just fucking beautiful," I muttered, realizing any cop in the city had Probable Cause to stop us. "You at least switch plates?" I asked Frankie.

  "Sure," he said, sounding offended. "I ain't stupid."

  "You got a registration to back up the plates?" I asked him. "You got an FS–20…an insurance card?"

  "Noooo, I guess not," he said, looking sheepish.

  "You realize they could nail you for that?" I asked him. "Put points on your license…"

  "I…don't have no license," he said, head down. "I mean, Upstate, I never learned…"

  "Hey, schoolboy," the Prof interrupted. "Frankie here, he's a bit slow to be turning pro, but— "

  "Right on," I agreed, stopping the word flow from the Prof before he got on a roll. I extended my palm to the back seat for Frankie to slap. "Thanks, kid."

  "That's okay," he mumbled.

  "He dealt himself in, Jim," the Prof said. "He wanted to play, wouldn't stay away."

  "Where can we drop you, mahn?" Clarence asked, his face in the mirror a study in calm repose.

  I looked up, saw we were on Sixth Avenue in the Thirties. "Thirty–fourth's okay," I told him. "I'll get you tomorrow, fill you in. It's coming down now. Real soon."

  "Soon's we know, we'll show," the Prof said.

  The car pulled to the curb. I opened the door, stepped out, leaned back inside. "Thanks again, Frankie," I said to the kid.

  "I'm with you," he said in reply. Saying it the right way—after he'd come through, not before.

  I returned the cab, then made it back to my place on foot. Stopped to make a phone call, lined up reservations for tomorrow.

  I caught an early flight to Syracuse out of La Guardia the next morning. I paid for the flight with the American Express Gold. Juan Rodriguez doesn't have credit cards, but Arnold Haines does. Pays every bill right on time, too. Arnold's a better citizen than I could ever hope to be, and he's got one big advantage over Juan— he can visit an RB soldier in prison without raising any eyebrows.

  I rented a plain tan Ford Crown Vic at the airport and started the drive to Auburn, a max joint in the middle of the state.

  They let me inside without a glance— Arnold's been on the Approved Visitors List for quite a while.

  The Visiting Room was on the open plan. It was half–full. About as much as you would expect— Auburn's a hell of a distance from the city, where most of the convicts came from.

  They brought him down quick enough. Silver looked good, healthier and sharper than when I'd last seen him. He was used to jailing, and he never jailed alone— most of the RB's membership is doing time in one joint or the other.

  "How's Helene?" I asked, shaking his hand.

  "She's good. And she's close by. Thanks to you, brother," he said, still gripping my hand.

  "You need anything?"

  "A few magazine subscriptions maybe. I could pass them around to the guys when I was done with them. A library, like."

  "You got it."

  "I appreciate you coming," Silver said. "But there's gotta be more for you to make the trip, right?"

  "Right," I said, leaning close to him, dropping naturally into the side–of–the–mouth style of convict–speak. "I heard there was a contract out on a guy down in Jersey. Trenton State Prison. Guy's name is Piersall. George Piersall."

  "If it's Brotherhood business, I can't— "

  "I'm not trying to call it off," I said quietly. "I'm in it, but not on his side, okay? The whole thing smells. Smells bad. If there's something out on this guy, I think it's a setup."

  "You want— ?"

  "I don't want anything," I told him. "He's in PC now, this guy."

  "That won't— "

  "I know. But if there's word out— if, I said— then you should know there's more players in the game. More than you know about." This guy, he's also got an escape planned. That's gonna take juice. Inside juice. Which means somebody's gonna get left holding the bag, understand?"

  "Yeah. If it's a contract, outside money, maybe we could wait. But if it's a Brotherhood thing…?"

  "It's not," I assured him.

  "Piersall. What kinda name's that?" Silver asked, his eyes on mine.

  "He's white," I said. "And, far as I know, he's not a player. He's got no crew. He's not into juggling. He wouldn't make a play on the sports book or the drug action. He's short, real short, but there's a New York detainer on–and–after. He's not going anyplace, but he wouldn't start something up down there just before they transfer him. What's the point?"

  "So you want…what?"

  "I want to know if somebody paid for a hit. And I want you guys to watch your backs if that's the case. Okay?"

  Silver lit a cigarette from the pack I'd left on the table. "Okay," he said finally.

  We spent a couple of hours catching up on old times. The time I did, the time he was doing.

  I was back in the city by nightfall.

  I stayed up late, watching some pro wrestling on the tube with Pansy. She wasn't into it like she usually was. Maybe the product was getting weak— if it couldn't entertain Pansy, I didn't have much hope for its future.

  I watched with my eyes closed, one hand on Pansy's neck, my old girl and I, reassuring each other.

  I knew something I hadn't told Belinda. Hadn't mentioned it to Silver either. If there was a pipeline out of Trenton, the RB was collecting the tolls. The last three to get out, they'd all been members. The federales took one of them down soon after— nailed him backing out of a bank in Nebraska with a pistol in his hand. They pumped so many steel–jacketed rounds into him they could have used a magnet to drag him to the coroner. The other two, they were still at large. It wasn't like the old days, when Rhodesia was the safe harbor. And the Stateside white–supremacist groups were lousy with FBI agents and semipro informers. I don't know where the other two had gone to, but they did get gone. It didn't look like they were dead— the thing about being an ex–con is that they only need to find a tiny piece of your body to make an ID.

  If I set up an escape, I'd have to work with the Brotherhood. And if they had an open contract, I'd be handing Piersall over to the lions.

  This whole thing was a black diamond solitaire: plenty of facets, but no light. Belinda, Piersall, and me. Three liars, lying.

  And Morales…?

  When I got up the next morning, it was past eleven. But that was okay— I finally had something I could do.

  Sitting in Mama's restaurant, I went over it again with Max. He was down for the job, but he wanted to drive. I nixed that— I needed him for better things.

  We took my Plymouth to the Bronx. I didn't care who knew where I was going for this part. But I checked the mirror anyway….

  Nothing.

  "You seen Clarence around?" I asked the black man with the fancy Jheri–curl at the gym's front desk.

  "The West Indian dude? Dresses real nice?"

  "That's him," I said.

  "He's in the back," the black man said. "With the little guy— the rhyming man."

  "Much obliged," I said.

  He stood up, not blocking my path, but coming close enough. "You the heat?" he asked, his tone friendly.

  "Sure. And this is my partner, Charlie Chan," I said, nodding my head over at Max. The Mongol regarded the black man calmly, hands open at his sides.

  "Yeah…okay," the man said, standing aside.

  I found them all in a side room off the main area, clustered around a new–looking big–screen TV with a VCR wired in. They were watching a fight tape— I couldn't tell which one. We stood there, watching. Then I recognized it— it was Frankie's first
fight, the one with that guy Jenkins.

  We took seats, watched in silence as the Prof ran the tape in slow–mo, rapping to Frankie. "Okay, honeyboy, you see that? You see that overhand right? That move is chump from the jump, son. Telegraphing's bad enough, you sending him fucking Parcel Post!

  "I see it," Frankie said.

  "Everybody saw it, fool!" the Prof snapped. "You been gettin' by on toughness, kid. You keep climbing the line, tough ain't gonna be enough. Soon as you get out that cast, we gonna— "

  "I could work with one hand," the kid offered. "On the heavy bag— "

  "No way, José" The Prof slammed the door on that one. "We got nothin' but time, boy. Just lay in the cut, stay out the rut, okay?"

  "Yeah, okay," Frankie said. "But if I'm gonna get paid, I should— "

  "Do what the boss says," the Prof finished for him.

  We watched the end of the fight. Half of what the Prof was rapping didn't make sense to me, but Max seemed to follow it easily. Maybe having no audio was a help.

  When the tape was finished, I pulled Frankie aside. "I could use some help on something," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

  "Sure! I mean, if it's okay with the Prof."

  "Let's ask him," I said, putting a hand on Frankie's shoulder, walking him into a quiet corner.

  "How's this?" Frankie asked me, a wide grin spreading across his face. He was at the wheel of a white Cadillac Eldorado coupe, parked in the open area on West Street, south of Fourteenth, just off the Hudson.

  "An El D. is all right with me," the Prof endorsed, offering the kid a high–five.

  I didn't ask him where he got the car— right about then, I didn't want to know.

  "You sure the ho' will show?" the Prof asked me.

  "She's a Hoosier, brother," I told him. "Never passed Hooking 101— she won't even look in the back seat. Take my car," I told him. "If Morales makes a move, you're clean, okay?"