Footsteps of the Hawk b-8 Read online

  Down in the Port Authority, they have the low–rent version— you make your call with someone else's credit card. Thieves rent the credit–card numbers— all you can use for twenty–four hours, one flat fee. The Port Authority is the best place to use them— plenty of pay phones always available, impossible to stake out, anonymous.

  My watch said it was eleven–forty. Plenty of time even if the bus was on schedule. The Port Authority cops were all around, watching for runaways. No shortage of pimps either, trolling for the same fish, using different bait.

  It went so smooth I almost didn't trust it. While the predators hovered, I walked straight on through. I met the bus, told the girl I was with Project Pride, a safe house for runaways. Promised her a nice private room, free food, and counselors to help her find a job. She told me she was going to be an actress. I told her lies of equal weight. She got into my Plymouth. I drove her to the clinic, half–listening to her stream of chatter, hating how easy anyone could have gotten this little girl to come along with them.

  I found a place to park, rang the bell. The door opened. I left the kid there.

  The next morning, I went back to work. Ever since I got back from Connecticut, I've been bottom–feeding, picking at carrion. I run my scams in the Personals— promising whatever, delivering never. I also use my P.O. boxes— offering losers a real pipeline to "mercenary opportunities." The only mercenary they'll ever meet that way is me. Kiddie–porn stings don't have much bite to them today— the freaks all want to sample the merchandise over a computer modem before they buy. Or they want you to fax a teaser. And even the pedophiles who want hard copy insist you use FedEx so the federales can't bust you for trafficking through the U.S. mail. But that's okay— there's never a shortage of targets who can't go crying to the cops when they get fleeced.

  I deal with citizens too. Every time the government adds a new tax to cigarettes, the market for bootleg butts goes bullish. And brand–name counterfeiting is always a sure thing: Mont Blanc pens, Rolex watches, Gucci bags— they're all best–sellers for street merchants. Most of it's made in Southeast Asia, where child labor is real cheap. In Thailand, the Promised Land for baby–rapers, it's so cheap that the freaks organize tours: for one flat rate you get round–trip to Bangkok, a nice hotel…and babies to fuck. The planes are always filled to capacity.

  But even if hustling, scamming, and grafting all dried up, I could always sell firearms— hate never goes out of style. I only deal in bulk, like a case of handguns. And I won't touch the exotics— titanium crossbows that cost three grand, mail–order SAMs— that kind of stuff's for the borderlands, the far–out frontier where psychosis and technology overlap.

  I sell to the usual suspects, mostly far–right dim–bulbs who sit in their basements stroking the gun barrels…the firearms equivalent of the inflatable women they sell in the freak–sex catalogs. Most of my customers are pretty easy to scope out, but when an unsmiling young woman in overalls and a flannel shirt wanted to buy enough plastique to level a high–rise, I raised my eyebrows in a question. She told me she was an animal lover, like that explained it all.

  I passed on that one. I don't play much— and when I do, it's with my deck.

  My bottom–feeding wasn't limited to business. I've known Vyra forever, met her when she was engaged to marry an architect. She didn't go through with that one. After working her way through another half–dozen guys, she eventually settled on an accountant. All throughout that, we'd get together once in awhile. We never had that much to say to each other— came together as smooth as chambering a round, parted as easy as firing it.

  Vyra was a slim girl, not very curvy, with breasts way too big for her frame. The only bras she could wear had industrial–strength under–wires— when she took them off you could see the violent red marks where they had cut into her. They made her back ache too, she said. And sometimes her neck hurt so badly she had to have it braced.

  "Why don't you get them fixed?" I asked once, lying next to her on a hotel bed.

  "You mean like the rest of me?" she asked, not sure whether to try sarcasm or tears— she always had both on tap. I'd known Vyra before she started on the plastic surgery— hell, I knew her when she was still Myra— but I'd never tried to talk her out of it. She finally got her nose reduced, earlobes cut down, and an implant at the tip of her chin. All in one visit— I didn't see her for about three months. When I did, she was the same sweet bitch–on–wheels she'd always been, only with more confidence,

  "Why not?" I replied. "You could get the best— "

  "Men love them," she said. "I mean, they worship them. You have no idea…"

  "But if it's going to keep you in pain all the— "

  "Don't worry." She smiled, her perfectly capped teeth white in the afternoon dimness. "I make them pay for it."

  When I first saw Vyra, she was a hat–check girl in a nightclub, wearing one of those imitation bunny outfits— a one–piece bodysuit cut high on the thighs with a deep V at the chest. A customer gave her ten bucks to reclaim his hat, watched hungrily as she stuffed the bill deep into her cleavage.

  "I'll bet you could stuff a hundred bucks down there," the guy said. "All in singles."

  "I don't play with singles," Vyra shot back, telling him the score.

  She married a guy she met in the club. Or a guy she met in the club introduced her to the guy she married. Or the guy was married when she met him and divorced his wife over her. Or something like that…When Vyra tells her stories, I don't listen too hard.

  Next time I ran into her, it was an accident. I was working a tracking job over in Jersey— she was sitting out in front of a café, at one of those little round tables with big Euro ashtrays, sipping something from a tall narrow glass. I sat down across from her, grateful for the vantage point and the cover.

  Vyra told me about her life, flashing a diamond ring that must have cost five figures wholesale. She gave me her phone number, but the calling instructions were so complicated— only on Tuesday and Thursday, between two and four in the afternoon, but not if it falls on the first day of the month…crap like that— I never got around to it.

  But when she called me, she caught me just right. I was in Mama's, not doing anything, and she was in the Vista Hotel, right across from Battery Park. It only took me a few minutes to get there. About the same time it took both of us to get done with the only thing there ever was between us.

  She was good at it— a lifetime of faking passion blurred the line so much that, sometimes, she actually thought she was letting go.

  "You're the only one who ever made me come," she told me. It was a good line, as such things go. "You were the first" would have been deeper sarcasm than "I love you," but making a woman come for the first time in her life— hell, most men's egos would slip–slide around that credibility gap with ease.

  Vyra's good at sex. Practiced, athletic, responsive…controlling enough so she does most of the work, but not so much so that you feel controlled. On a good day, she can bite a pillow hard enough to make you think you were driving steel like John Henry never dreamed, the Boss Rooster with his pick of the chicks. Vyra must have learned the truth early on in her life— faking love is a snap, but faking lust is a bitch.

  Vyra's great at girl–gestures— whipping off an earring to make a phone call, tossing her hair off her face with a quick movement of her neck, walking with one hand on her purse, the other swinging in time with her hips, like a conductor directing musicians— not an original move in the lot, but all of them sweet, smooth and sexy.

  Vyra's a good person too— just tell her about an abandoned baby or a wounded animal, her checkbook opens faster than a bagman's hand. She's one of those girls…I really can't explain them. It's like they're running parallel to you all the time. The lines never cross, but, sometimes, they get close enough to almost touch.

  It was always hotel sex, except for one time in her car. She never asked to come to my place— never asked me much of anything. Sometimes we ma
de a date on the phone, sometimes she'd just call when she was around…and if I was too, we'd get together.

  It's as though our lives are checkerboarded— when our pieces land on the same square, we get together, take care of business, and move on.

  Vyra wants something she can't call by name. I know what to call it, but I don't want it.

  She offered me some money once. Real money, so I could go into a business or something. It was a sweet thing she was trying to do, maybe the only way she knows how. I didn't take it— told myself it was better to leave that kind of offer in the bank, for when I might really need it.

  I didn't need Vyra, either. But when I called in, and Mama said there was a message from her, I aimed the Plymouth at the Vista without thinking much about it.

  Vyra had a new pair of shoes. Blue spikes, with little red bows at the back. She liked them so much, she kept them on.

  Afterwards, she wanted to tell me all about what she'd been doing— she was a volunteer counselor in some "therapeutic community" on the other side of the Hudson. I lay on my back, blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. She propped herself on one elbow, sprouting prepackaged wisdom— "there's no such thing as a free lunch" seemed to be her favorite. I closed my eyes, letting her voice wash over me.

  "Are you listening to me?" she finally said.

  "Sure."

  "Listen, Burke, you're not the only one with problems. Everybody has to carry their own baggage through life."

  "But everybody doesn't have to go through Customs, do they, little bitch?" I asked, my voice gentle.

  I don't know why that started her crying, but I held her against my chest until she was done.

  I pulled my car out of the hotel's underground garage, thinking about how Vyra had offered me money again— she was one of those goodhearted women who could offer to lend you money without wanting your balls for a down payment. And my ego wasn't stupid enough to tell her I still had a big piece of my last score stashed away.

  I don't want to live large— it just makes you a bigger target. I live a small, low–maintenance life. I'm just trying to get through it.

  I was just trying to get through the intersection at West Broadway and Chambers, heading for the West Side Highway, when it happened. I was coming through at the same time as a bright lipstick–red low–slung sports coupe— a Dodge Stealth, it looked like. My Plymouth has so many dents in its primer–coated body that I usually carry major bargaining power over any contested space in city traffic, but the driver of the red car wasn't having any, bulling his way through, oblivious to the blaring horns and screech of brakes. I let him through, tucked in behind, followed him to the Highway.

  He made the right turn ahead of me. I cranked the wheel hard into the service road and pulled ahead. I took a quick glance at the red Stealth— it sported blackout windows and I couldn't see inside. I felt it somewhere to my left but, after a while, I couldn't even pick it up in my left–side mirror.

  The Highway forked just before the Meat Market. I stayed right, heading for the whore stroll on Tenth Avenue. A working girl was having trouble leaving her pimp— and she'd gotten word out to me. I promised the broker who gave me the word that I'd listen to the offer, make my decision after I'd heard the pitch.

  I was motoring sedately along Tenth Avenue when the idiot in the red Stealth shot across my bow at Eighteenth Street, sliding so I'd have to hit him or stop. I floored the brakes— crazy bastard. I was checking the rearview mirror to see if there was room to back away when I heard a car door slam. A man with the build of a fire hydrant was walking toward my car. Walking fast. I recognized him. Morales, the no–neck thug who partnered with McGowan for NYPD.

  Damn.

  I climbed out of the Plymouth, put on a "What the hell's this all about?" expression. Morales stepped right into my face, showing teeth. It wasn't a smile.

  "I fucking thought that was you," he snarled.

  "What's the beef?" I asked him.

  "Oh, let me see. Burke, right? What could the beef be? Parking tickets? Drunk driving? No…how about fucking homicide, that more up your alley?"

  "We already did this once," I reminded him, keeping my voice soft. It's a tightrope dance with Morales. He's a pit bull in human form— you show him fear and you're done. But if you challenge him, that just lights his fuse. With Morales, the only safe place is away.

  Traffic flowed past. The drivers didn't rubberneck us— it takes more than a couple of men talking in the street to get attention around here.

  "I never mind going another round," Morales said. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this house up in the Bronx, would you? A house with all kinds of dead bodies in it. Kid's body too. A little kid. You know anything about that, Burke?"

  "No. Was it in the papers?"

  "Yeah, motherfucker, it was in the papers. All over the papers, a couple a years back. Remember now?"

  "It doesn't ring a bell," I told him, keeping my eyes away from his. Morales wouldn't take that as a sign of guilt: his eyes are little black ball bearings— nobody ever looks into them long.

  "Let me help you with that," Morales said. "There was a bunch of baby–raping freaks, some kind of cult, making torture films. They fucked up a little kid, fucked him up real bad. And you know what this little kid did, Burke? He fucking killed a baby. Killed him, okay? Canceled his ticket, took his fucking life, all right? A little tiny baby…So we're talking to the DA's office. City–Wide Special Victims. Woman named Wolfe, maybe you heard of her?"

  I kept my eyes on the middle distance between us, staying out of focus, not saying a word. Morales was hitting too close to home, and he'd never be cool enough to just leave it there.

  "No, huh?" he sneered. "I guess fucking not. Anyway, we put it together. Put it together slow, see? Like we're gonna make a case, prosecute the miserable slime. But they disappear, just fucking vanish, okay? Now, they're around, way we understand it. Somewhere close. Turns out they were holed up in the South Bronx. In one of those rehabbed joints, right next to a burn–out. So we're ready to roll, just waiting on the warrants and all. And you know what happens then, Burke?"

  I stayed in the middle distance, feeling him talk more than hearing, his gut–bucket voice climbing an octave as it got tighter and tighter.

  "Yeah," he said. "You know. Somebody went into that house before we did. Blew the fucking front door right off. Couple of people at least, too much for one man. Maybe a whole fucking team, not that it matters. When they was done, it wasn't a house no more, it was a fucking crypt. Dead bodies. Nine dead bodies. A couple of splatter–jobs, probably with a sawed–off. One inside, one outside. The one outside had a long knife in her hand. The rest of them, all bullets. All nines, in fact. And, oh yeah, one had a broken neck. We found a whole video setup in the basement. Looked like they were gonna make themselves a snuff film…even had a little boy all tied up, ready to go. All kinds of that Satanic horseshit down there too. The two downstairs, they was heeled, cranked off a few rounds. Didn't do 'em no good though— they both bought the farm."

  "What's that got to do with— ?"

  "With you, motherfucker? With you? That's your work. Ain't a working cop in this town don't know that. Ain't the first time you went psycho like that either. We got a list, motherfucker. And you're on it, big–time."

  "I don't know what— "

  "You know what happens the next time you fall?" he asked, cutting me off. Like it was new information to me.

  "Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm not into anything."

  "You been inside twice," Morales said. "Felony beefs. Hell, armed felony beefs. Don't you read the papers, asshole? Three strikes, you're in. One more, and you do the book."

  I just nodded, like he knew the score. But he was off the mark— once you put ten years between your last prison sentence and your next conviction, they can't run them wild to habitch you into a down–forever, no parole never, life sentence.

  "You wouldn't recognize things inside anymore. It's all changed,
Burke. Face it, you're getting old."

  "You know what's getting old, Morales? This shit you're putting on me. What do you think, you're gonna clear every homicide in the city by rousting me?"

  "This ain't no roust. You see a squad car anywhere? You see any backup? I'm undercover," he said proudly, as though any fool couldn't make him for a cop at a hundred yards.

  "What is it, then?"

  Morales pulled the lapel of his jacket back just far enough for me to see the shoulder holster. "Assume the position," he growled.

  I turned around, my back to him, hands on the trunk of my car. I felt his hands patting me down. When he got to the side pocket of my jacket he reached inside, took out what he found there. I knew what it was— a tiny box of wooden matches. A white box with a black bull's–eye on one side, an address and phone number on the other, with the name of the nightclub in black letters:

  TARGETS.

  I felt his hands putting the matchbox back, felt him continue all the way down to my ankles. When he stepped back, I turned around, eyes still not meeting his.

  "How come you ain't saying nothing about Probable Cause?" he sneered.

  "Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm clean."

  "Clean? You'll never be clean, motherfucker. You know, I could understand a man doing a murder. Shit happens, right? Man gets up in your face, disrespects you, threatens you, tries to steal your money, fucks with your wife…anything. But a contract hitter, that's the scum of the planet."