Strega

customer. The groups never mixed. The black rough-off artists knew better than to move on the little stud- hustlers-a kid peddling his under-age ass and telling himself he's not really homosexual will be happy to stab you to prove it.

Hookers don't work the main drags in the Square after dark-they have the massage parlors for that. Lexington Avenue was their turf. The customers know where to go.

I cut off from Broadway over to Ninth Avenue, kept heading downtown. The fast- food joint I was looking for stood next to a theater specializing in kung-fu films, a heavy streamer of red and blue lights making a banner over its canopy. I slid the Lincoln to the curb behind a dark Mercedes stretch limo, waiting my turn.

It didn't take long. Three little kids bounded up to the passenger window, arranging their faces into smiles. The Hispanic kid was working with a partner, a blond boy a little taller but even thinner. The dark-haired boy had eyes like dinner plates; his curly hair glistened in the neon. He probably told the johns his name was Angel. Wearing a red T-shirt over a pair of jeans with a designer label on the back pocket. He turned like he was talking to his partner to show me. I couldn't read the designer's name but I knew what the label said: 'For Rent.' The blond kept his hands in his pockets, eyes down, heavy shock of hair falling in his eyes. They looked about twelve years old.

I pushed the power window switch and slid over to talk to them. The third kid was a redhead, freckles on his round face, a trace of colorless lip gloss on his mouth. He was wearing a white sweatshirt with a 'Terry' in script on the front, black pants. New white leather sneakers on his feet. His skin was already a pasty color from a steady diet of junk food and freak-sperm.

I nodded my head to the redhead and the two other boys didn't waste another minute fading back to the front of the fast-food joint. They weren't there for conversation.

'You want to go for a ride, Terry?' I asked him.

The kid didn't blink, his eyes shifting to the back seat and up again to my face, smelling for trouble, the mechanical smile still in place.

He knew the code. 'I have to ask my uncle,' he said. 'Will you buy me something nice if I go with you?'

'Sure,' I said, 'where's your uncle?'

'I'll get him,' the kid said, his soft white hands on the windowsill of the Lincoln. 'Don't talk to any of the other boys while I'm gone, okay?'

'Okay,' I told him, lighting a cigarette like I was prepared to wait.

It didn't take long. The redhead disappeared inside the joint, emerged in another minute with a man in tow. The man was in his early twenties, wearing a white sportcoat with the sleeves pushed up to display heavy forearms and a jeweled watch. He had an orange silk T-shirt on underneath, wide flowing white pants, the cuffs billowing over his shoes. The new look for kiddie-pimps-Miami Lice. The man's hair was so short on the sides it almost looked shaved, but the top was grown out and flowed down his back. As he rolled up on the Lincoln, he grabbed the redhead by the waistband on his jeans and hoisted him onto the front fender with one hand. The waistband of the pimp's pants was wide, like a cummerbund. He hooked his thumbs inside the band, pressing his hands together to force the blood into his arms and chest. He wasn't a power-lifter: his waist was too small for that. He could lift the little redhead with one hand, but he was built for show, not go.

The pimp leaned into the Lincoln, his chiseled face filling the open window, sending me a message. 'Terry says you want to take him out for some pizza?'

I let a tremor of fear into my face, mumbling, 'Uh…yes, I just wanted to…

He cut me off. 'I know what you want. I'm responsible for the boy, see? You leave a deposit with me-just to make sure you bring him back on time, okay? Then you go and buy him that pizza.'

'A deposit?'

'A hundred dollars,' the pimp said. He wasn't going to discuss it.

I put my hand in my pocket like I was reaching for my wallet. Hesitated, watching his eyes. 'What I really want…' I started to say.

'None of my business,' he said, holding out his hand, turning his head casually to watch the street around us.

I cast my eyes down, looking at his open hand. 'Pictures,' I said.

The young man was getting impatient. 'You want pictures, you take pictures, okay?'

'I want to buy some pictures,' I said. 'I'm a collector,' as if that explained everything.

It did. 'We got pictures of Terry. Candid shots. He's a beautiful boy,' the young man said. He could have been describing a Chevy.

'How old is he?'

'Terry is'-thinking how low he could pitch this-'he's ten.' The young man must have thought I looked dubious. 'He's just tall for his age.

'You have pictures of…younger boys?'

'Pictures? Look, man. Take the boy here out for some pizza, okay? Take your own pictures. Anything you want.'

'I just want the pictures,' I said. 'I…can't take them myself.'

The young man rolled his eyes up, silently bemoaning the difficulties of his business. 'I might be able to get you some pictures. It's a lot of work. Could be pretty expensive.

'I don't care,' I assured him.

'Tell you what. You take Terry for his pizza, right? Bring him back to the big ships-you know the West Side Highway, near Forty-fifth? Where they have those navy ships you can walk around on?'

I nodded, eager to please.

'I got a red Corvette. A new one. Drive down to the pier, say around midnight? Look for my car. You bring back Terry-I'll have some pictures for you.'

'How many?' I asked.

'How many you want, friend? They're expensive, like I told you.'

'How many could I buy for…say, a thousand dollars?'

The young man's eyes flared for a split-second. Only a Class A chump would bargain like I was. 'You want action photos or just poses?'

'Action,' I whispered, my eyes downcast.

'That's four for a thousand,' he said.

'Four different boys?'

'Four different. Action shots. Color.'

'I have to go home and get the money,' I said.

'Take Terry with you,' the young man said. 'After you buy him some pizza.'

I just nodded, moving my Adam's apple in my throat like I was gulping it all down.

The pimp put his hand on the back of the redhead's neck. The little kid's face contorted in pain, but he didn't say anything. 'You be a good boy, now,' said the pimp in a dead-flat voice. The kid nodded.

The young man opened the door of the Lincoln, shoved the boy inside. He held out his hand for the hundred dollars.

I handed it over. Making my voice brave, I said, 'How do I know you'll be there?'

'You've got my merchandise,' the pimp said, pocketing the hundred and walking away in the same motion.