Strega

5

THE THIRD shift was just getting started when I wheeled the big Plymouth up Flatbush Avenue to the gas station. I pulled up to the high-test pump, told the jockey to fill it up, and watched the shifty-eyed slob pour an extra twenty-eight cents' worth of gas down the side of my car just so the total would come out even and he wouldn't have to count to make change. When he came around to the window, I just said 'Julio?' and he nodded toward the back. Before he could ask for his cash, I flicked the lever into Drive and took off.

As soon as I pulled behind the station and saw the white Coupe de Ville I knew Julio had sent one of his stooges to make the payoff-the old man's idea of a class act. The white Caddy had the driver's window down-the guy inside picked up the Plymouth and was opening his door even before I came to a stop. Just what I expected: a full-race Cheech- about twenty-five years old, blow-dried hair over a blocky face sporting an Atlantic City tan and dark glasses, white silk shirt open to his chest so I could see the gold chains, dark tight pants, shiny black half-boots. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show me muscular forearms, a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist, a thin gold watch on the other. Central Casting.

The Cheech stepped out of his Caddy, flicking the door shut behind him, strolling over to me.

'You Burke?' he wanted to know.

'Sure,' I told him. I wasn't there for the conversational opportunity.

'I got something for you-from Mr. C.'

I held out my left hand, palm up, keeping my right where he couldn't see it.

'I got ten big ones here,' he said, tapping his front pocket.

I didn't say anything-the jerk was unhappy about something, but it wasn't my problem.

He peered into the Plymouth, watching my face. And then he came out with it. 'You don't look so tough to me, man. Whatever you did for the old man-I coulda done it.'

'Give me the fucking money,' I told him pleasantly. 'I didn't drive out here to listen to your soap opera.

'Hey, fuck you, you don't want to listen! Money talks, right?'

'I don't know, kid. But the money you're holding for me better walk, you understand?'-opening and closing my hand a couple of times so he'd get the message.

The Cheech took off his dark glasses, hooked them over his dangling chains, acting like he was really thinking about not paying me-or acting like he was really thinking, I couldn't tell which. Then he decided. He handed over the envelope without another word, something still on his mind. I tossed it into the back seat, giving him something else to think about. I took my foot off the brake and the Plymouth started to roll forward.

'Hey!' he said. 'Wait a minute.'

'What?'

'Uh…look, man. You ever use anyone else on jobs…you know. I could always use some extra coin, right?'

'No,' I told him, my face flat as a prison wall.

'Hey, just listen for a minute, okay? I got experience, you know what I'm saying?'

'Kid,' I told him, 'I got warrants out on me older than you,' and started to roll forward again.

The Cheech's hand went in his pocket again, but this time he came out with a snub-nosed revolver-he stuck it through the open window, holding it steady, about six inches from my face.

'Don't fucking move! You got that? You fucking sit there and you listen when I talk, you understand? I ain't no fucking nigger you can just walk away from-I'm talking to you.'

I looked at him, saying nothing. There was nothing to say-Julio sent me a messenger boy with some dangerous delusions. It's hard to get good help nowadays.

'You show me some respect, huh?' barked the Cheech. 'You ain't no fucking better than me.'

'Yeah, I am,' I told him, nice and calm and gentle. 'I think about what I'm going to do before I do it. Now you think about it. Think about me coming here alone. Think about how you're going to get out of this alley if you pull the trigger. Think about what you're going to tell the old man. Think about it…then think about what you have to say-and say it.'

The Cheech tried to think and hold the gun on me at the same time. It was too much work and his brain overloaded. The snub-nose trembled in his hand for a second and he looked at it as if it had tricked him. When his eyes came back up to me, he was looking at the sawed-off shotgun I was holding in my right hand.

'I'm listening,' I told him. But he had nothing to say. 'You know how to load that thing?' I asked him. 'Or did someone do it for you?'

'I know…' he mumbled.

'Then fucking unload it, kid. And do it slow-or I'm going to blow your pretty gold chains right through your chest.'

He pointed the pistol up, popped the cylinder, held it upside down, and slowly dropped out the bullets. They made a soft plopping sound as they hit the ground. There was so much wet garbage in that alley you could have dropped a safe from a ten-story building without too much noise.

'Listen to me,' I said, calm as an undertaker. 'You made a mistake. You even think about making another one, go make out a will, understand?'

He just nodded. It was an improvement.

I tapped the gas and the Plymouth rolled out of the alley, heading home. By the time I crossed Flatbush Avenue, my hands had stopped shaking.

6

THE PLYMOUTH slowly made its way down Atlantic Avenue. It wasn't the fastest way back from Brooklyn, but it was the quietest. I eyeballed all the antique shoppes and trendo restaurants which had sprung to life in the last few months-the wino-rehab centers and storefront churches never had a prayer. The new strip runs from Flatbush all the way down past the Brooklyn House of Detention-pioneer- yuppie lofts with stained-glass windows sat over little stores where you could buy fifty different kinds of cheese. Some of the stores still sold wine, though not the kind you drank out of a paper bag. But news of the urban renaissance hadn't filtered down to the neighborhood skells yet-it still wasn't a good idea to linger at a red light after dark.

I turned up Adams Street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge. The first streaks of filthy daylight were already in the sky. The Family Court was on my right, the Supreme Court on my left. It works good that way-when the social workers are done with the kids, the prisons can take them.

The newsboy was standing on the median strip just before the entrance to the bridge. He had a stack of papers under one arm, hustling for an honest buck. Motorists who knew the system beeped their horns, held their arms out the window, and the kid would rush over, slap a paper into your hand, pocket the change, and keep moving. Every once in a while a patrol car would decide the kid should work some other corner, but mostly the cops leave the kids alone.

I pulled into the Left Turn Only lane, ignoring the sign like everyone else. When I