Footsteps of the Hawk

'Why you not ask about lady police?'

'I already know her,' I said. 'Belinda. The same one who's been calling here all along, remember?'

'Short girl, kind of…'

'Plump?'

'No, not plump. Like…solid. Strong.'

'Yeah, that's her.'

'Blue eyes?'

'I don't remember,' I told her. It was the truth.

'Blond hair?'

I looked up from my soup, paying attention for the first time. 'No. It's kind of reddish–brown.'

'This one blonde.'

'You sure?'

Mama gave me a look of intense pity, clearly wondering how I got to be as old as I am despite being so stupid. 'Yes,' she said. 'Sure. Blonde.'

'Maybe she dyed her hair. Women do things like that, right?'

'Not dye hair,' Mama said. 'Blond wig.'

I felt a hammer drop somewhere in my head. Maybe I was getting too old for this. Who strips a blow–job whore looking for a wire? That blonde girl, the one on the same corner as Roxanne…I tried to replay the image, but I couldn't get the screen to clear. Belinda? Belinda getting me on tape, agreeing to kill a man for money?

But I hadn't gone for it.

I was in a long corridor. A long mirrored corridor. I couldn't see the end. Just reflections. Images. I couldn't see, so I listened.

And all I heard was that special–ugly slammer–sound when the jailers rack the bars closed at night.

'Mama,' I asked, 'you still have that loft over on Mott Street?'

'Sure.'

'Anybody staying there now?'

'No. Nobody till next month.'

'Can I borrow the key?'

Mama reached in one of her kimono pockets, handed it over. 'Take Max,' she said.

I used the phone in the back to reach out for the Prof, came up empty. He wasn't at the gym. Not at any of his usual spots either. I left word.

Mama's is a good place for waiting. It's quiet and peaceful, the food is great…you can make a call or get one, read the racing form, take a nap if you want. Mama always keeps a stock of English–language international newspapers around. I opened one idly, glanced through it, enjoying the soup the waiter had poured into a thick coffee cup for me.

The paper had two full pages of escort services. One place said all their girls spoke at least three languages. Sure— French, Greek, and Missionary.

The classifieds were more interesting. An offshore bank was offered for sale: ten thousand, cash. Somebody was advertising a kidney for sale. His own. Cost you a hundred grand plus expenses, but if you needed a transplant, you wouldn't have to wait in line.

I dropped the international stuff and shifted to the local tabloids. A human on the Holy Coast fixed up his basement for his stepdaughter— soundproofed walls with a videocam set up on a tripod. Called it his War Room. He tortured the girl down there. When they busted him, he said he was trying to teach the girl right from wrong. That's what's wrong with kids today— they have no discipline. He was willing to plead guilty to child abuse, but not to any sex crimes.

It might have worked if the jury hadn't seen the tapes.

I turned the page. A man and woman— a male and female anyway— got all embarrassed about the woman's condition. She was about to give birth, but the baby wasn't his. So they took the baby home from the hospital and buried it in their back yard. Nobody knew anything about it until the woman got pregnant again…by the right man this time. A nurse asked her if she'd ever been pregnant before, and the woman said she had, but the baby had died. It didn't take them long to find the baby's body— the cops locked them both up.

When the man was produced for his arraignment the next day, his face was badly swollen. Some sanctimonious columnist wrote the story, smirking self–righteously about 'jailhouse justice.' Every time I read wishful–thinking garbage like that, I want to puke. I did time with a guy once— Mestron, his name was— he was a sex killer, and proud of it. None of the girls was over seven years old. The miserable freak would snatch the poor little things, take them back to the basement where he lived…grab their ankles, hold them upside down, then use his powerful arms to crack the little girls like wishbones…so he could slide in on the blood. I know the details because he told them to anyone who would listen. Over and over, doing it again in his mind.

Mestron was a short guy, maybe five foot six, tops. He weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds, all of it muscle. He was good with his hands and better with a shank. And he wasn't in population two weeks before he raped a bank robber— hundred–and–twenty–pound bank robber who couldn't bring his gun to prison with him. And Mestron? That baby–killer did good time— righteous indignation doesn't stack up too high against homicidal muscle. You want to see jailhouse justice? Just spend some time in a jungle…and pray you're not the prey.

The scumbag on the Coast, the one who tortured his stepdaughter— my hope for him was that he'd have something worth killing for in prison. It wouldn't take much.

I stopped reading the paper— I don't know why they call it 'news.' I got up from my booth, bowed a goodbye to Mama, and got back out into the world.

The next day was Friday. Still no sign of the Prof. I figured I could catch him at the fights, so I picked Max up and we drove over the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, exited on Queens Boulevard and motored along, watching for the turnoff. All along the strip, the topless bars and storefront churches coexisted, each crew deluding itself it was competition for the other. I found the turnoff, followed the Prof's directions. The joint was off Skillman Avenue, an old arena that hadn't been big–time since World War II. We circled the area half a dozen times before Max spotted a parking place. I pulled in, secured the Plymouth.

'We're with one of the fighters,' I told the guy at the door. 'Where's the dressing rooms? I got a boy going tonight.'

'Him?' the guy at the door said, nodding his head in Max's direction.

'Not this time,' I told him.

'You're not gonna work the corner, you gotta pay like everybody else,' he said.

I gave him a fifty for two ringside seats. 'First come, first served,' the guy said, gesturing toward the ring standing in the middle of the auditorium surrounded by rows of folding chairs.

One of the cable networks was setting up a trio of heavy cameras on massive tripods. I saw the lights had already been strung, the network's logo was firmly in place near the ceiling. They tape all the fights, but the four– rounders only make it to the screen if the main event ends early.

We walked around the perimeter until I found the entrance to the back rooms. The locker room was crowded with fighters— they were all in the one room, but separated by invisible lines, surrounded by handlers and hangers–on. The place smelled of fresh sweat and stale hopes. I spotted the Prof standing over to one side, saying something to Frankie as Clarence carefully wrapped the fighter's hands in tape.

'It's the first bout for the other guy too,' the Prof was saying to Frankie, 'but he's a Golden Gloves winner— they looking for you to be a sheep for the creep. But ain't the way it's gonna play, okay?'

Frankie nodded attentively, not speaking.

'You got to be quick, babe,' the Prof continued. 'Get off fast— don't let it last. On TV, KO is all they know. You ready?'

Frankie nodded again.

'We're up first,' the Prof said to me. 'Got about a half–hour.' He turned to Frankie. 'Just lie back, son. Relax.