Footsteps of the Hawk

She made a face, tossed her canvas purse over to me, and crossed her arms into a good imitation of a push–up bra. I stood up, walked over to a flat table in the corner. The table was covered with black felt. A telescoping wand held a white quartz bulb. Mama's guests used it to examine jewelry— it would work just as well for this.

I took a pair of thin white cotton gloves from a flat drawer inside the examining table and slipped them onto my hands. Then I emptied the purse onto the table and flicked on the observation lamp.

First, a chrome cylinder of lipstick— Rose Dawn, it said on the bottom. I uncapped it, cranked the soft pink tube all the way out, shook it to see if it rattled. No.

Next, a dark–brown leather folding wallet. Inside, an NYPD gold shield— a detective's badge. The photo ID confirmed it.

A ring of keys— looked like car, apartment, couple of others…storage locker maybe? safe–deposit box?

Some crumpled bills, less than a hundred total. Subway tokens. A pair of sparkling earrings for pierced ears— probably CZ— no way to tell without a jeweler's loupe.

An orange pencil–stick of eyeliner.

A blue steel .38. S&W four–incher. I popped the cylinder, turned it upside down to catch the cartridges as they spilled out, set them aside.

A cellophane packet of tissues, half–empty.

Three condoms in individual foil packs, lubricated.

A brown plastic vial with a child–proof top— no label. I tapped the contents into my palm. No mistaking the telltale green–and–white capsules even without the name and dosage on each one— Prozac.

'How many of these you take every day?' I asked her, holding up the vial so she could see what I was asking about.

'Two,' she replied in a flat voice. 'One when I get up, one around noon. Okay?'

I nodded. It was the right answer— a forty–milligram dose was the usual maintenance weight, and you shouldn't take that stuff before you go to sleep. Whatever was depressing her, she'd had it for a while. Had it deep.

A picture postcard showing a sandy beach, palm trees, a smiling golden–skinned little girl waving at the camera, naked from the waist up. On the back, in a childish scrawl: 'You should have come with us!' Signed: 'Love, Gaby. From Baby Beach, Pattaya.'

A notebook with a white vinyl cover, complete with attached ballpoint pen. I leafed through it. Nothing but names and phone numbers— I didn't see mine. In the back of the notebook, a calendar. None of the dates were marked.

I put everything back, tossing it in the way I'd found it. 'It looks okay to me,' I told her. 'But what we're gonna do, just to be safe, I'm gonna put this in a box. Outside the room. Come on, I'll show you.

She followed right behind as I went back into the main room, where Immaculata waited. The box is about the size of a thirty–gallon aquarium only it's made of steel. I opened the lid to show her that the walls were a couple of inches thick. The lid itself was padded too. I dropped her purse inside, closed the lid, and threw a toggle switch on the side of the box. A red LED glowed.

'What's that mean?' Belinda asked.

'It means that it's working. Even if you had a recorder inside the box, all it would pick up is interference noise, understand?'

'Yeah!' She grinned. 'Pretty slick. You do this kind of thing a lot?'

'Enough,' I told her. No point explaining why Mama had a use for such devices in her various businesses.

I walked back into the room I was using, closed the door behind her.

'Okay,' I said. 'That takes care of the purse. But there's one more thing…That's why Rosita is out there.'

'Rosita? The Chinese woman?'

'Her mother was from Brazil. Dad from Macao,' I said, embroidering the lie to give it some texture.

'Oh. So what…?'

'You go in the other room. With Rosita. And you take off your clothes. All of them. You leave the clothes there— she'll give you a robe to put on. Then, when you come back in here, I'll know you're the only person I'm talking to. See?'

Belinda stood up, started walking over to me, hauling the pink sweatshirt over her head in one motion. Underneath she had on one of those workout bras, black jersey with X–straps across her back. She unzipped the jeans, tugged them down over her hips. Then she bent forward from the waist, untied each sneaker, pulled them off, stepped out of the jeans. Her panties were the same black jersey material as the bra, only their waistband was white.

'This far enough?' she challenged.

'No,' I told her. 'You sure you don't want— ?'

She lifted the bra past her breasts, pulled it over her head in one flowing motion, and dropped it on the floor. Then she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of the panties, pulled them all the way down. She stepped out of them with one foot, used the other to hold the puddle of black and flicked it away with a half–kicking motion. Her body was thick, muscular, breasts rounded but not meeting in the middle, stomach slightly washboarded. Her thighs looked as hard as marble. She stood without a trace of self–consciousness, eyes on mine.

'You want the socks too?' she asked, a sarcastic smile on her face.

'Yeah.'

She stood easily on one foot, pulled off one white sock. Did the same with the other. Then she held her hands high over her head, turned slowly one full rotation. A port–wine stain showed on her right hip, a dark mole under her left shoulder blade. Her buttocks were wide and deep, with a sharply cut definition just where they met her upper thighs. It was the first thing Clarence had noticed about her…the last good thing.

'Seen enough?' she asked.

'It's not about seeing,' I told her: I took the white cotton gloves off, put them aside. Then I sprinkled some baby powder over my right hand and pulled on a latex surgeon's glove. I slapped a tube of K–Y jelly on the tabletop, looked over at her, waiting. Bright circles of red broke out on her cheeks. 'You— ' she started to say.

'I'm not playing,' I said quietly. 'Someone's gonna check. You want me or you want Rosita?'

She spun on her heel and padded out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I was halfway through my third cigarette when the door opened again. Belinda entered, wearing a jade silk kimono. Immaculata was right behind her, nodding to me that it was all clear.

'Sorry about that,' I said to Belinda as she sat down, pulling the kimono closed around her breasts with one hand. 'I had to be sure.'

'You're a very cautious man, Mr. Burke,' she said, tossing her head to throw some of her chestnut hair out of her eyes.

'But not a disrespectful one,' I replied, warning her. 'Now, tell me what you want.'

'Could I have one of your cigarettes first?'

I stepped over to where she was seated, handed her the pack. She shook one loose, put it in her mouth. I snapped a wooden match alive, held it down to her. She dragged deeply, holding the kimono closed tightly in front of her. I could feel her eyes, checking where I was looking— not where she'd guessed. Didn't know if she'd recognize where I was looking— if you haven't looked there yourself, you wouldn't recognize it— the middle distance.

I put a small milk–glass ashtray on the arm of her chair, went back to where I'd been sitting.

She puffed on the cigarette like she expected more out of it than she was getting, eyes slitting slightly from the smoke. I watched those eyes— watched for that nobody's–home flatness. I didn't see it.

'There's a man,' she said slowly 'An innocent man. He's in prison— for a crime he didn't commit. I want to get him out. I want to set him free.'

'Hire a lawyer,' I told her, uninterested.

'He has a lawyer. A good one. Raymond Fortunato. Maybe you know him…?'

'I've heard of him,' I said, not giving anything away Fortunato was a mob lawyer, specializing in disappearing witnesses and juiced juries…not the guy you'd want if you needed a strong appellate brief. He cost too. Cost big.