Footsteps of the Hawk

    FOOTSTEPS

OF THE HAWK    

for Baby Boy E…

You took Death all the way through the last round.

And got jobbed by the judges.

Again.

No more fixed fights for you, little warrior.

Now it's— finally— time to play.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To Alan Grant

a volunteer in a war not his own

to free all the Children of the Secret

FOOTSTEPS OF THE HAWK

In my business, if you're the last one to a meet you could end up being left there when it's over.

I watched the refrigerator–white Range Rover work its way around the broken chunks of concrete dotting the asphalt that used to be a parking lot. Those luxo four–bys cost big bucks— I guessed Saunders had come into some serious money since the last time we did business. The big rig nosed forward, came to a halt at the start of the pier, then reversed so its rear end was backed against the abandoned building.

I trained the binoculars on the driver's door, watching the man get out. It was Saunders all right, dressed in a suburban safari outfit, right down to a pair of gleaming black boots. The passenger door opened. Another man. Medium height, with a face too chubby for his build, wearing a camo jacket and combat boots, eyes covered with mirror–lensed aviator sunglasses. I climbed down from my perch atop a heavy crossbeam using a rope ladder dyed black. As I moved closer to the door, the ladder merged into the shadows.

The mid–afternoon light was strong, fractured by the wreckage inside the abandoned warehouse— I could see all the way across the grimy Hudson to the Jersey waterfront. The door swung open and they stepped inside.

'Burke,' Saunders said, offering his hand. 'Long time no see.'

'You said business,' I told him.

'Same old Burke,' he chuckled, dropping his hand…but keeping it in view. 'This is the guy I told you about. Roger Cline.'

'That's Cline like Patsy, not Klein like Jew,' the guy said, smiling with his mouth, his eyes invisible behind the mirror lenses. 'Saunders here tell you what we need?'

'Yeah,' I told the man. 'Ordnance.'

'Heavy ordnance, my friend,' he said. 'Can you do it?'

'Sure,' I told him. It was the truth— with all the military base closings, it's easy enough these days.

'What we need is— '

'You ever do time?' I interrupted.

'Huh?'

'You ever do time?' I repeated, watching my reflection in the mirror lenses.

The man turned his head slightly to his right, looking for an ally, but Saunders only shrugged, shifting his weight slightly to his outside foot, letting his body language tell the story.

The man turned back to me. 'Yeah, I pulled some time,' he said, a hostile undercurrent to his reedy voice. 'So what?' He pulled off the sunglasses and glared at me all in the same motion— I guess it had worked better when he'd practiced it at home.

'Not so what,' I told him. 'For what?'

'What's it to you?' he asked.

'I like to know who I'm dealing with,' I told him in a reasonable voice.

'Hey, I ain't asking your daughter for a date, man.'

'Suit yourself,' I said.

He was quiet for about fifteen seconds, still trying to stare me down— good fucking luck. Then he ran a palm over his close–cropped brown hair, bit into his lower lip for a split–second, said, 'Armed robbery.'

I nodded as if I was absorbing the information. 'You go down alone?' I asked him.

'Huh?'

'When you went to the joint, your partners go with you?'

'No. I mean, I didn't have no partners.'

I nodded like that made sense too. 'All right,' I told the man. 'I'll see what's available. Take about three, four weeks. No guarantees, though.'

'I thought you could— '

'What? Go over the wall and steal the stuff? Get real, pal. I got an inside man— that's the only way to pull off this particular thing. What's for sale is what he can get, that's the story. Whichever way it comes up, that's the way it is, that's the way it stays, understand?'

'Yeah. But…' He let it trail off, looking over at Saunders.

'Let me talk to you for a minute,' Saunders said. 'Just a little one–on–one, okay? For old times' sake?'

I nodded.

'Wait for me outside,' Saunders told the other man. 'Here's the keys.'

Cline–like–Patsy started to say something, changed his mind. He took the keys from Saunders, walked out through the sagging doorway.

'What was that all about, Burke?' Saunders asked me.

'He's counterfeit,' I told him. 'A three–dollar bill.'

'How do you know?'

'Nobody says they went inside for armed robbery— that's social–work talk. You say you went down for stealing, or you say you re a thief. You gonna rob, you're armed— how else would it be? And you see his face when I asked him about partners? He never had partners— not for what he was doing.'

'So what do you care about his pedigree?'

'Look, this guy may be one of those lame Nazis or whatever they call themselves this week, but he's no white–tribe warrior— he's a fucking tree–jumper. And he ratted out a bunch of people when he went in.'

'So?'

'So he's not reliable. You know it, and I know it.'

'His money spends just as good.'