Footsteps of the Hawk

able to go in bursts …full–tilt, all–out, pedal–to–the–metal. And he's gotta be able to do that every round. He does that and, sooner or later, the other guy goes to sleep. I been studying this all my life— I know what I'm doing.'

'Did you ask Max— ?'

'I ain't asking that Mongolian misfit nothing , understand? I'm training a fighter, not a fucking Zen Buddhist.'

'Okay, Prof, don't get worked up. I was just— '

'Flapping your gums,' he finished for me. 'How many times I saved your sorry ass, schoolboy?'

'Too many to count,' I acknowledged.

'And now you come around asking me to do it again, right? And you're gonna give me advice? Fuck a whole bunch of that!'

'Hey, I'm sorry, Prof. I was just trying to help.'

'You want to help, stay on the shelf. I'll handle Frankie.'

'Okay,' I surrendered. Then I went back to telling him about Belinda.

'What the fuck is that?' I heard a voice asking just as I turned the corner to the doorway area of the gym. I took another couple of steps and saw a Latin bantamweight with a kit bag in one hand. He was facing Clarence, who was seated at the front desk, one hand idly scratching behind Pansy's right ear. Pansy eyed the Latin like she had a taste for Mexican food, but she didn't make a sound.

'This is a pit bull, mahn,' Clarence told him, straight–faced.

'There ain't no pit bull in the world that big,' the Latin guy challenged.

'This is a West Indian pit bull,' Clarence told him, embellishing the lie to give it texture. 'Direct from the Islands.'

'Damn!' the Latin guy responded. 'You know where I could get one?'

'No, mahn, that is not possible. Listen to me now It is not enough that you go to the Islands, you must be from the Islands, understand? These are very, very special dogs…'

The Latin eyed Pansy dubiously, indecision all over his face. 'You…fight him?' he asked.

'That is not done,' Clarence said, his tone dead serious, not bothering to correct the Latin's gender error. 'On the Islands, these dogs are not for fighting other dogs. We love our dogs.'

'Yeah, but— '

'These dogs only fight people, mahn. Understand?'

'I guess…' the Latin said, walking past me, shaking his head.

I took a seat on the desk, looked at Clarence. 'A West Indian pit bull?' I asked.

'I think that is probably true, mahn,' Clarence replied, deadpan. 'You see how royally she stands. You see the pride in her carriage. That is nobility, mahn. It does not matter where she came from, Pansy is a West Indian in her heart. I know this.'

'Yeah, okay,' I agreed, being reasonable.

But Clarence wasn't going for it. 'I can prove it, Burke. You watch this. Watch close now.' He reached into one of those little iceboxes that look like tool chests, came out with something that looked like a fat dumpling. Pansy immediately started salivating, eyes almost spinning with rapture. 'May I tell her the word, mahn?' he asked.

I nodded. Clarence said 'Speak!,' tossing the dumpling in Pansy's general direction. She snapped it out of the air like an alligator— a perfect one–bite chomp.

'That, mahn, was a Tower Island beef patty. Pure Jamaican. I tell you something else, too. Pansy, she loves Red Stripe. You see, her natural diet is West Indian.'

'You might be right,' I acknowledged, not bursting his bubble. Truth is, Pansy would eat damn near anything— she has a digestive system like a trash compactor and no taste buds. I snapped the lead on her collar, threw Clarence the clench, and got back into the Plymouth.

I was up early the next morning. Called Mama from a pay phone. Two messages. One from Hauser, the other from Belinda. I dialed Hauser. 'It's me,' I said.

'I got into the morgue at the Daily News,' he said. 'Got all the clips, right from the beginning. When are you going to have the other stuff ?'

'Maybe today,' I told him. 'I'll call you back. Where are you gonna be?'

'My office,' he said, and hung up.

Belinda grabbed her phone on the first ring, said 'Burke, I was hoping— ' before I said anything.

'Do you have the— ?' I asked.

'Yes! I went by your place earlier, but…'

'But what?'

'Maybe I went to the wrong address. I mean, it looked like it did before, but— '

'Where did you go?' I asked her, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

'The place on Mott Street. You know, the— '

'I. don't have a place on Mott Street,' I told her quietly. 'If you want to see me, use the telephone, understand?'

'Okay. I just thought— '

'That's enough,' I interrupted. 'You don't want me coming to your place, don't come to mine.'

We made the meet for eleven, in the park behind the Criminal Court. That's where she wanted it— maybe out in the open so she could have her people watch better than they did last time. It didn't bother me. The park is really part of Chinatown— I could get the job done there too.

I walked up Broadway, past the giant Federal Building, which houses everything from Social Security to the FBI. The building's biggest business is Immigration— the hopefuls start lining up hours before the place opens.

On the wide sidewalk in front of the building, dozens of merchants had set up shop, selling everything from jewelry to perfume to bootleg videocassettes. Different kinds of food, pastries, fresh vegetables. Children's books, street maps, umbrellas. They were packed so close together it was hard to move along the sidewalk. All cash businesses, every single one. And right behind them, the IRS slumbered, unaware and uninterested, too busy terrorizing honest citizens to care about the outlaws.

Belinda was already there when I rolled up, sitting comfortably on a metal cross–brace to some permanent outdoor exercise equipment. The park is a monument to filth, full of pigeons rooting around for the take–out food tossed onto the ground every day. At night, the homeless take over. And rats replace the pigeons.

She waved when she saw me. Or maybe the wave was to tip off her backup— no way to tell.

I walked closer, changing my stride enough so she'd know I'd seen her. She bounced off the exercise bar, landing lightly on her feet. 'Where's that big dog of yours?' she asked. 'What's her name again…?'

'Betsy,' I told her, not missing a beat. The difference between a professional liar like me and a garden–variety bullshit artist is that I always remember the lies I tell.

'That's right.' She brightened. 'Betsy. I really liked her. She liked me too, didn't she?'

'Sure did,' I replied, doubling up on the lie. 'You have that stuff with you?'

'In my purse,' she said. 'I thought we could go someplace. Inside. You live around here?'

'No,' I said. 'But if you do…'

'I'm not ready for that yet,' she said, watching my face too closely.

I didn't push it. 'I know a restaurant,' I said. 'It's a little early, but maybe it's open…'

'I'm game,' she replied. 'Let's try it.'

We walked slowly through the twisting back streets, heading for Mama's. The white–dragon tapestry was hanging in the window, alone. Belinda's expression didn't change, like she'd never been there before. Okay. I opened the front door, ushered Belinda inside. Mama looked up from her cash register, asked 'How many, please?'

'Just us,' I told her.