Footsteps of the Hawk

car into a corpse.

I exited at Woodhaven Boulevard and worked my way toward Forest Park. I found a quiet spot. Pulled over to a roadside pay phone and punched a number in.

'What?' came the rust–bucket greeting.

'You been looking for me?' I asked.

'ID me something,' the voice demanded.

'Baby Pete,' I said.

'More.'

'I found him. Where you said he couldn't be.'

Baby Pete. Big Peter's grandson. Kidnapped, held for ransom. Big Peter never went near the Law. Paid in full. Never got the boy back. After that, he reached out for me. I found the little kid. In the basement of Big Peter's next–in–line. Found his ashes and a few bone fragments— the furnace hadn't finished its work. The next–inline was impatient, but he needed a war chest before he made his move. Big Peter hadn't called the Law about that one either.

'Ask the question again?'

'You looking for me?'

'If I wanted to find you, I would,' he said softly. 'I know how to do that.'

'Yeah. That's what I figured. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have some problem— '

'With you?' he interrupted.

'Yeah. Some strange stuff is happening. And I heard a name today….'

'Say it.'

'Julio.'

'Oh.' The line was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, 'Come see me.'

'Where?'

'At the house.'

'When?'

'Now. I'll wait.'

'Twenty minutes,' I told him, and hung up.

The house was a simple wood–frame two–story in Ozone Park. Only the chain–link fence looked serious. The gypsy cab dropped me off in front. I walked around to the side of the house and rang the bell.

Big Peter opened the door himself. He stood about five feet four, weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. There's a number of stories about how he came into his name— none of them are pretty.

'Sit,' he said, pointing at a kitchen table with four padded chairs.

He took the chair opposite me, looked me over, nodded his head. Said, 'So?'

'I got a case,' I told him. 'There's this guy doing time. A sex killer. There's this cop hired me to look into it, claims he's innocent. I went to see the guy's lawyer, the one he got for the appeal. Raymond Fortunato. This Fortunato, he asks me, would I maybe like a favor done? I tell him No. So he pays me the money that was promised…for this case. To look into it, all right? Then he says Julio always spoke well of me. I say, I haven't seen him in a long time. Then Fortunato says, Julio's dead. I ask him: When? How?…like that. He tells me, says they know who did it. The way he looked at me, I couldn't tell if he was selling wolf tickets or what. So I thought I'd ask you.'

'You ain't afraid of Raymond fucking Fortunato,' Big Peter said. A flat statement, not a question.

'I'm afraid of you,' I told him, just as flat.

'I would never hurt you,' he said. 'I would never let anyone hurt you. I would never forget what you did. For me, Too late for my grandson,' he said quietly, one knuckle to his eye like he was expecting a tear. 'I shoulda listened to you first. I wanted to trust…and I got my grandson dead.'

'He was gone from the moment they took him,' I said. 'He was a smart kid, would've ID'ed them in a minute.'

'Yeah…' The old man stayed quiet for a minute. Forgiving himself, tricking me…no way to tell. Finally, he looked up. 'You're not afraid of me either,' he said. 'That was true, you wouldn't come here. Unless you was wearing a wire.'

I stood up, started to unbutton my shirt.

'Sit the fuck down, okay? I was just jerking your chain. You want something from me, there's something I can do for you, just ask.'

I looked down at my cigarette, at the long ash, realized I hadn't dragged on it at all. I snubbed it out in the glass ashtray, deciding. I could hear my heart— I slowed it down, took a deep breath, and plunged in. 'There's a cop, brought a case to me. It's a woman, a lady cop. I met her a while ago, when I was doing something else. She never told me she was a cop— I found out by accident. She's been calling me ever since. I never returned the calls. Then she turned up the pressure. Came to…a place where I hang out sometimes. Something else…She got a hooker to offer me a job. A homicide job. I turned it down, but…it's starting to look like a box.'

'So walk away,' he said. 'What's the problem?'

'There's another cop,' I went on like I hadn't heard him. 'He's been on my case forever. We had some dealings— he didn't like the way they turned out. Now he thinks I'm connected to a bunch of murders— I don't know why. He's been around, watching. Turns out he was one of the investigators on one of the rape–murders this guy— the guy the lady cop says is innocent— is doing time for. It's all too coincidental for me to buy it. Fortunato, he's all mobbed up, right? Julio's gone, sure…but the family's still in business. I thought you might…'

'What? Call off the dogs?'

'If that's what it is.'

'That's not what it is. Fortunato's a worm. The family may know something about how Julio got done, but not a one of them cares. You know better than that. Why would they care? For honor?' he sneered.

'I don't know,' I told him. 'But why would a mob mouthpiece like Fortunato take this kind of case?'

'Don't make a big thing out of it,' he said. 'It's all about this'— rubbing his thumb against the first two fingers of his right hand, a money gesture. 'There's really only two families now. One deals with drugs, the other does the unions, gambling, puts money on the street— all the old stuff. Fortunato, he's nothing— a dealer, not a lawyer. If they didn't fix the juries for him, he's nothing. And he knows it, see? This is all about greed, that's all. But if you want, I could have somebody talk to him…'

'I don't know…'

'Don't get cute, he said. 'I'm not going to talk you into it. You want it done, it's done. If not, no. Capisce?'

'Yeah.'

'And…?'

'Do it,' I told him, 'And thank you.'

The next morning, I shaved extra carefully before I put on my lawyer outfit. What I needed was a look at the court file they'd have on Piersall. Not the criminal file— Fortunato would already have all of that for the appeal— what I wanted was over at the Surrogate's Court. A look at that trust fund.

They kept me waiting almost forty–five minutes before I got into the office. Not the judge's chambers, the office they gave his law secretary. 'Law secretary' isn't what it sounds like— they're all lawyers themselves, and they don't do any typing or filing. What they do depends on the judge, whatever the judge wants. And they get their jobs the same way the judges do— the right person taps them on the shoulder and they're made. Kind of like the Mafia would be if the feds made them swallow Affirmative Action.

This one was a skinny guy with a prominent Adam's apple, hair cut real short. He was wearing a white button–down shirt and black suspenders, sleeves rolled up like he'd been hard at work for hours.

Sure.

'My name is Rodriguez, sir,' I introduced myself. He looked up impatiently, not offering to shake hands. 'This concerns a client,' I continued. 'George Piersall. What we need is some information regarding Mr. Piersall's trust fund…I understand it came about as a result of a bequest. I wonder if it would be possible to look through the