Footsteps of the Hawk

'This is…what? Woman's intuition?' I smiled at her.

'This is truth. You do something because you like a woman, it is not wise.'

'I wouldn't— '

'You do it before,' she interrupted.

I didn't need Mama to remind me. I still hurt for Belle— for what happened to her. My fault, all of it. Mama wouldn't have used such a heavy hammer on me unless she was scared about something.

'Mama, I don't like this girl. That's the truth. I think I'm in a box, and I think she's part of it. There's no way I can hide from her. I have to go down the tunnel, look around for myself.'

'Take Max,' she suggested.

'Maybe. Maybe later. I have to see first, okay?'

Mama nodded her head, reluctantly agreeing.

When I checked in later, Mama told me I had a message from Belinda. 'That woman,' Mama called her. It wasn't much of a message— just an address in the Village and a time.

The address Belinda left was on Van Dam, a few blocks south of Houston, just off Sixth Avenue. Ten o'clock, she said. I left my car on Fifth, just north of Washington Square Park, figuring I'd walk the rest of the way.

When I was a kid, I used to come here a lot. By myself. There was always something to see: the chess hustlers on the permanent playing boards, folksingers trying out new stuff, pretty girls walking— gentle, safe stuff. I was so young then that I thought the sun had something to do with it— that all the bad stuff only happened after dark.

Or inside houses.

Even a kid wouldn't believe that anymore. The sun burned fresh–butter bright, but it didn't mellow the shirtless man wearing a heavy winter hat with flapping earmuffs, viciously arguing with a schizophrenic inner voice. And it didn't have any effect on the drug dealers and assorted lurkers. It didn't calm the nervous citizens looking over their shoulders.

An open–top, pus–yellow Suzuki Samurai slowly prowled past, a boom box on wheels, aggressively smashing its hyper–amped sound violence at hapless citizens in a scorched–earth assault. The latest city ugliness— the sonic drive–by.

A long–haired white man in a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled by, pushing one of those metal shopping carts they give you in supermarkets. The homeless love those carts— they pile all kinds of stuff in them and wheel them around the streets. The carts are stainless steel— they don't break easy and they never rust. They're real expensive too, and the supermarkets hate to lose them. In fact, they have a contract with a business that gets a flat rate for every one they recover.

The stroller wasn't homeless, he was a thief. There's a guy works out of a vacant lot off Houston on the East Side— he's got a standing offer to buy all the carts you can bring in.

On MacDougal, the precious–special shops looked depressed, pounded into near–submission by the sidewalk vendors. It was prime–time out there for cruising, but I didn't see many tourists. A man urinated against the side of a building. A woman sat on the curb, picking at her head, her blackened fingernails no match for the lice. Another boom–box Jeep rolled by, this one full of young men all decked out in brand–name gangstah–gear. Even the scavenging pigeons looked more degenerate than usual.

I stopped at a corner, right behind two guys on bicycles. They were pro messengers— you could tell by their gear. Not the Speedo pants or the fingerless gloves or the whistles on cords around their necks. Not even by the crash hats— open–weave padded leather fitted tight over their heads. No, what gave them away was the heavy combat chains wrapped around the base of the bicycle seats, always ready. One of them had his chain in his hands, talking urgently to the other.

'Motherfucker tried to door me, check it out! I laid it down, but when I come up swinging, pussy decides to bail!'

The other messenger high–fived his endorsement of biker self–defense as I stepped around them to move on. Three black youths approached, spread out in a fan across the sidewalk, blocking the way. One wore a T–shirt with 'Back The Fuck UP!' on the chest. Another had a picture of Mike Tyson silk–screened on it, with 'I'LL BE BACK!' below. I guess that was a political statement— Tyson gets convicted of raping a young girl and all of a sudden he's Emmett Till.

I gave way to them, stepping into the street, ignoring the sneering hiss one threw in my direction. When I was their age, I wouldn't have stepped aside. I was stupid then, and I paid what stupid people pay.

The sidewalk was clogged, but I wasn't in a hurry. I stopped at a bakery, bought myself a French bread, scooped out the inside and dropped it in an overflowing garbage can, and munched on the crust as I moved along.

On the next corner, a dressed–for–success woman was telling a tall man— her husband? boyfriend?— some miserable story.…I could see it in her stance.

'You know, you kind of expect this over in the East Village,' she said, pointing a finger at a decrepit gray–haired man huddled in a doorway, his pants down around his ankles, calmly dumping a load as people stepped out into the street to avoid him.

'I know,' the tall man commiserated. 'Just the other— '

'I hate them,' the woman interrupted. 'The fucking homeless. I can't help it. I really hate them for what they've done to this city. You can't even use an ATM machine in peace anymore— they're always there, standing around with their hands out, like a pack of filthy doormen.'

The dangerous ones, you won't see their hands, I thought to myself. I never considered sharing my professional knowledge with the woman— New York isn't that kind of place.

Once I crossed Houston into Little Italy, it got quieter. I wondered how long that would hold— in this city, there's no border invaders won't cross.

I found the place easy enough. The sign on the door said: RING BELL AND STEP BACK! I knew what that meant, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a second–floor window open and Belinda lean out. 'Catch!' she said, tossing down a thick wooden stick with a key attached by a loop of wire.

I used the key to let myself in, then climbed a set of metal stairs to the second floor. Belinda was standing in an open doorway, wearing a baggy T–shirt that fell to mid–thigh. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, reddish highlights dancing in the reflected sunbeams from the window. As I stepped past her to walk inside, she put her lips against my cheek, a butterfly kiss so soft I couldn't be sure it had landed at all.

The place was furnished totally in Now and Today— which, from looking around, I guessed meant Retro. The joint was loaded with reproductions of old junk— a red–and–white Coke machine reprogrammed for diet soda, a Wurlitzer jukebox that spins CDs instead of 45s, and a painting that gave me a headache. I walked over, took a closer look. It was about twice the size of an eight–by–ten, done on white Crescent board. Supposed to be the Seven Dwarfs, near as I could tell, slapped on in a crude, amateur style, all in primary colors, right out of the tube. In the lower right hand corner: POGO in small block letters. I looked over at Belinda.

'An original,' she said. 'Before they made him stop signing that way.'

I nodded, keeping my face expressionless— it wasn't the first time I'd seen Serial Killer Chic proudly displayed by moral midgets. The thrill–killers themselves have a rigid pecking order: if you want to qualify for celebrity status, if you want freakish disciples memorizing your trial transcripts like they were religious tracts, if you want erotic mail and money orders too, it's not enough to have slaughtered a bunch of people, there's other qualifications you have to meet. First, it really helps to have three names, like Westley Alan Dowd or Henry Lee Lucas. Then you need a high body–count— preferably in several states, so you can have serial trials to go with your serial killings. If you can lead the cops to some buried bodies, that's always good for a few more fans. But the most important thing is what John Wayne Gacy lacked— the secret ingredient that rocketed Ted Bundy to high–status serial killer even without a middle name. If you want to be at the top, you've got to kill females, the younger the better. Holding victims captive is a plus. So is torture. But it's all for nothing if you don't do it to females— male–victim snuff films always do lousy box office.

Belinda spread her arms wide, like a rancher showing how much land he had. 'This is a perfect place,' she said. 'All the other lofts are empty— the owner bought them out. He wants to convert the place to condos. This is the last one.'