Footsteps of the Hawk

'Just little games. A slap in the face, grab her by the shoulders, hold her hands down while we did it. That's all.'

'Somebody spotted you leaving…the night she was killed?' Hauser asked.

'Yeah. I'm not denying that. But even the autopsy report said she could of been murdered anytime— from just before I left to almost twenty–four hours later.'

'Any possibility she was married? Or had a jealous boyfriend?' I asked him.

'Who knows?' He shrugged. 'A girl like that, picking up guys in bars— it was probably just a matter of time anyway.

'So you figure she asked for it?' Hauser put in, the faintest undertone to his voice.

Piersall caught the undertone. Recognized it and batted it back over the net in one smooth move. 'Not… that,' he said, 'God forbid,' ducking his head slightly, like a man trying for composure. 'I mean, she was asking for trouble, okay?' he said. 'Not to be killed. What I was trying to say, she was taking some risks, see?'

'So what it comes down to,' I said, 'is you didn't do it. That's no help. You got anything else?'

'No,' Piersall said, his face open and frank. 'I wish I did. What we have to do, we have to find the guy who did do it— that's my only hope.'

'We'll find him, George,' Belinda said, her voice calm and certain. 'I know, baby,' Piersall told her, reaching for her hand, squeezing it for a second. He leaned back in his chair, finally lit the cigarette he'd had in front of him since we started talking.

'This is too crowded,' I said, standing up. 'With all of us pumping questions at you, we're not gonna get anywhere.'

'I can— ' Belinda started to say.

'No, it's okay. You and J.P. run through it. I'll step out for a while. I got some paperwork to look over anyway.

'Good to have met you,' Piersall said, standing up to shake hands.

'Likewise,' I told him.

'Kamau Rhodes,' the loudspeaker barked. I walked over to the side room marked VISITORS.

'Got more than one client in here, huh, counselor?' a fat guard commented.

'It's a living,' I said.

I walked into a long, narrow room, sat down on a round stool bolted to the floor, and looked into the murky Plexiglas, its surface smudged beyond redemption by generations of handprints— the only way to say hello or goodbye in that room, hands touching each other's through the barrier. I picked up the phone on my side of the barrier. Across from me was the muscular black man who'd been in the Contact Visit Room. We stared at each other for a long minute.

'Dragon,' I said.

'Burke,' he replied.

A long minute passed.

'I got your kite,' he finally said. 'Was that him?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'What's the word?'

'He's in PC,' the black man said. 'Been there for almost a week.'

'He selling tickets?'

'No.'

'Turn rat?'

'No. It wasn't like that. He's not pussy either— it wasn't a voluntary.'

'Tell me.'

'Somebody tried to take him out. A hammer job, with a shank for backup. His luck was running good— four cops were just rolling down the corridor— routine surprise shakedown— they saw it happening. All your guy got was a knot on his head.'

'They pop anyone for it?'

'No. They were pros— hoods and gloves, long sleeves. Half a dozen other guys got between them and the cops— they got clean away.'

'So why'd they lock Piersall up? Was it a race thing?'

'No. And it wasn't about a debt or a diss— it was a stone–cold paid–for hit. Word is, the RB was on the job.'

RB. The Real Brotherhood. A white warrior gang with branches in max joints all over the country. Like the black and Latino gangs, all race did was get you in the door— what kept you there was performance. Some of them would stab you for stepping onto the wrong part of the yard, but most of them were businessmen— it would take something important to get them homicidal. Something like the prison drug concession, or a piece of the sports book. They also did debt collection and contract–kill work— inside the walls, there isn't much difference.

The RB is small, so it has to play very hard to get respect. It only takes a few seconds to kill a man, but a reputation is forever. If they took money to drop Piersall, they'd get it done, no matter how long it took.

I knew them. Some of them, anyway. If the prison administration doped it out the same way Kamau was telling me, they'd keep–lock Piersall until he was discharged.

'You got anything else?' I asked him.

'He don't mix much. Kind of standoffish. He don't play an attitude, but he don't back down either. He's short, anyway, from what I hear.'

'Short here,' I told him. 'A full–book detainer's waiting on him, though.'

'Oh. He don't act much like that. Walks soft— like he don't want to blow his go–home.'

'Okay. You sure he wasn't messing with the RB?'

'Dead sure. That happens, they leave word all over the blocks…so when they take him out it's a message. Wasn't nothing like that this time. He was just strolling the block when they jumped him.'

'He's got money on the books,' I said. 'Can't you still buy— ?'

'Not from the RB,' he said. 'There ain't enough money in here to bodyguard a man on their hit parade. There's no win— they'd never forget. Your man's gotta stay in lock–down until his hearing. If the RB's got a contract out on him, he can't walk the yard anyway. I don't like his chances, even in PC. You know how that works.'

I did. 'Protective Custody' is a joke— a little plastic squeeze–bottle full of cleaning fluid, a match…and nobody hears the screams. He still had to eat, too. And they let them out an hour a day for exercise. All of them at once.

'Thanks,' I said. 'Anything I can do for you?'

'Tell the Prof I send my respects,' the black man said.

Back outside, in the waiting room, I left a hundred dollars on the books for Dragon. The guard gave me a look. I gave him one back— anything else would have made him suspicious.

In another few minutes, Hauser ambled out. He spotted me, sat down on the bench.

'I think— '

'How'd you get Press plates on that truck?' I interrupted, not wanting him to do any talking there. 'I thought they never gave them out to freelancers.'

'I'm a reporter, just like anyone else,' Hauser replied, his jaw set. 'That stuff is blatant discrimination. Took me a few appeals, but they finally gave it up.'

'Right on,' I said.

He searched my face for sarcasm, didn't find any. Said 'Yeah!' under his breath, still pumped from the memory of that battle.

It was another half–hour or so before Belinda came out, her face tight and determined. I caught her eye. She came over to us. We all walked out together.

Everyone was silent with their own thoughts until we got back on the Turnpike. Belinda took off her seat belt, shifted her body so she was facing sideways. 'Did you understand what George was saying?' she asked, directing the question at Hauser, turning just enough so she was including me in the answer.