Footsteps of the Hawk

'I gotta talk to you,' I told him. 'This thing…it's getting out of control.'

'Come on,' he said, gesturing to Frankie and Clarence to follow The Prof led the way outside to the loading dock. He and Frankie sat down, Clarence stood, not wanting to risk a blot on his outfit. I gave the Prof a look, sliding my eyes just slightly to the right, where Frankie was sitting.

'He's with us,' the Prof said, saying it all.

'I need some cover,' I told him. 'Tonight. In the Benson Street alley, behind the Family Court downtown. I'm supposed to meet her at midnight. And the wheels are coming off.'

'Coming off what, schoolboy?'

'Morales has been on me—dead on me— for a long time now. There was another killing, up in Westchester. Same night as the fight, but real late, after midnight. I didn't know about it— it didn't make the papers, not the early ones anyway. Morales moved on me Saturday morning. He said he was at Frankie's fight. Watching me, all right? He said I was gaming him— that he was my alibi for the killing.'

'He thinks you…?'

'Prof, I don't know what the fuck he thinks. First I thought he was accusing me of being in on it…like this Belinda was my partner or something. He warned me off…said everyone around would be going down.'

'Cop's doing you a favor?' Prof sneered. 'That's a natural–born lie.'

'Yeah, that's what I thought too. Except that…up in Westchester, the killer left the signature…the red ribbon inside the body. No way Piersall did it, so it had to be Belinda, right?'

'Or this guy Piersall, he's really innocent…' the Prof mused.

'Sure,' I said. 'He pulls some hooker out of a truck stop in Jersey, cuts her up for the sex–fun of it— few weeks later, he's rehabilitated? No way— it has to be Belinda. She's got something going with Piersall— Hauser saw it.'

'If you're sure, then— '

'But what if it was Morales?' I said, confusing myself even more than the Prof. 'What if he's skating? What if he wasn't down in Atlantic City at all? He could be setting me up to be his fucking alibi, right?'

'If that's true, he has to know about Frankie,' the Prof said. 'Unless he's got partners, he couldn't— '

'He's got no partners,' I said. 'I'm sure of it— he's out there by himself.'

The Prof regarded me steadily, his dark–brown eyes gentle on mine. 'This ain't us,' he said. 'I got no beef with an honest thief. You want to rob, it's just a job. You can steal, still be for real. But when you hurt folks for fun, it's time to run or gun, son.'

'I'm with you,' I said. 'And I'm all for running. But I'm not gonna do it blind. Whoever it is, they got their eyes on me. There's no sense in getting out of town. I'm safer here— more places to slip into. There's a big piece missing. I find it, I can get lost, understand?'

'Okay, we do it today,' the Prof said. 'Let's get rolling. You want Clarence to stay with— ?'

'No, I'm okay,' I said. 'That cab over there's mine— for a while, anyway. If you can do the other thing, cover me tonight— '

'You're covered, homeboy,' the Prof said, leaping lightly off the loading dock to the ground.

'I'm in too,' Frankie said.

'You don't know what this is about,' I told him.

'I know about taking a partner's back,' the kid said. 'I mean, I heard about it. I never saw it myself, not till you guys came along.' His eyes cut off the ring, holding me in place. 'I'm in,' he finished in a flat no–argument voice.

The Prof nodded. Frankie jumped to the ground. We stood together in the shadow of the building, not talking. It felt like the prison yard: standing around, huddling against the chill that was always there, even in the summertime. Gun towers somewhere above us, the real danger right there on the ground, surrounding us even tighter than the filthy stone walls.

I cupped my hands to light a cigarette, using the few seconds to scan, an old prison–yard habit. The match flickered bright red in my hands. A different flash in the corner of my eyes, silver. What the…'Down!' I yelled, driving my shoulder into Frankie's chest, taking him down with me. His body spun just as I hit him, a split–second before I heard the shot. I stayed on him, trying to flatten against the ground. Chips flew from the brick wall over our head. A quick burst of shots rang out, so close they blocked my eardrums. Clarence, lying prone, his pistol held between two hands braced on his elbows. Sounds of a car peeling out.

Then it was quiet.

'High on the shoulder,' the Prof said, kneeling over Frankie. 'In and out,' he said, pointing to Frankie's leather jacket.

'I'm…okay,' Frankie said, biting into his lower lip.

'You see them?' I asked Clarence.

'No, mahn. Just the car. A dark car. Sedan. I may have hit it— I don't know.'

'Let's get him to the hospital,' I said. 'Quick, before the cops come.'

'In this neighborhood?' the Prof sneered. 'Don't worry about it. We'll get him over to Lincoln, tell the Man it was a drive–by. Kids in a Jeep, random fire— you know how it goes. Get in the wind: we'll be there tonight.'

Nobody had said anything, but we all knew— Frankie wasn't the target. Somebody out there had me in their sights— somebody way past threats. Whoever it was, they knew about Frankie. Knew about the gym. Maybe knew about Atlantic City.

Homicide fixes things. I used to believe in it, like a religion. But when you deliver a murder, it always comes wrapped in razor–wire— you handle it wrong and it cuts deep. And any mistake you make is the only one you get.

Guns are too easy. They make it too easy. Squeeze a trigger, take a life.

Even if I could make myself do it, I'd be guessing. It could be Belinda. It could be Morales.

And if I guessed wrong, I'd be dead twice.

There's a special curse reserved for Children of the Secret. We decide to survive, to pay whatever that costs. Some of us turn dangerous, but that's not the real curse. The real curse is friendly fire— when your hate turns your aim wild and you cut down anyone who tries to be on your side.

I never thought I'd do that. I would rather die than hurt anyone in my family— my true family. A family of truth, not of biology.

I never had a parent until the State took me. And what they did to me, I will never forgive. If the State was a person, I would have killed it a long time ago. Killed it or died trying, I have that much hate in me.

Sometimes it spills over. I don't feel anything about those killings in the Bronx years ago. I don't feel anything about going into that house. I don't pretend anymore— I don't pretend I went in there to save a kid. I went in there for me, focusing my hate down so narrow it lasered right through the darkness. When I was done, a dead kid was in the pile of bodies I'd made.

Ever since, I've been trying to blame the State for that too. But I knew better. And maybe Morales did too.

About eleven that night, I was still thinking about it. I have guns. Cold guns, impossible to back–track to the source. Fine guns, in perfect working condition. And I know where to get more, That used to be a feat in this city, but any punk can get one now— it's a fashion accessory, part of the Look.

Don't get me wrong. New York has gun–control laws. Real tight ones too. You want to carry a pistol, you have to have a damn good reason— like being a rent collector for a slumlord or needing something to show off at penthouse parties. If you work in a dangerous neighborhood, you can probably carry a piece legit. But if you live in one of those neighborhoods, that's too fucking bad, Jack.

Getting my hands on a gun was no problem. But I couldn't do it. Not out of guilt, out of fear. Afraid of what I might do…start fixing things with bullets. I had tried that. Tried real hard. But the only thing I could kill with guns was people.

And not the people who had hurt me so deep when I was a kid, only secondhand substitutes.

I took a long piece of razor–edged dull–gray plastic out of my desk drawer. One end was wrapped in friction