Footsteps of the Hawk

I looked up, saw we were on Sixth Avenue in the Thirties. 'Thirty–fourth's okay,' I told him. 'I'll get you tomorrow, fill you in. It's coming down now. Real soon.'

'Soon's we know, we'll show,' the Prof said.

The car pulled to the curb. I opened the door, stepped out, leaned back inside. 'Thanks again, Frankie,' I said to the kid.

'I'm with you,' he said in reply. Saying it the right way—after he'd come through, not before.

I returned the cab, then made it back to my place on foot. Stopped to make a phone call, lined up reservations for tomorrow.

I caught an early flight to Syracuse out of La Guardia the next morning. I paid for the flight with the American Express Gold. Juan Rodriguez doesn't have credit cards, but Arnold Haines does. Pays every bill right on time, too. Arnold's a better citizen than I could ever hope to be, and he's got one big advantage over Juan— he can visit an RB soldier in prison without raising any eyebrows.

I rented a plain tan Ford Crown Vic at the airport and started the drive to Auburn, a max joint in the middle of the state.

They let me inside without a glance— Arnold's been on the Approved Visitors List for quite a while.

The Visiting Room was on the open plan. It was half–full. About as much as you would expect— Auburn's a hell of a distance from the city, where most of the convicts came from.

They brought him down quick enough. Silver looked good, healthier and sharper than when I'd last seen him. He was used to jailing, and he never jailed alone— most of the RB's membership is doing time in one joint or the other.

'How's Helene?' I asked, shaking his hand.

'She's good. And she's close by. Thanks to you, brother,' he said, still gripping my hand.

'You need anything?'

'A few magazine subscriptions maybe. I could pass them around to the guys when I was done with them. A library, like.'

'You got it.'

'I appreciate you coming,' Silver said. 'But there's gotta be more for you to make the trip, right?'

'Right,' I said, leaning close to him, dropping naturally into the side–of–the–mouth style of convict–speak. 'I heard there was a contract out on a guy down in Jersey. Trenton State Prison. Guy's name is Piersall. George Piersall.'

'If it's Brotherhood business, I can't— '

'I'm not trying to call it off,' I said quietly. 'I'm in it, but not on his side, okay? The whole thing smells. Smells bad. If there's something out on this guy, I think it's a setup.'

'You want— ?'

'I don't want anything,' I told him. 'He's in PC now, this guy.'

'That won't— '

'I know. But if there's word out— if, I said— then you should know there's more players in the game. More than you know about.' This guy, he's also got an escape planned. That's gonna take juice. Inside juice. Which means somebody's gonna get left holding the bag, understand?'

'Yeah. If it's a contract, outside money, maybe we could wait. But if it's a Brotherhood thing…?'

'It's not,' I assured him.

'Piersall. What kinda name's that?' Silver asked, his eyes on mine.

'He's white,' I said. 'And, far as I know, he's not a player. He's got no crew. He's not into juggling. He wouldn't make a play on the sports book or the drug action. He's short, real short, but there's a New York detainer on–and–after. He's not going anyplace, but he wouldn't start something up down there just before they transfer him. What's the point?'

'So you want…what?'

'I want to know if somebody paid for a hit. And I want you guys to watch your backs if that's the case. Okay?'

Silver lit a cigarette from the pack I'd left on the table. 'Okay,' he said finally.

We spent a couple of hours catching up on old times. The time I did, the time he was doing.

I was back in the city by nightfall.

I stayed up late, watching some pro wrestling on the tube with Pansy. She wasn't into it like she usually was. Maybe the product was getting weak— if it couldn't entertain Pansy, I didn't have much hope for its future.

I watched with my eyes closed, one hand on Pansy's neck, my old girl and I, reassuring each other.

I knew something I hadn't told Belinda. Hadn't mentioned it to Silver either. If there was a pipeline out of Trenton, the RB was collecting the tolls. The last three to get out, they'd all been members. The federales took one of them down soon after— nailed him backing out of a bank in Nebraska with a pistol in his hand. They pumped so many steel–jacketed rounds into him they could have used a magnet to drag him to the coroner. The other two, they were still at large. It wasn't like the old days, when Rhodesia was the safe harbor. And the Stateside white–supremacist groups were lousy with FBI agents and semipro informers. I don't know where the other two had gone to, but they did get gone. It didn't look like they were dead— the thing about being an ex–con is that they only need to find a tiny piece of your body to make an ID.

If I set up an escape, I'd have to work with the Brotherhood. And if they had an open contract, I'd be handing Piersall over to the lions.

This whole thing was a black diamond solitaire: plenty of facets, but no light. Belinda, Piersall, and me. Three liars, lying.

And Morales…?

When I got up the next morning, it was past eleven. But that was okay— I finally had something I could do.

Sitting in Mama's restaurant, I went over it again with Max. He was down for the job, but he wanted to drive. I nixed that— I needed him for better things.

We took my Plymouth to the Bronx. I didn't care who knew where I was going for this part. But I checked the mirror anyway….

Nothing.

'You seen Clarence around?' I asked the black man with the fancy Jheri–curl at the gym's front desk.

'The West Indian dude? Dresses real nice?'

'That's him,' I said.

'He's in the back,' the black man said. 'With the little guy— the rhyming man.'

'Much obliged,' I said.

He stood up, not blocking my path, but coming close enough. 'You the heat?' he asked, his tone friendly.

'Sure. And this is my partner, Charlie Chan,' I said, nodding my head over at Max. The Mongol regarded the black man calmly, hands open at his sides.

'Yeah…okay,' the man said, standing aside.

I found them all in a side room off the main area, clustered around a new–looking big–screen TV with a VCR wired in. They were watching a fight tape— I couldn't tell which one. We stood there, watching. Then I recognized it— it was Frankie's first fight, the one with that guy Jenkins.

We took seats, watched in silence as the Prof ran the tape in slow–mo, rapping to Frankie. 'Okay, honeyboy, you see that? You see that overhand right? That move is chump from the jump, son. Telegraphing's bad enough, you sending him fucking Parcel Post!

'I see it,' Frankie said.

'Everybody saw it, fool!' the Prof snapped. 'You been gettin' by on toughness, kid. You keep climbing the line, tough ain't gonna be enough. Soon as you get out that cast, we gonna— '

'I could work with one hand,' the kid offered. 'On the heavy bag— '