Footsteps of the Hawk

'My man didn't do this,' she said indignantly, touching her own face. 'It was that nasty cop— the one asking all those questions about Rhonda.'

'What kind of questions?' I asked, gentling my voice so I wouldn't spook her.

'Like…where did I meet her, did she live around here. Stupid questions— like I would know where she cribbed. I told him the truth— I never saw her before she showed up one day. He was scary. I was just standing around, you know, blase–blase, just taking a rest, okay? He like charges up, snatches me by the arm. I thought he was a crazy man, like I was being kidnapped or something, but one of the other girls, she knows him, she told him take it easy, okay? God, I thought he was gonna kill her, the way he looked. Anyway, he drags me by the arm into his car, right there on the street, and he starts asking me questions. I answered him straight. Every one. So he asks me again. The same questions. I was getting real scared, so I told him, you know, time is money. Then he just started to break on me. For nothing. He slapped me so hard I thought he knocked a tooth out. He's one of those guys who hates us, I can tell. You know, the kind who drive by just to curse at us. They never buy— they just like look at us. It's disgusting.'

'I'm sorry that happened,' I told her, signaling for Frankie to pull over. We were just north of Canal, with a big wide spot to pull over. Perfect. 'Here's where you get off,' I told her.

She stepped out of the Caddy. Once she got her feet on the ground, she remembered her trade. 'How am I gonna get back?' she demanded.

'Take a cab,' I told her just as Frankie tromped the gas pedal.

Roxanne wasn't the first person who tried to hire me for homicide. Most of the hit man stories are myths anyway. You want someone to knock off your wife so you can marry that nineteen–year–old secretary who spends more time working under your desk than on hers, your chances of finding a pro who'll take your money, take her life, and keep his mouth shut— that's about zero. You ask around in too many bars, the next guy you'll meet will most likely be an undercover cop.

During the boom times of the mid–to–late '80s, some of those yuppies actually bought the bullshit along with the stocks and bonds, convincing themselves that power ties and five–thousand–dollar wristwatches were amulets, protecting them against having to pay up when their notes were called. They used money like steroids, bulking up their egos to where they were easy marks. For people like me.

I remember one especially. Young guy, on the sweet side of thirty, tanned and toned, as smooth and cold and hollow as a ceramic vase.

'It happens,' he told me dismissively. 'I was margined to the max, and I couldn't make the call. So I got involved in this bust–out scheme. You know what I'm talking about?'

'Sure,' I told him. It was the truth. You buy a restaurant— just on paper, you're never going to actually run it. Then you use the joint's line of credit to buy everything: industrial refrigerators, china, cash registers. Even soft goods, like Kobe steaks from Japan and mega–lobsters from Maine. It's all on the come— cash in thirty days. Then you turn around and sell it. Sell it all— ata deep, deep discount, say 70 percent off. You take the cash and you walk. Run, sometimes.

'Yeah,' he said, not convinced but wanting something more important from me than just demonstrating his superiority. 'Anyway, one of the guys turned weak….He's been making noises about…going to the authorities. You understand my position?'

Better than you do, sucker. I thought, nodding my head in agreement.

'Yeah, well…I need some work done. And I was told you could…'

I nodded again, very somber, very reassuring. They never come right out and say it. They want you to ice a man or burn a man— means the same thing. Top him, drop him. Dust him, cap him, ace him or waste him. Blow him up, blow him away. Clock him or Glock him. Smoke him. Grease him. Chill him, plant him. Cancel his ticket, or punch it. Take him down, take him out, take him off the count. So many words— it's like they had an ad agency on the job full–time.

At ground zero, they say it straight— tell you to go out and do the motherfucker….

I told him I could handle it. Told him what I'd need up front. 'That's the way it's done,' I said. And the with–it twit went and got the money.

Got himself taken too— I didn't think he'd call a cop. I read about it a few weeks later. When the guy the yuppie was worried about went to the federales, he started a bear market in informing. The sucker I'd been dealing with was too late— by the time he was ready to turn, his information was selling at a deep discount, and all he really bought was some time inside.

Maybe he'll learn something inside besides how to improve his tennis game. I tried to think of a way I could have cared less, but I couldn't come up with one.

But those other people, they had really wanted the work done, This thing with Roxanne was bogus— it had mousetrap written all over it. There was no work to be done: they just wanted me on tape agreeing to do a murder— a handle to twist me with.

For what? To blackmail me into helping Piersall escape? That was crap— no matter what they had on tape, it wouldn't be enough to make a case. Most cops would just laugh at it.

But I couldn't see Morales laughing.

I thought about Mama's haiku. Footsteps of the hawk. There was truth in it, I knew. When the cops search a room, the one place they never look is up. They look under the beds, behind the doors, all that. But they never look up. They could find a roach on the ground, but they'd never find a spider on the ceiling.

Morales was a cop. All cop. Every chromosome a cop. He'd never look up.

But if he was the hawk, he wouldn't need to.

Late afternoon by the time I got over to Mama's place. White dragon in place, quiet. I came in through the back, thinking of how well Frankie stood up— how he dealt himself in on a bad hand— thinking, What kind of man does that?

I knew the answer when I walked into the restaurant, saw Mama and Max at a table. With Clarence and the Prof. And Frankie.

Frankie inside Mama's. With us— that was the Prof's vote. And I had too much respect for him to veto it, even if I wanted to.

I sat down at the one large round table in the place. The sauce–splattered old sign Mama always keeps on it— Reserved for Party of Eight— was gone. The table was never used unless we all needed to face each other at the same time. Didn't happen often.

If I needed any proof that Frankie had been dealt in, watching him work on a bowl of Mama's hot–and–sour soup closed the issue. Her soup was only for family— no exceptions.

'Is my boy an actor or what?' the Prof crowed.

'He was perfect,' I acknowledged. 'Good as De Niro.'

'Joe Pesci,' the Prof rasped.

'What?' I asked.

'Joe fucking Pesci,' the Prof said in his the–subject–is–closed voice. 'The best actor on this planet, bar none. He gets the call, he does it all. Man's so slick he could play a goddamned telephone booth and motherfuckers be putting quarters in his mouth.'

'I didn't know you were such a movie freak,' I said.

'I am a movie critic,' the Prof announced grandly.

'Yeah, okay, I stand corrected,' I told him. 'But you're right on this one— you weren't there, I was. And Frankie was smooth. He played his role like a champ.'

'I…like doing that,' Frankie said, looking up.

'Scamming?' I asked.

'No. Acting. I mean, I know that wasn't real acting…but I really liked it. Playing a part. Being something else…I don't know.'