Footsteps of the Hawk

behind, followed him to the Highway.

He made the right turn ahead of me. I cranked the wheel hard into the service road and pulled ahead. I took a quick glance at the red Stealth— it sported blackout windows and I couldn't see inside. I felt it somewhere to my left but, after a while, I couldn't even pick it up in my left–side mirror.

The Highway forked just before the Meat Market. I stayed right, heading for the whore stroll on Tenth Avenue. A working girl was having trouble leaving her pimp— and she'd gotten word out to me. I promised the broker who gave me the word that I'd listen to the offer, make my decision after I'd heard the pitch.

I was motoring sedately along Tenth Avenue when the idiot in the red Stealth shot across my bow at Eighteenth Street, sliding so I'd have to hit him or stop. I floored the brakes— crazy bastard. I was checking the rearview mirror to see if there was room to back away when I heard a car door slam. A man with the build of a fire hydrant was walking toward my car. Walking fast. I recognized him. Morales, the no–neck thug who partnered with McGowan for NYPD.

Damn.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, put on a 'What the hell's this all about?' expression. Morales stepped right into my face, showing teeth. It wasn't a smile.

'I fucking thought that was you,' he snarled.

'What's the beef?' I asked him.

'Oh, let me see. Burke, right? What could the beef be? Parking tickets? Drunk driving? No…how about fucking homicide, that more up your alley?'

'We already did this once,' I reminded him, keeping my voice soft. It's a tightrope dance with Morales. He's a pit bull in human form— you show him fear and you're done. But if you challenge him, that just lights his fuse. With Morales, the only safe place is away.

Traffic flowed past. The drivers didn't rubberneck us— it takes more than a couple of men talking in the street to get attention around here.

'I never mind going another round,' Morales said. 'You wouldn't happen to know anything about this house up in the Bronx, would you? A house with all kinds of dead bodies in it. Kid's body too. A little kid. You know anything about that, Burke?'

'No. Was it in the papers?'

'Yeah, motherfucker, it was in the papers. All over the papers, a couple a years back. Remember now?'

'It doesn't ring a bell,' I told him, keeping my eyes away from his. Morales wouldn't take that as a sign of guilt: his eyes are little black ball bearings— nobody ever looks into them long.

'Let me help you with that,' Morales said. 'There was a bunch of baby–raping freaks, some kind of cult, making torture films. They fucked up a little kid, fucked him up real bad. And you know what this little kid did, Burke? He fucking killed a baby. Killed him, okay? Canceled his ticket, took his fucking life, all right? A little tiny baby…So we're talking to the DA's office. City–Wide Special Victims. Woman named Wolfe, maybe you heard of her?'

I kept my eyes on the middle distance between us, staying out of focus, not saying a word. Morales was hitting too close to home, and he'd never be cool enough to just leave it there.

'No, huh?' he sneered. 'I guess fucking not. Anyway, we put it together. Put it together slow, see? Like we're gonna make a case, prosecute the miserable slime. But they disappear, just fucking vanish, okay? Now, they're around, way we understand it. Somewhere close. Turns out they were holed up in the South Bronx. In one of those rehabbed joints, right next to a burn–out. So we're ready to roll, just waiting on the warrants and all. And you know what happens then, Burke?'

I stayed in the middle distance, feeling him talk more than hearing, his gut–bucket voice climbing an octave as it got tighter and tighter.

'Yeah,' he said. 'You know. Somebody went into that house before we did. Blew the fucking front door right off. Couple of people at least, too much for one man. Maybe a whole fucking team, not that it matters. When they was done, it wasn't a house no more, it was a fucking crypt. Dead bodies. Nine dead bodies. A couple of splatter–jobs, probably with a sawed–off. One inside, one outside. The one outside had a long knife in her hand. The rest of them, all bullets. All nines, in fact. And, oh yeah, one had a broken neck. We found a whole video setup in the basement. Looked like they were gonna make themselves a snuff film…even had a little boy all tied up, ready to go. All kinds of that Satanic horseshit down there too. The two downstairs, they was heeled, cranked off a few rounds. Didn't do 'em no good though— they both bought the farm.'

'What's that got to do with— ?'

'With you, motherfucker? With you? That's your work. Ain't a working cop in this town don't know that. Ain't the first time you went psycho like that either. We got a list, motherfucker. And you're on it, big–time.'

'I don't know what— '

'You know what happens the next time you fall?' he asked, cutting me off. Like it was new information to me.

'Doesn't matter,' I told him. 'I'm not into anything.'

'You been inside twice,' Morales said. 'Felony beefs. Hell, armed felony beefs. Don't you read the papers, asshole? Three strikes, you're in. One more, and you do the book.'

I just nodded, like he knew the score. But he was off the mark— once you put ten years between your last prison sentence and your next conviction, they can't run them wild to habitch you into a down–forever, no parole never, life sentence.

'You wouldn't recognize things inside anymore. It's all changed, Burke. Face it, you're getting old.'

'You know what's getting old, Morales? This shit you're putting on me. What do you think, you're gonna clear every homicide in the city by rousting me?'

'This ain't no roust. You see a squad car anywhere? You see any backup? I'm undercover,' he said proudly, as though any fool couldn't make him for a cop at a hundred yards.

'What is it, then?'

Morales pulled the lapel of his jacket back just far enough for me to see the shoulder holster. 'Assume the position,' he growled.

I turned around, my back to him, hands on the trunk of my car. I felt his hands patting me down. When he got to the side pocket of my jacket he reached inside, took out what he found there. I knew what it was— a tiny box of wooden matches. A white box with a black bull's–eye on one side, an address and phone number on the other, with the name of the nightclub in black letters:

TARGETS.

I felt his hands putting the matchbox back, felt him continue all the way down to my ankles. When he stepped back, I turned around, eyes still not meeting his.

'How come you ain't saying nothing about Probable Cause?' he sneered.

'Doesn't matter,' I told him. 'I'm clean.'

'Clean? You'll never be clean, motherfucker. You know, I could understand a man doing a murder. Shit happens, right? Man gets up in your face, disrespects you, threatens you, tries to steal your money, fucks with your wife…anything. But a contract hitter, that's the scum of the planet.'

Maybe Morales was slicker than I thought. It's an old cop technique— telling you how much they understand some crime they think you committed, get you talking. A legacy from his old partner, but he didn't have McGowan's honey–Irish voice. On Morales, 'Have a nice day' sounds like a death threat.

But if he was playing that tune, he was in the wrong country. Down where I live, it's not the amateurs who lose their heads who get the respect, it's the ice–men: enforcers, torches, contract killers. I hadn't gone into that house of beasts alone. Max came down from the roof— that was the broken neck. And it was the Prof's scatter–gun that cut down the last of them, the woman with the long knife. The rest, that was me. But even a lunatic like Morales wouldn't believe I'd give up my own family to make a deal. I'd kill him first, right where he stood. But this wasn't the time…