'What's that got to do with me?' I said.
'Look, pal, don't waste my time. I know you had something going with McGowan. He was a stone sucker for kids. So he let you slide a few times. Tell me you don't remember that massage parlor just off the Deuce. Tell me you didn't scam me and McGowan so you could total that karate freak. You think I forgot how you Pearl Harbored us that time? Well, you need to know this, punk— McGowan pulled the pin. Retired, understand? Moved down to motherfucking Florida so he could go fishing all the goddamned time. You ain't got a friend on the force anymore, Burke. Too bad too— from where I sit, you could use one.'
'You volunteering?' I asked him, meeting his eyes for the first time.
'I'd suck every cock on an AIDS ward first,' he snarled, subtle as ever.
As I pulled away in my Plymouth, I glimpsed Morales in my side mirror. Writing something on a pad.
I hadn't forgotten that massage parlor either. Morales never forgave me for that one. Not for the killing— he would have done that one himself, on the house— he just never forgave me for the double–cross. He's been on me ever since, laser–sighted on my heart, just waiting for a clear shot. I knew he was around, but I didn't know he was that close.
I didn't spot the red Stealth again. But I did spot Roxanne, on Eleventh Avenue near Thirty–ninth, standing with a pair of other hookers— one black with a red wig, the other white, sporting a Dolly Parton blond job. As I cruised up, Roxanne waved, bending forward at the waist, licking her lips. It looked about as sexy as a cow chewing its cud.
I slid the Plymouth to the curb, hit the power–window switch for the passenger side. She leaned into the open window, said, 'You looking for a date, honey?'
'Mojo Mary said you wanted to talk to me,' I answered.
'You're…'
'Yeah.'
She opened the door, climbed inside. A white girl, maybe twenty–two, already sagging from The Life. The combination of cheap overdose perfume, body powder, and stale sweat was overpowering. I turned the AC up a notch as I pulled away. Noticed the blonde standing hip–shot, watching over her shoulder.
'Where do you— ?' I asked her.
'There's a parking lot on Thirty–seventh,' she said. 'Just pull in near the corner. The guy lets us use it.'
I found the spot, backed in so the nose of my Plymouth was facing out. Roxanne curled up on the front seat. 'This way, if anybody's watching, they'll think it's a head job,' she said.
'Okay,' I told her, impatient with all this. 'What's the deal?'
'What did Mojo Mary tell you?'
'Girl, you think I'm gonna sit here and play games with you? Your time is money, right? So's mine.'
'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I told Mary that I was having trouble with my man, okay? I know you…do that kind of thing. So I figured, I could get to meet you that way, like with her introducing us.'
'Okay, it worked. Now tell me the rest.'
'My man, he's into all kinds of stuff. Powder, mostly. He works me hard, and he treats me hard too.'
'So?'
'So he's in jail now. For a little while, then he'll be out. I got to make my move. Now, while he's still inside.'
'Talk straight,' I told her. This broad could have gangbanged every liar in Congress in the time it took her to get to the point.
'I heard you could get it done…inside. You got friends there. I want you to…take him out, okay?'
'No, it's not okay. I don't do that.'
'Listen to me,' she whispered harshly, her voice urgent, 'he does kids too. Little kids. And he gets money for it.
'You've got the wrong man, girl. The wrong man on both ends, it sounds like.'
'How much would you want? Up front? If I paid— '
'It's not me,' I told her. 'I don't know what you heard, but you heard wrong. And you damn sure didn't hear it from Mojo Mary either.'
'Look, it'd be easy. I know exactly where he— '
'Not now, not ever,' I told her, starting the engine. She was still gabbing away when I pulled over at the same spot where I picked her up. The same two hookers were there. As she walked over to join them, the one with the Dolly Parton wig put her arm around Roxanne's shoulders, pulling her close, and walked off with her. The way it looked, soon as Roxanne found someone man enough to snuff her pimp, her next one wouldn't be a man at all.
It wasn't my problem. I cranked the wheel over, headed back downtown.
It was only late afternoon, but already I felt tired— like I'd worked all night. I closed my eyes at a traffic light— I could always count on some impatient swine waking me up with a horn blast when it turned green.
I drove quietly, trying for smoothness, calming my center so I could think. A guy in a blue Camaro cut me off— I let him go, ignoring the middle finger he saluted me with. There's a lot of other things I could have done, but the Plymouth was a pro— nothing for fun, anything for money.
The Camaro almost T–boned a white Ford Taurus at the next intersection. The driver was
Pedestrians crossed against the light, right in front of me, just about begging to get hit, every one on full ready–to–lie alert…'I crossed on the green, officer. I had the Walk sign all the way. That maniac just swooped down on me. I never saw him coming.'
Down here, you show some politeness, they think you're intimidated. Down here, mercy is rarer than honesty.
New York may be a woman, the way some writers say. If she is, she's a low–class evil bitch. She wouldn't care if you killed yourself. Probably giggle at it. And sell the suicide note to the newspapers.
I hate it all so much— more now than ever.
Pansy was waiting for me, ice–water eyes watchful in her massive skull. She's a Neapolitan mastiff: a hundred and forty pounds of brick–brained muscle in her salad days, the beast was probably pushing one seventy by now.
'Glad to see me, girl?' I asked her. Pansy was probably the only living female on this planet who would answer me the same way every time— her tail wagged out of control as she made happy sounds deep in her throat. I walked over to the tiny refrigerator and took out a quarter–pound of raw hamburger. I patted the hamburger into a round ball. Pansy watched me steadily, drooling quarts but not moving. I finally said 'Speak!' and tossed it in her direction. She snapped it out of the air with the immaculate precision of a striking cobra. It was gone in one gulp, and she looked at me pleadingly. 'You've had enough, you fat pig,' I told her.
If her feelings were hurt, she didn't show it, padding over to the back door and knocking against it with a raised paw. I once thought about installing a dog door so she could go in and out herself whenever she wanted, but when I measured how big a cut it would take I realized there wouldn't be anything left but the frame.
I opened the door and she worked her way up the fire escape to the roof, where she'd dump another load. I don't go up there much— the smell would gag a mortician.
When Pansy came back down, I made myself something to eat from one of the takeout cartons from Mama's restaurant, heating the concoction up on my hot plate. I spooned it down, mixing swallows with some ice water from the refrigerator. What I didn't finish, I dumped into Pansy's bowl, right on top of the dry dog food she can get for herself anytime she wants by pushing a lever with her snout. I don't use plates much— everything has to be washed in the bathroom sink. Anything Pansy won't eat, I just throw into a thirty–gallon plastic bag. When that gets near full, I wrap it up, take it downstairs. First Dumpster I pass, in it goes. I keep the place squeaky–clean, like I did my cell when I was inside— you let New York roaches establish a beachhead, it's the beginning of the end.
I walked around the office for a few minutes until I realized I was pacing. I'd taught myself not to do that— it makes you tense, exaggerates the limits of your surroundings. That's what you are in jail, surrounded. And it's not the locks and bars that make you feel so hemmed in, it's the lack of choices. It basically comes down to two in
