Footsteps of the Hawk (21 page)

On the drive down, Hauser was uncharacteristically silent, not even rising to the bait when I tried to get him to speculate about Belinda.

I left the side window open, smoked in silence. We passed right by the Trenton exit, but it wasn't close enough to feel the heat.

We picked up the tickets the Prof had left at the door, found our seats just past the Golden Circle, where chumps get to sit at little tables and get called "sir" by the hostess the same way they do in the casinos.

Frankie was first on the card. I told Hauser I'd be right back, then I walked around to the locker room. Frankie was lying down on a table, face–up, a towel over his eyes. The Prof was talking a mile a minute. Clarence sat quietly on a bench.

"When he walks away, he's gotta pay, understand?" the Prof said. "Take what he gives you. He plays that way, break his back, Jack!"

"What's that all about?" I asked Clarence.

"This guy we are going to fight, he is very cute, mahn. He has this trick he used all the time in the amateurs. What he does, when it gets tough, he just turns his back and walks away….Then he
spins
and throws a right hand over his left shoulder. He has hurt many fighters with that move. My father, he wants our gladiator to
chase
him, stay very close, see?"

"Yeah. Frankie's in good shape? His mind is right?"

"His spirit is strong, mahn."

I walked out, leaving all three of them in the same positions as when I came in: Frankie lying back, the Prof whispering his incantations, Clarence watching. And watchful.

It was another forty minutes before they got it on. Frankie came into the ring first, wearing his black–and–white convict's stripes. He stood still, waiting, but I could see he'd already broken a good sweat. The Cuban's corner made Frankie wait, but they couldn't drag it out too long—Montez may have been undefeated, but he wasn't ranked—didn't even hold one of those cheesy belts they give out for showing up enough times in some states.

When he climbed through the ropes I could see he was much bigger than Frankie, looking even bigger in a white satin robe with glitter dust on the wide lapels. The announcer called out his weight at two twenty–nine, but he looked fifteen over that to me.

At the bell, Frankie came out faster than he had before, almost at a trot. He bounced into a crouch, came up firing with the right hand. Montez spun, catching it on the biceps. He stepped to the side, smoked a fast left jab a couple of times, then backed off. Frankie pursued, like he always did, but he was moving sharper now, more focused. He pinned the Cuban against the ropes, but the bigger man clinched and the ref took his time breaking them.

They got back together in the center of the ring, and Frankie went right back to work, throwing murderous hooks, his hips torquing every blow. Montez suddenly stopped, turned and just walked away….Frankie charged after him, throwing a long right that caught the Cuban in the back of his head. Montez put both hands on his head and tried walking away again—Frankie rammed a vicious shot to his liver, and Montez went down. Some of the spectators booed and hissed, but the ref started the count.

Montez never got up.

The ref raised Frankie's hand. Two of the Cuban's handlers jumped into the ring and started for Frankie….Frankie whirled to face them, a ghastly smile on his face. They stopped in their tracks.

"That's why it says Protect Yourself at All Times," the ref said to the Cuban's corner, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He turns his back, it's on him. There's no disqualification."

The crowd boiled a little bit, then simmered down.

"It's all right to do that? Hit someone in the back?" Hauser asked me.

"If they
turn
their back, sure. Otherwise, you could buy a breather anytime you wanted one…like calling a time–out."

"Okay," Hauser said, whatever sense of morality he had about the whole thing appeased. "I'm going to take off now—I'll get in touch with you in a couple of days. You know where to reach me if anything jumps."

"Same here," I said, signing off.

W
hen I went back to the lockers, Frankie was already in the showers. I didn't see the guy he KO'ed anywhere around. That was good—sometimes boxers don't want to leave the fight in the ring.

"We smoked the dope," the Prof crowed. "We downed the clown. We got one, maybe two more to do, then we
ride
, Clyde."

"He looked good," I acknowledged. "Seems like he's faster too. Or sharper, maybe."

"It's all
focus
,"the Prof confided. "Frankie's on the case, Ace. He's gonna play that tune straight to the moon, I can feel it."

"Me too," I said.

"What's wrong, schoolboy?"

"Who said—?"

"You don't need to
say
nothing, Burke—I can read your cards like they face–up."

I took a deep breath. Let it out. Spun it a couple of times in my mind. Then I said, "Here's what I know…so far," and told him the truth.

T
he ride back to the city was relaxed. Almost sweet with certainty, with triumphs assured. A future for Frankie…maybe one for us too. The Rover hummed through the night, Clarence at the wheel, the Prof riding shotgun. I was in the back with Frankie.

"I wish it would never be over," Frankie said.

"Tonight?" I asked him.

"Not
that
fight. I mean, not any particular fight. Just…fighting. I feel…right doing it. Like it's what I'm supposed to do."

"You can't fight forever," I told him. "You stay too long at the fair, you know what happens."

"Schoolboy's right," the Prof said, leaning over the back of the bucket seat. "This is about money, honey. We get the green, then we split the scene."

"I…guess so," the kid said. "I suppose I don't need to worry about it until the time comes, right?"

"Right," I assured him.

S
aturday morning, I got up early. It was still dark out when I loaded Pansy into the Plymouth, figuring I'd give her a chance to run around a bit. I had plenty of time stretching out ahead of me—I was happy enough to take Fortunato's money, Piersall's actually, I supposed—but I wasn't going to
do
anything for it.

"Walk away," Morales had told me, so crazy–wild with rage that I couldn't even ask him what he meant.

But when the Prof weighed in on the same side, I knew it was the right one. "Some mysteries don't need solving, schoolboy," he said. "If the price is too high, just roll on by—with that stone–crazy motherfucker Morales in it,
somebody's
gonna die."

That's the thing about dynamite—once you got it lit, you better throw it away…fast.

I drove in a gentle, leisurely loop, checking the mirrors for tags, not surprised to find them empty. I went east on Houston, then south on Forsyth. I spotted a glowing dot of red. Refocusing, I could make out a pair of young men on one of the stoops. Very alert young men, sending off a signal as clear as a neon street sign flashing in the night—Keep Moving.

I drove the length of Allen Street. A hooker in black hot pants and yellow spike heels stepped off the curve, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and shot a hip at me in a halfhearted attempt to make one more score before it got daylight. At least a half–dozen working girls had been taken off that same block. Got into cars, got dropped off in the river. Streetside hooking, it's like playing roulette, with only the double zero paying off—the reason you don't see too many old hookers isn't because they lose their looks.

An old Chinese woman crossed in front of us at a light, a long pole across her shoulders with a bag suspended from each end. Like the yoke her ancestors had probably used in the fields—only this one helped her carry two giant clear plastic bags full of abandoned bottles. She was heading for the recycling center, where she could turn her harvest into cash.

I looked to my left. The cement railing next to me was topped with a line of wine bottles, carefully arranged like a menorah with the sacred Night Train as the center candle. The old woman passed them by without a glance—those bottles weren't any more recyclable than the losers who left them there.

Central Park had more room, but there had just been another bunch of rapes there. At that hour, it would be lousy with cops. Or should be, anyway. Besides, Pansy was a perimeter dog—she never ran far, even off the leash.

I took a left on Delancey, then cut left again on Chrystie, heading for this vacant lot next to the Manhattan Bridge. It used to be a hobo jungle, home to the homeless. A pair of activists had even pitched a big tepee there and lived in it—walking the walk, you had to give them that. But then some low–level drug dealer thought he'd been burned by one of the homeless guys. He came back at night with a few gallons of gas, did some burning of his own. One of the residents died. The city tore everything down, then bulldozed it. The evacuation was peaceful—the only way the cops would shoot to kill would be if the homeless occupied the stadium where they held the U.S. Open—sacred ground to our last pitiful excuse for a mayor. We got a new mayor now. The city's the same.

I parked on Chrystie and climbed out. Ahead was a stop sign. The only way you could turn was right—to the left was a one–way discharge road for traffic exiting the Manhattan Bridge. A good spot—perfect sight–lines in all directions. I snapped the lead on Pansy's collar and crossed Canal Street to the vacant lot. Pansy's huge head whipped back and forth, a low rumble came from somewhere inside of her.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked her.

She just growled some more. Looking down, I could see the fur standing up at the back of her neck. I swept the street with my eyes. It wasn't empty—it never is—but there wasn't anything spooky around.

Once we got across the street, I unsnapped Pansy's lead. She loped away from me, moving in wide figure–eight loops, checking out the territory. Legend has it that Neapolitan mastiffs came over the Alps with Hannibal—if they were all as clumsy as Pansy, I'm surprised they didn't flatten the mountains. She crashed through piles of litter with abandon, occasionally scaring up a rat. She wasn't fast enough to catch one, and none of them were stupid enough to hang around, so every bout ended in a draw.

I leaned against what was left of a metal railing, lit a smoke, watching the morning light break over the top of the tenements to the east. Pansy appeared and disappeared over and over again in the shadows, her dark–gray coat blending perfectly. I heard the motorcycle before I saw it, the unmistakable sound of a Harley backing off through its pipes. The rider didn't even slow at the stop sign, just downshifted and turned left, going against one–way traffic, heading right for me. The driver's head was covered with a dark helmet and full face shield, but I knew who it was.

Morales pulled up to the curb. Sat on his bike watching me through the face shield for a long minute before he turned off the engine. He climbed off the bike slowly, pulled the helmet off his head with both hands. He kept those hands empty as he closed the ground between us, moving with the confidence of a man who could handle anything he was likely to run across. Which told me one thing for sure—he hadn't seen Pansy.

But I had. The big dog started to amble over to me. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay"—she stopped dead in her tracks, rooted and alert.

I turned to face him, keeping my hands well away from my body. He came closer, pulling down the front zipper of his leather jacket, taking his time.

"What?" I asked, opening my hands wide in the sign language for that question.

He halted a few feet away from me, grabbed his left wrist with his right hand, spread his legs wide to brace himself. "You're slicker than I thought," he said, his voice strangely calm.

So are you
, I thought—tailing me on a motorcycle was smarter than I gave him credit for. "I can't keep doing this," I told him aloud. "Guessing what you're talking about every time."

"That's okay, punk," he said. "I'll do the math for you. I can't be in two places at once, you already figured that out for yourself. And you know I'm working solo too, right? You're a slippery sonofabitch, I'll give you that. You know I'm on you, so you use me for an alibi. I had the roles reversed—I guess you knew that too. I thought you were doing the work. Now I know better."

"You don't know
anything
better, Morales. Why don't you just lay it out, give me a chance to set you straight?"

"I'm already straight," he said, still relaxed. "It took me a while to put it together, but now I got it. And I'm gonna leave you on the street until I finish it. Leave you out here, dangling in the wind. Either you're running this whole thing or else you're just a tool. Don't matter to me—anytime I want, you're going down."

"You're out of control," I told him. "I don't know what you got your nose open about, but it isn't me. I'm not in it."

"It's gonna be real easy," he said. "Anytime I want. Just find you alone—like now. You wouldn't be the first ex–con who resisted arrest."

I made a waving motion with my right hand. Pansy broke out of the shadows and started walking toward me, rolling her shoulders, moving with more confidence than Morales could ever put out, a "You talking to
me
?" expression on her face. Morales' head spun on his thick neck. "What the—!"

Pansy kept coming, padding forward noiselessly. Not playing anymore—working. I pointed to my left, keeping my hand stiff. Pansy hit the spot, turned to face Morales.

"You better keep him back," Morales said, his right hand flickering against the zipper to his leather jacket.

"She," I told him. "Pansy's a girl."

"Pansy? Looks like you and the dog got your names switched. You sure her real name ain't Burke?" Morales sneered. Not giving ground, playing by jailhouse rules—you turn your back, you get stabbed. Or fucked.

"She's
my
girl," I said. "You see how it is. Don't do anything stupid."

"You better back her off," he warned. "She'd never make it…"

I stepped to my right, putting more distance between me and Pansy, widening the triangle, letting him see the truth. "I'm gonna say something to her," I told Morales. "Don't listen to the word—it don't mean what you think. She's gonna lie down, understand? Just relax…"