Footsteps of the Hawk (27 page)

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.

L
ate 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."

"It's a mug's game," I told him. "It's all who you know, who you blow."

"Joe Pesci never kissed ass," the Prof announced, defending his man with vehemence.

"How the hell would
you
know?" I challenged.

"It's in his face, ace," the Prof said. "Kissing ass, it marks you, bro—easy to read as a true ho's greed."

"Yeah, sure…"

"Hey, schoolboy…you ever see
Casino
? How about
Goodfellas
? You ever see
My Cousin Vinnie
? You ever see
Raging Bull
?"

"I seen that one," Frankie put in. "De Niro, he was awesome. He…I dunno…he
feels
it, I guess."

"De Niro?" the Prof snorted. "He ain't no turkey, I'll give you that. The dude is strange, but he ain't got no range."

"De Niro could play anyone," I said. "He's a genius."

"Who could he play?" the Prof challenged. "A priest, a gangster, a crazy man? Sure. But he's always De Niro, see? No matter what, he's always himself. Joe Pesci, that's the real deal. Listen up, bro, my man Pesci, he gets to be whatever you see. He could be playing Malcolm fucking X if he wanted to."

"Yeah. Okay, you win," I surrendered. I looked around the table. "What's going on?"

"Investment," Mama said.

Max balled his fists, rolled his shoulders like a fighter coming in, shook his head No, tapped his left shoulder.

I nodded agreement, said, "Okay, Frankie can't fight for a while, right? What's to talk about?"

"We got an offer," the Prof said. "For Frankie's contract."

"From who?" I asked him.

"Rocco Ristone," the little man said. Saying it all with those two words. Ristone was a major player, just a cut below the big boys in the promotion racket and pushing them hard from behind.

"He came to you?" I asked.

"No, he came to Frankie. Tell him, kid."

"After the last fight, couple of days later, he came to the gym," Frankie said. "Asked me if I was under contract. I told him I was. Told him to who, when he asked. He asked me, what was I getting? I told him I got a hundred–grand signing bonus, all expenses, and the Prof cuts my purses one–third across."

"Damn," I said admiringly. "That's a whole
string
of lies."

"Ain't it, though?" The Prof smiled, extending his hand, palm up. I slapped it, but I wasn't satisfied.

"How'd you know how to play it?" I asked Frankie.

"From reading the papers. And the fight magazines. I figured, if he knew I was under a contract, he'd have to buy it out."

"You
want
to be bought out?" I asked quietly.

"No. I just thought I would put some protection on the Prof. On all you guys. Make them think there was real coin around."

"So what's to discuss?"

"Frankie," the Prof said. "We got Frankie to discuss. He stays with us, keeps knocking motherfuckers out, we maybe—
maybe
—get him a shot at one of them plastic belts in a couple of years. Maybe not. With us, you know he ain't never gonna get a
real
title bout unless he
loses
a few times, right? No way one of those punks is gonna have a
fight
when they can get millions just for showing up."

"With all respect, my father," Clarence said. "There are no guarantees, yes? Even if Frankie were to go with this Ristone man, he might not…"

"Well, we could still train him and all…" The Prof's voice trailed away as he caught the look on Frankie's face. It added up—no way Ristone was going to let us stay in the game if he bought us out.

I looked over at Max to see if he was following this. His face is a mask to most people, but I can read it. Max hears the same way a blind man sees. He was with it—staying inside himself, waiting.

"How much we got in this?" I asked the Prof.

"Well, you, me, Clarence, Max…and Mama now, we each put in five. We got those two dinky purses on the up side, got some expenses on the downs—call it a wash. I figure the whole dive cost about twenty–five."

"Frankie was sharp," I said. "He knew how to play it as good as if we schooled him ourselves. Most of these promoters, they take fifty percent, then stick the fighter with all the expenses off what's left. But Ristone, he thinks Frankie got himself a better deal, right? He gets his purses cut one–third, and got fronted a hundred grand, the way Frankie told it." I looked around the table at my family, hell–bound to do the right thing. About this, anyway.

"I say we cut the pie, and cut Frankie loose," I told them. "Ristone has to buy the contract back. Okay, there
is
no contract, but he can't know that. He pays us back our hundred grand, lets us keep five points—off the top, not off the bullshit 'net'—and takes it over. We split the loot, okay? Fifty–fifty on the hundred grand. That way, we each double our money, and Frankie scores fifty large right away. Then we get Davidson to represent the kid. We give him one point of our five points instead of cash. He'll go for it."

"Davidson's a righteous shyster," the Prof said. Meaning: he's a land shark, but for his clients, not for himself. For a lawyer, that's what you want.

"It plays perfect," I urged. "We score, Frankie scores…and Frankie stays in the hunt. What do you say?" I finished, looking around.

"One hundred percent on money, very fast. Very, very good," Mama responded, voting Yes.

Max nodded his head in assent.

"You will keep your colors, mahn?" Clarence asked. "I designed them myself, to honor our family."

"Forever," Frankie promised.

"When you get the belt, we all get some gelt," the Prof said, looking hard at Frankie. "Don't forget, boy…whatever you get to be, you learned all them moves from me."

Frankie had tears running down his face. He wasn't ashamed of them, played it like a man. "I love you guys," he said.

"Shut the fuck up, fool!" the Prof barked at him.

I
was the last one to leave the restaurant. I'd called Davidson from the phone in the back, ran it down to him. He was game to play, said he'd represent Frankie on the contract "and at any and all subsequent proceedings," talking the way he talks, more vocabulary than content. But
his
word was good—straight–arrow, dead–serious, stand–up, go–to–the–wall good. Frankie was covered.

I smoked in silence, alone in my booth in the back. Frankie had been my shot to go legit. My chance to make a living on the straight side of the law. I know all about stealing. All about stinging, scamming, swivel–hipping my way through a mine field. I have great ideas, but I can never figure out how to sell them. Like Phone Sex on Hold, that was my best. You know how they put you on hold when you call most companies…you have to sit there and listen to some disgusting Muzak crap, getting madder by the second? I bet, if you could listen to some heavy–breathing bimbo tell you how hot you were making her, you'd sit there patiently for days. The only problem I had was how to know what kind of sex the caller wanted. Maybe I could use that voice–mail thing: press 1 for heterosexual, press 2 for homosexual, press 3 for bondage, press 4 for foot fetishes…Ah, fuck it—it was like all my citizen–ideas—good for a laugh and not much else.

This wasn't the time, anyway. Something was coming down. Something too heavy for me to lift. I was finally hearing the footsteps of the hawk, and I didn't have the firepower to shoot it down. The only thing I could do was not be around when it landed.

"I
'm calling from a pay phone," the woman's voice said. "I don't have long. Do you know who this is?"

I knew, all right. Helene. Silver's wife. She'd left a message late last night, saying what time she'd be calling today. "Yes," I told her.

"He said it was a contract," Helene said, her voice as calm as if she were quoting stock prices. "But with the…new information, the contract is canceled until further notice."

"I got it," I told her.

"Canceled until further notice," Helene said. "That's what I had to tell you."

"Okay, thanks. Can I do—?"

"Goodbye," she said. I heard the receiver come down at her end.

H
unting humans has its own blood–rhythm, linking predator and prey so deep each can feel the other's pulse. I know—I've been both. That's the jackpot question you ask a little kid who says he's been sexually abused, the one question that brings out the truth—not what did they
do,
but how did it
feel?

I know how it feels.

When you're being stalked, it's not your feet that get you trapped, it's your mind.

I know that too.

It's a dance, a dance with rules. The rules don't kick in until you hear the footsteps. When that happens, when you're
in
it, you can feel the animal part of you trying to take over and call the shots. That's the right part of you, the part that can save you. Manhunting isn't a chess match—that only happens in books.

But you can't let survival instinct be the boss. When you're up on the high–wire, speed means nothing—balance is everything.

Fear is good. It sharpens your vision, keeps your blood up, forces all your sensors on full alert.

Terror is bad. It shuts you down, closes your eyes tight, freezes you in place.

If you break cover too soon, you're an easy target. But if you rely on your camouflage, you could end up frozen in the headlights.

The worst place to be is in the middle. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled. I wanted to go to ground, play my trump card—patience. But that wouldn't work now. Belinda and Morales were dancing to the death and I had only two choices: pick a partner and cut in…or stand away and be cut down.

A
little past five in the morning, the city still dark. Transition time: too late for the muggers, too early for the citizens.

"She's rolling, not strolling," the Prof's voice, on the cellular phone I held to my ear.

I cut the connection, slipped the phone into my army jacket, looked over at Max. The warrior was sitting in the passenger seat of the Chevy Caprice Arnold Haines had rented, breathing so shallow you had to look real close to see it, like a computer in wait–state. I settled back, waiting for the next piece.

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when the phone purred again. "Bitch just touched down, safe in the pound," the Prof reported.

"Mary, she lives there?"

"Yeah. Looks like she's home, but she's not alone."

"Little weasely guy, mustache?"

"That's him, Jim."

"Okay," I said. "We're moving."

"If she don't sing, give me a ring," the Prof said, promising backup. Then he gave me the address.

T
he building was off Third Avenue, mid–scale enough to sport a lobby, but no doorman. Maybe one of those co–ops that went all to hell, jacking up the maintenance costs to cover the empty units—first thing that goes in joints like that is the doorman.

We wanted 8–F. I looked at the name next to the bell: Johnson. Maybe that was Rudy the Weasel's sense of humor.

There's lots of ways to bypass a buzz–in system like they have in most apartment lobbies, but the easiest one is to just follow right behind someone who got the green light himself. Too early in the morning to wait for that to happen. Too early to run a UPS or FedEx hustle either. I was about to call it off, go back to the car and wait for a citizen, when Max pointed to the inner doors. I followed his gaze. A pair of heavy glass doors designed to open in the middle, pull–handles on each side. The glass was smudged, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. I made a "So what?" gesture. Max took a couple of steps to the doors, put one hand around each handle, and pulled. There was a lot of play in the doors, they bowed outward as Max pulled. I nodded my head, whipped out a flexible plastic strip and worked it into the opening. The 'loid slid in like it was greased, covering the slip–lock, forcing it back inside. The doors popped open.