Strega (13 page)

31

I
T WAS another few minutes until Immaculata came back. She had an armful of paper with her.

"Look at this," she told me, and sat down next to Max.

They were kids' drawings: stick figures, crude crayons—they didn't mean anything to me.

"So?" I asked.

"Look at them again, Burke. Look closely."

I lit a cigarette and went through them again. "How come the pictures of the kids have no arms?" I asked her.

"That's it. Now you see. The children have no arms. And see how small they are next to the big figures? Look at this one…"

It was a picture of a little child looking at a giant penis pointed at her face. The child had no arms—her mouth was a straight line.

"She's trapped," I said.

"Yes. She is without power, you understand? She is small, her abuser is huge. The penis is her whole world. She has no arms to fend it off. She has no legs to run. She's in a cage."

"How do you break her out?" I wanted to know.

Immaculata took a deep breath. "Some of them never do break out. We have to give them back a sense of control before that happens. If we start too late, they look for control with drugs, or they try suicide. Or they surrender."

"Surrender?"

"To the feelings. It's not just the loss of power. Children have sexual feelings too. If you awaken them too early, they get out of control, and the kids themselves look for sex…it's what they think is love."

"Fucking maggots."

Immaculata didn't say anything. Max reached across and took a couple of the wooden matches I used for my smokes. He broke one until it was about a third the size of the rest, and put it next to a full–size match. Then he took the big match and snapped it off until it was even smaller than the first one. He looked at Immaculata.

"It won't work. To the child, the abuser is always all–powerful. You can't make him small—you have to make the child big."

I took the tiny piece of match that was supposed to be the parent, lit another match, and touched it to the little piece. It went up in flames.

"That won't work either, Burke. You can make the perpetrator disappear from the earth, but not from inside the child's mind."

I didn't say anything. Immaculata's face was calm, her eyes watchful but showing nothing. I looked at Max—his face was a concrete mask. He wasn't buying this any more than I was.

"What's this got to do with the tape recorder, Mac?" I asked her.

"In my office, the child has to not just
be
safe, she has to
feel
safe. She has to learn she can control parts of her life. She has to learn she has the right to say 'No!' Okay?"

"Okay."

"Most of the kids have been involved in a conspiracy of silence. The offenders make them promise not to tell—keep it a secret. Or they make the kids believe something terrible will happen if they do. So I tell them if there's something they don't want to go on the tape recorder, all they have to do is reach over and turn it off. So
they
are in control."

"And they turn it off when they get to the stuff you need for court?"

"Sometimes they do," she said.

I lit another smoke and closed my eyes, buying some time to think. When it came to me it was so simple I was sure they'd already thought of it.

"Use two tape recorders," I told Mac.

"Two tape recorders?"

"Sure. The one on top of the table—the one the kids can turn off if they want, right? And you keep another one out of sight, maybe under the table or something. And you let that one run all the time. So even when they turn off the first one, you still have everything on tape."

Immaculata put the two fingernails back against her cheek, thinking it over. "That would be dishonest," she told me.

"Better to let some scumbag walk away laughing?" I asked.

She waited a second or two. "No," she said. And a smile broke across her lovely face. "That's what we'll do."

Max made an "I told you so" gesture to his woman, now smiling himself. Immaculata reached over and squeezed my hand, and Max's smile broadened.

Immaculata was the first woman ever to come into our clubhouse. She'd be the last. Like all truly dangerous beasts, Max would mate for life.

I left them with each other and went in the back to make my call.

32

I
T WAS just getting dark as I walked through the catacombs behind the warehouse. The cellar was one of many that ran under all the buildings on the block. The City Planning Office sold me a set of the plans years ago, and the Mole figured out how we could make all the basements connect to each other by drilling a few holes. It took almost a month for us to finish, but once you got to the warehouse basement, you could get out a dozen different ways. We originally did it just in case we had to leave quickly, but once we were under there, the Mole showed me how we could tap into the telephone lines in the other buildings. The warehouse is owned by some corporation Mama Wong set up, but it belongs to Max. His temple is upstairs, and the rest of the space is for whatever we need. For Mama, it's a warehouse. For me, it's the post office.

I found the metal footlocker, rooted through it past the stuff we kept there—coats, hats, glasses, anything to make you look different. I found the field telephone and the set of alligator clips. I walked through our cellar into the next basement. Above us was a firm of Chinese architects, and they never worked late. I clipped the field phone onto the junction points the Mole had shown me and I got a dial tone right away. I used the little box that looked like the face of a calculator and punched out the number Julio had written down, lit a cigarette, and waited.

I didn't have long to wait—she must have been sitting by the phone. "Hello." It was the redhead.

"Hey, baby," I leered into the mouthpiece, "you free tomorrow night?" She got it right away.

"Sure. What time will you pick me up?"

"I'm going to be working late. I'll meet you, okay?"

"Where?"

"Same place—nine o clock," I told her, and unplugged the phone.

I put everything back where it was supposed to be and walked back rough the cellar. Our clubhouse was empty. I fired up the Plymouth, hit the garage–door switch, and backed out into the alley. I got out to go back inside and close up, but I saw the garage door slide down. Max was on the job.

I drove over to Mama's. I needed some food for Pansy and an alibi for tomorrow night.

33

I
T WAS past midnight before I was ready to go back to the office. If Mama didn't hear from me by the same time tomorrow, she'd know the meeting had been a bust. Mama would tell Max, and call Blumberg to get a bondsman over to Arraignments in Queens. If I wasn't in jail, Max would go see Julio.

One more call to make and I could bring Pansy her Chinese food. I found a pay phone off Atlantic Avenue.

A young woman with a sweet West Indian accent answered. "A & R Wholesalers. We never close."

"Is Jacques around?" I asked her.

"Please hold one moment, sir."

It was cold in the phone booth, but the man's voice was as sunny as the Islands.

"Yes, my friend. May we be of service?"

"Jacques, this weather is really turning ugly out here, you know? I think I can move some of those portable electric heaters if I can get a good price."

"We may have some in stock, mahn—I'll have to check the inventory. And the price…it depends on how many you want, like always."

"If I can get some tonight, I'll take a dozen and try them out."

"That's not a big order, my friend. The more you take, the less they cost."

"I understand. But I'm not ready to risk a lot of capital—I have to see how they move this year, okay?"

"Whatever you want, mahn—we are here to serve. You are familiar with our line?"

"Sure. Now, look, I only want new merchandise, still in the original cartons."

"Of course, of course. You understand this too affects the price."

"I understand."

"Now, we have a good supply of the new automatic models—the ones which shut off by themselves if they tip over?"

"No, I only want the old–style. They throw plenty of heat."

"Yes, my friend," said Jacques, "but many customers prefer the advanced safety features."

"The new ones are too complicated for me. I want a product I can trust."

"We have just what you want, mahn," he assured me. "Do you at least want the ones that run on both twelve hundred and fifteen hundred watts?"

"Yeah, that's a good feature. Can I pick them up tonight?"

"We never close, my friend," he said. We both hung up.

I drove down Atlantic toward Queens. Soon it turned into a West Indian neighborhood. I turned left on Buffalo Avenue, past the abandoned bar on the corner, until I saw the storefront restaurant. There was a sign for Tower Isle Jamaican Meat Patties in the window, a pair of black Cadillacs parked in front. I turned into the driveway and pulled around the back. When I had the Plymouth's headlights aimed at the back door, I flashed the lights three times and turned them off.

The door opened and a man came out, both hands in the pockets of a big leather apron. I had the window down and my hands on the sill by the time he got close enough to see me.

"Jacques is expecting me," I told him.

The man said nothing. He backed away, still facing me, until he was inside the door. I lit a cigarette and got ready to do some waiting.

I was just lighting another when the door opened again. The leather apron came out first and walked over to me again. He said nothing. From behind him I could see another man—tall, with a little snap–brim hat. The other man was carrying a shopping bag in one hand.

I kept my eyes on the leather apron. The other man disappeared from view. I heard the Plymouth's door open and someone climbed inside.

"Is that you, Burke?" asked Jacques.

"It's me," I told him, turning to face him, my back to the leather apron like it was supposed to be.

Jacques hands me the shopping bag. Inside was a blue box. And inside that was a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum snub–nosed revolver. The blue steel even smelled new.

I popped the cylinder open, held my thumb in front of the barrel, and sighted down. The rifling was new too. Not a very accurate piece, but the best man–stopper at close range. It would take either .38 Special or .357 magnum slugs, and it had no safety. A lot better than the 9mm automatic Jacques had been pushing over the phone.

I nodded my head in agreement. Jacques held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread. I raised my eyebrows. He just shrugged.

It's good to deal with professionals—even if I was wired like a Christmas tree, nothing would go on the tape. Five hundred bucks of Julio's money changed hands. I slipped the pistol into my coat pocket, put the box it came in back into the shopping bag, and waited. The West Indian took out a box of shells, holding them in his palm. I shook my head— I had all the bullets I needed. Jacques touched a forefinger to his brow. I turned to face Leather Apron again. I heard the car open and close, but I didn't move until I saw the bodyguard start to back away toward the restaurant door. Then I got out of there.

I drove down Atlantic, one hand on the wheel, the other pulling up the rubber floor mat and groping around until I found the panel next to the hump for the transmission. I had loosened the ratchets before I drove to the restaurant. The magnum slipped inside and the rubber mat went back in place. There was nothing in plain view. I couldn't do anything about a cop stopping me, but if he found the piece it wouldn't stand up in court.

The magnum was a heavy–duty piece. Just looking at the business end would scare most people. But guns aren't for scaring people, they're for people who are scared. I was—I just didn't know of what.

34

I
DROVE back carefully, speeding up so I blended in with the late–night traffic. The streets were quiet, but if you looked close, you could see things. Two guys standing against the wall of a darkened gas station—the wool caps on their heads would turn into ski masks when they pulled them down, hands in their pockets. A lonely whore in a fake–fur coat with a white mini–skirt underneath, looking to turn one last trick before she called it a night. A van with blacked–out windows driving by slowly, watching the whore while the two men in the shadows watched the van. In New York, the vultures work close to the ground.

Back in the garage, I unscrewed the plate and took out the magnum. I needed to test the piece and I didn't have time to run over to the Bronx and ask the Mole. I broke the gun and loaded it with some .38 Specials I keep in a jar full of nuts and bolts. The door to the basement is set into the garage floor, like a manhole cover. I pried it loose and backed down the stairs, reaching for the light switch with my hand. I heard the rats running across the floor even before the light went on. Some of the bolder bastards just looked at me—it was their place, not mine.

The walls are lined with sandbags donated from a construction site—about four bags deep all around the wall and up to the ceiling. I don't keep anything else down in the basement; there's no other way out except for the tunnels the rats use. It's good for nothing but testing things that make a big bang—you couldn't hear a cannon from the street.

There's a little workbench on the floor down there with a heavy–duty vise attached and a reel of two–hundred–pound–test fishing line. I wrapped the butt of the magnum in the vise, wedged it tight, and tied some of the fishing line around the trigger. I aimed it at the far wall, cocked the hammer, and ran the line back to the stairs. I climbed halfway up and gave it a hard pull. There was a sharp
crack!
sound and a puff of dust from one of the sandbags. I went over to look—just a nice round entrance hole—the other side would be wide open, but I wasn't going to pull the whole thing apart just to take a look.

I pulled the magnum out of the vise, held it two–handed, and emptied it into the wall. It kicked a bit, but not as much as I expected from the short barrel. I broke the gun and dropped the empties into my hand. Jacques was still selling quality merchandise.

The rats were back doing business before I had the trapdoor closed.