Strega (19 page)

"Haitians, hemophiliacs, heroin addicts, and homosexuals…the 4–H Club, right?"

"And why do the drug companies test in foreign countries?" the Mole asked.

"It's illegal here, right? But some countries—they let you do what you want as long as you got the bucks."

"In democratic countries?"

"Okay, Mole, I get it. The best country would be some outrageous dictatorship where the people do what they're told or they get themselves iced."

"Like…"

"LikeI don't knowIran, Cuba, Russia."

"Haiti?" the Mole wanted to know.

"Hell, yes, Haiti. I did time with a guy from Haiti. He told me this Papa Doc was the devil, straight up. And that his kid was the devil's son."

"Close to the United States?" said the Mole.

"Yes."

"Need money?"

"Sure."

"Dictatorship?"

"Yeah!"

"Would the leader care if some of his people were exposed to the grave risk of biochemical experiments?"

"No fucking way," I said. The Haitians who try and cross the ocean on rafts aren't looking for better social opportunities.

"Who goes to prison in Haiti?" asked the Mole.

"Anybody Baby Doc wants to put there," I said, thinking. "And dope fiends. Sure!"

"Homosexuals?"

"You better believe it, Mole. Damn!"

The Mole smiled his smile. It wouldn't charm little children. "The drug companies seek a cure for cancer…or any other great disease. The cure will make them rich beyond our imagination. This is the fuel that drives their engine. The scientists want to experiment, and they don't have the patience to test rats. And rats are not people."

I lit another smoke, saying nothing. The Mole was on a roll.

"So they make arrangements in Haiti to test their new drugs. On prisoners. Many of them in prison because of heroin addiction or homosexuality, yes? And they alter the genetic components of the blood with their experiments. The homosexuals do what they do inside the prisons. When they become obviously ill, the government disposes of some of them. But the drug companies don't want them all killed. Like when the government let those black men with syphilis go untreated years ago—they never treated them because they wanted to study the long–term effects. Some of the infected Haitians come to America. And when they have sex with others, the drug companies lose control of the experiment.

"And we have AIDS?" I asked him.

"It's one scenario," the Mole said, still thinking it over.

"Son of a bitch," I said, almost to myself.

Simba–witz rolled back into the clearing—we'd been there a long time. He saw us both sitting quietly, flicked his tail over his back, and faded away again.

"Mole," I said, "I've got a scenario about this picture I need to find. The way it was taken…Polaroid camera and
all—sale. If it goes in a magazine, then it's in the stream of commerce and there's nothing I can do about it."

The Mole looked up, listening.

"But I don't think that's the deal," I told him. "I think it was taken for a collector—a private thing. If they put it in a magazine, someone could see it. Cause a lot of problems. I need some freak who gets off looking at this stuff. Not some money–makers. You understand? Someone who's got shoeboxes full of pictures like that."

The Mole nodded. It made sense—at least so far.

"So I need to talk to a collector—a serious, hard–core pedophile. Someone with the money to buy things like this. This is a no–consent picture, right? The freaks might trade copies back and forth, but I don't think it will get commercially produced."

"I don't know anyone like that," he said.

"Mole," I said, keeping my voice level, "you have friends—associates, anyway…people I did some work for a couple of times…when we first met." No point mentioning the name the man from Israel had given me—whichever branch of the Israeli Secret Service made contact with the Mole was likely to be a pure wet–work group anyway.

The Mole turned so he was facing me. "So?" he said.

I was talking fast now, trying to get this all out, get the Mole to agree. "So they have to keep files on freaks like that. Blackmail, whatever. They have to know what's going down on the international scene—know who the players are. I know they don't do law–enforcement or vice–squad shit, but
information
that's something they always want. Anything to give you a leg up—a handle."

"So?" he said again, waiting.

"Mole, I want you to ask your friends to give you the name of such a person." I held up my hand before he could speak. "If they know okay? Just a name and an address. I want to talk to this person. It's a real long shot he would have the picture, but he sure as hell could put me into the pipeline of people who might."

I was done talking.

The Mole got off the couch, hands in his pockets, and walked toward the Lincoln. I followed him. The pack followed me, materializing out of the shadows.

"Is the little boy Jewish?" the Mole asked.

"He wants his soul back," I said.

I opened the door of the Lincoln, climbed inside. I hit the power window switch, looking at the Mole.

"All I can do is ask," he said. "I'll call you at the restaurant."

The Mole turned and walked back into his junkyard.

52

D
ARKNESS was dropping its blanket over the city by the time I crossed back over the bridge into Manhattan. I got off at 96th Street and worked my way through Central Park, heading for the West Side. It was still too early for the yuppies to start their mating rituals, but the neon was already flashing by the time I got into the West Fifties—humans who buy their sex in New York expect twenty–four–hour service.

The Lincoln cruised Broadway, hugging the curb. A block–long video–game parlor washed the sidewalk with flashing strobe–lights. Electronic war–sounds poured through its doors, a harsh wave dividing the kids lurking on the sidewalk. Black teenagers were standing to one side in little groups, their pockets emptied of quarters by the machines inside, alert for another penny–ante score so they could go back inside. The white boys on the other side of the doors were younger—they cruised quietly, hawk eyes watching the cars for a customer. The groups never mixed. The black rough–off artists knew better than to move on the little stud–hustlers—a kid peddling his under–age ass and telling himself he's not really homosexual will be happy to stab you to prove it.

Hookers don't work the main drags in the Square after dark—they have the massage parlors for that. Lexington Avenue was their turf. The customers know where to go.

I cut off from Broadway over to Ninth Avenue, kept heading downtown. The fast–food joint I was looking for stood next to a theater specializing in kung–fu films, a heavy streamer of red and blue lights making a banner over its canopy. I slid the Lincoln to the curb behind a dark Mercedes stretch limo, waiting my turn.

It didn't take long. Three little kids bounded up to the passenger window, arranging their faces into smiles. The Hispanic kid was working with a partner, a blond boy a little taller but even thinner. The dark–haired boy had eyes like dinner plates; his curly hair glistened in the

neon. He probably told the johns his name was Angel. Wearing a red T–shirt over a pair of jeans with a designer label on the back pocket. He turned like he was talking to his partner to show me. I couldn't read the designer's name but I knew what the label said: "For Rent." The blond kept his hands in his pockets, eyes down, heavy shock of hair falling in his eyes. They looked about twelve years old.

I pushed the power window switch and slid over to talk to them. The third kid was a redhead, freckles on his round face, a trace of colorless lip gloss on his mouth. He was wearing a white sweatshirt with a "Terry" in script on the front, black pants. New white leather sneakers on his feet. His skin was already a pasty color from a steady diet of junk food and freak–sperm.

I nodded my head to the redhead and the two other boys didn't waste another minute fading back to the front of the fast–food joint. They weren't there for conversation.

"You want to go for a ride, Terry?" I asked him.

The kid didn't blink, his eyes shifting to the back seat and up again to my face, smelling for trouble, the mechanical smile still in place.

He knew the code. "I have to ask my uncle," he said. "Will you buy me something nice if I go with you?"

"Sure," I said, "where's your uncle?"

"I'll get him," the kid said, his soft white hands on the windowsill of the Lincoln. "Don't talk to any of the other boys while I'm gone, okay?"

"Okay," I told him, lighting a cigarette like I was prepared to wait.

It didn't take long. The redhead disappeared inside the joint, emerged in another minute with a man in tow. The man was in his early twenties, wearing a white sportcoat with the sleeves pushed up to display heavy forearms and a jeweled watch. He had an orange silk T–shirt on underneath, wide flowing white pants, the cuffs billowing over his shoes. The new look for kiddie–pimps—Miami Lice. The man's hair was so short on the sides it almost looked shaved, but the top was grown out and flowed down his back. As he rolled up on the Lincoln, he grabbed the redhead by the waistband on his jeans and hoisted him onto the front fender with one hand. The waistband of the pimp's pants was wide, like a cummerbund. He hooked his thumbs inside the band, pressing his hands together to force the blood into his arms and chest. He wasn't a power–lifter: his waist was too small for that. He could lift the little redhead with one hand, but he was built for show, not go.

The pimp leaned into the Lincoln, his chiseled face filling the open window, sending me a message. "Terry says you want to take him out for some pizza?"

I let a tremor of fear into my face, mumbling, "Uh…yes, I just wanted to..

He cut me off. "I know what you want. I'm responsible for the boy, see? You leave a deposit with me—just to make sure you bring him back on time, okay? Then you go and buy him that pizza."

"A deposit?"

"A hundred dollars," the pimp said. He wasn't going to discuss it.

I put my hand in my pocket like I was reaching for my wallet. Hesitated, watching his eyes. "What I
really
want…" I started to say.

"None of my business," he said, holding out his hand, turning his head casually to watch the street around us.

I cast my eyes down, looking at his open hand. "Pictures," I said.

The young man was getting impatient. "You want pictures, you take pictures, okay?"

"I want to
buy
some pictures," I said. "I'm a collector," as if that explained everything.

It did. "We got pictures of Terry. Candid shots. He's a beautiful boy," the young man said. He could have been describing a Chevy.

"How old is he?"

"Terry is"—thinking how low he could pitch this—"he's ten." The young man must have thought I looked dubious. "He's just tall for his age.

"You have pictures of.…younger boys?"

"Pictures? Look, man. Take the boy here out for some pizza, okay? Take your own pictures. Anything you want."

"I just want the pictures," I said. "I…can't take them myself."

The young man rolled his eyes up, silently bemoaning the difficulties of his business. "I might be able to get you some pictures. It's a lot of work. Could be pretty expensive.

"I don't care," I assured him.

"Tell you what. You take Terry for his pizza, right? Bring him back to the big ships–you know the West Side Highway, near Forty–fifth? Where they have those navy ships you can walk around on?"

I nodded, eager to please.

"I got a red Corvette. A new one. Drive down to the pier, say around midnight? Look for my car. You bring back Terry—I'll have some pictures for you."

"How many?" I asked.

"How many you want, friend? They're expensive, like I told you."

"How many could I buy for…say, a thousand dollars?"

The young man's eyes flared for a split–second. Only a Class A chump would bargain like I was. "You want action photos or just poses?"

"Action," I whispered, my eyes downcast.

"That's four for a thousand," he said.

"Four different boys?"

"Four different. Action shots. Color."

"I have to go home and get the money," I said.

"Take Terry with you," the young man said. "After you buy him some pizza."

I just nodded, moving my Adam's apple in my throat like I was gulping it all down.

The pimp put his hand on the back of the redhead's neck. The little kid's face contorted in pain, but he didn't say anything. "You be a good boy, now," said the pimp in a dead–flat voice. The kid nodded.

The young man opened the door of the Lincoln, shoved the boy inside. He held out his hand for the hundred dollars.

I handed it over. Making my voice brave, I said, "How do I know you'll be there?"

"You've got my merchandise," the pimp said, pocketing the hundred and walking away in the same motion.

53

I
PULLED out into traffic, grabbing a quick look at the boy sitting next to me. He was huddled against the passenger door, head down. The digital clock on the dash said seven–fifty–six—about four hours until I got to meet the man with the pictures.

I hit the power–door lock button—the boy jumped when he heard it click home. He looked at me, twisting his hands together in his lap. "Are you going to hurt me?" he asked in a calm voice. He wasn't looking to talk me out of it, just asking what was going to happen to him.

"I'm not going to hurt you, kid," I told him in my own voice.

His face shot up. "Are you a cop?"

"No, I'm not a cop. I'm a man doing a job. And I want you to help me.

"Help you?"

"Yeah, Terry. Help me. That's all."

The boy was scanning my face, looking for the truth—probably wouldn't recognize it if he saw it.

"What do I have to do?"

"I'm looking for someone. Out here. I'm going to drive around the streets, looking. I want you to look too, okay?"

"Really?"

"Really."

"Who are you looking for?"

"You know the little black guy with no legs–the one on the skateboardpushes himself along with his hands?"

His face brightened up. "Yeah! Yeah, I know him. I talked to him once. He asked me if I wanted to run away."

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

"I was still talking to him when Rod came along."

"Is Rod the guy who I was talking to?"

"Yeah, that's him. He kicked the little black guy right off the skateboard. He has legs, you know," the kid said, his voice serious.

"I know," I told him. "You keep your eyes peeled now—we want to find him."

"How come?" he asked.

"He's going to help me do something tonight," I said.

"You're not going to hurt me?" he asked again.

"No, kid. I'm not going to hurt you," I promised him again, keeping my distance.

I made a couple of slow circuits through the cesspool, cruising between Sixth and Ninth on the cross streets, my eyes passing over the action, searching for the Prof. A police car pulled next to us; the cop's eyes were bored. Almost all the people on the street were male—dream–buyers looking for sellers, wolfpacks looking for prey. Hell eats its tourists.

I looped around at 39th, heading back uptown on Eighth. We were across 44th when the boy shouted, "I see him!," pointing excitedly at the front of a gay movie house. The Prof was on his cart, working the traffic, begging for coins with his cup, watching from ground zero like the cops never could. I ran the Lincoln into the curb, pulled the ignition key, and locked the door behind me, leaving the boy inside. The Prof heard my footsteps pounding toward him and looked up, his hand inside his long ragged coat. When he saw it was me, he grabbed some sidewalk and gave himself a heroic shove in my direction. In our world, when someone moves fast, there's trouble behind.

"Prof, come on," I told him, "we got work to do."

"If you're singing my song, please don't take long," he bopped out, ready for whatever, telling me to get on with it.

I grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled him along on his cart to the Lincoln. I opened the trunk. The Prof climbed off his cart and we tossed it inside. I opened the passenger door and the Prof jumped in. He pulled his own door shut as I went around to the driver's side. We were back into the uptown traffic in a minute.

"Terry," I said to the boy, "this is the Prof."

"The Prof?" the kid asked.

"Prof is short for Prophet, my man," said the little black man, pulling off his misshapen felt hat, his spiky Afro shooting up out of control. "I never fall because I see it all."

The kid's eyes were wide, but he wasn't afraid. Good.

"What's on?" the Prof wanted to know. He didn't use my name.

"Tell you soon, Prof. First we need Michelle. You know where she might be working?"

"Avenue C ain't the place to be."

(The Lower East Side was a dangerous place to work.)

"Working the docks is only for jocks."

(The gay hustlers had West Street sewn up.)

"So if you want sex, it's got to be on Lex."

I swung the Lincoln east, moving crosstown on 48th. I lit a cigarette, letting the big car drive itself. The whores wouldn't be working until we got into the Thirties.

"Can I have one?" asked the boy.

I handed him the pack. "How old you are, boy?" the Prof asked, not happy with my child–care techniques.

"I was smoking when I was his age," I told him.

"Yeah, and look how you turned out, bro'," came the response.

A smile flickered across the boy's face, as fleet as a memory. He handed the pack back to me.

The side streets crossing lower Lexington were so clogged with whores that the Lincoln had to creep its way through. I knew Michelle wouldn't be running up to a car—it wasn't the way she worked. The Prof knew it too. "A racehorse don't run with the mules," he said. "Racehorse" was the ultimate compliment for a working girl, reserved only for the very best.

It took us another half–hour to find her, lounging against a lamppost, a tiny pillbox hat on her head, a half–veil covering her face. She had a black–and–white–checked coat that came halfway down her hips over a black pencil–skirt. Ankle straps on her spike heels. Like a bad girl from World War II.

I pulled the Lincoln up to the lamppost, but Michelle never moved. She brought a cigarette lighter to her face, letting the tiny flame show off her perfect profile. If you wanted a ten–dollar slut, you were in the wrong neighborhood.

I hit the power window switch. "Michelle!" I called to her.

She sauntered over to the Lincoln. "Is that…?"

"Don't say my name,' I told her, before she could finish. "I've got company.

She kept coming, leaning into the car, kissing me on the cheek, looking past me to the front seat.

"Hello, Prof," she said, "who's your friend?"

"This is my man Terry," he said. The kid's eyes were round. Even for him, this wasn't a regular night.

"Get in the back, Michelle. We got work."

I climbed out, pulling the kid along with me by his wrist. I found the release lever and the driver's seat slid forward. I put the kid in the back, moving my hands so Michelle could follow him, like I was holding the door for a countess.

"Hi, baby," Michelle said to the kid.

"Hello," Terry said, not a trace of fear in his voice for the first time that night. I don't know how Michelle does it, and I'll never learn.

By the time the Lincoln was halfway to my part of town, they were whispering together in the back seat like the Prof and I weren't there.