Strega (24 page)

"And you don't deal with any of the commercial outlets?"

"Certainly not," he sniffed.

This freak couldn't help me. "I understand," I said, getting up to leave.

The man looked at me levelly. "You may show yourselves out."

The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first.

"One more thing," the man said to me. "I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find
some
basis for agreement."

I didn't move, willing my hands not to clench into fists.

"I am a believer," the man said, "and I am ready to die for my beliefs."

"There's our basis for agreement," I told him, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the stairs.

71

I
STOPPPED at a pay phone off the Drive to call Strega—tell her I would need the boy for the day after tomorrow. Her line was busy. I lit a smoke, took a couple of drags, and dialed her number again. She picked up on the first ring.

"Yes," she breathed into the receiver, her voice as hard and seamless as her body.

"It's me," I said. "Thursday afternoon, okay? Like we agreed? Bring him to the parking lot across from the courthouse in Manhattan, where we met the first time."

"What time?"

"Four o'clock. If the lot's too crowded, I'll be standing in front of the Family Court. The dark–gray building on Lafayette. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Make sure he understands that it's okay to be with me."

"He'll be all right," she said, in a mechanical tone.

"See you then," I said, getting ready to put the receiver back in its cradle.

"That's for then," Strega said. "What about tonight?"

"It's too soon. I need time to set this up."

"What about me?"

"What
about
you?"

"I'm here by myself tonight. All alone with myself. You want to come over and talk to me?"

"I can't come over…I'm working."

"Maybe you just want to
come
," she whispered into the phone, playing with the last word. I could see the sneer on her painted lips, glowing in a dark room.

"Some other time," I told her.

"You can never be sure," said Strega. I heard the phone slam down at her end.

I headed back to the office, wondering where her sacred child was all the time.

72

I
SPENT the next day taking care of business. American Express was threatening to sever the line of credit I maintain in several names unless they got some prompt payments. There's only one way to respond to such a legitimate request—I typed out some new applications, checking my list to make sure I didn't duplicate any of the old names. Then I placed some ads—my new mail–order company was offering the latest version of the Navy Seal Survival Knife for only twenty–five bucks. No CODs. My company doesn't take checks either— too many dishonest people out there. I checked my file of birth certificates for people who died within a year of their birth. I had some of them apply for Social Security numbers, others for driver's licenses. When I got back the paper, I'd move it into various productive activities—passports, disability payments, unemployment benefits. As long as you don't get too greedy, it goes on forever.

Finally, I checked my rent roll. I have a few apartments around the city—when a tenant in a rent–controlled building dies, the super calls me, money changes hands, and I'm the new tenant. Then I sublet the apartments to yuppies happy to pay several times the base rent, positive they're beating the system. Michelle works the phones for me. I split the rent each month with the super and everybody's happy. Sooner or later the landlord finds out what's going down and moves to evict the tenant. Then the yuppies are on their own. I don't collect any more rent from them. I don't return their security deposits either.

I took Pansy down to the piers on the Hudson, working her off–leash obedience to keep her tuned. Then I took her with me to Pop's poolroom, letting her watch in baleful disapproval as I dropped fifty bucks at the table in the back. The one right under the "No Gambling" sign.

Killing time. It's a lot easier when you're not in a cell.

73

A
T FOUR o'clock the next afternoon, I parked the Lincoln in the courthouse lot. Immaculata was next to me on the front seat, Max lying down in the back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at nothing.

"You want to go over it one more time?" I asked Mac.

"It's not necessary, Burke. I know what you want. But it's like I told you—disclosures often come slowly. I can't promise you the child will tell me everything on a first interview."

"How long does it take?"

"It depends on the child…and the extent of the trauma. Some children never tell the whole thing."

"Can't you put some pressure on him?"

Mac's eyes narrowed. "Of course I could do that. But I won't. That's not the way we work. This first interview—the one where we validate that the child has been sexually abused—it's not just to gain information— it's part of a process. The real goal is to treat the child."

"Yeah, okay," I said, lighting a cigarette.

"That is what we agreed," Mac said, tapping her long nails on the dash. She wasn't going to discuss it anymore.

"You told Max what he has to do?" I asked her.

Immaculata smiled. "He knew," she said.

The courthouse parking lot doesn't discriminate. Porsches stood next to Chevys—a limo took two spaces. So did a gypsy cab.

A Spanish guy walked by my open window. "Smoke?" he asked, looking past me. I didn't reply and he moved on, working the parking lot. If you had the cash, you could buy just about anything around the courthouse.

Immaculata and I got out of the Lincoln and walked over to the Family Court. A steady stream of humans walked out of the revolving doors—a fat Puerto Rican woman with tired eyes came out with a kid who looked about twelve years old, sporting a gang jacket and a black beret on his head. "You hear what the judge told you?" she said. "Fuck the judge," the boy replied, neatly dodging her feeble attempt to slap him, smiling a kid's smile. A guy dressed in a phone–company uniform was pulling at his lawyer's arm, mumbling something about "another goddamned adjournment." The lawyer shrugged. Another guy stormed out the front, a woman trailing him by a couple of feet, tentatively reaching out to touch his arm. He was slamming a clenched fist in his palm over and over, looking down.

I was watching for Strega's little BMW, so I didn't pay any attention to the beige Mercedes cruising back and forth through the parking lot until I heard the door slam. She was standing across the street, a black kerchief on her head, wearing a full–length black coat. She looked about sixteen years old. Her arms were extended to each side, a child holding each hand. A boy and a girl. She bent to say something to the little girl. The child waved merrily at me and they started to cross.

It wasn't that cold on the streets, but Strega's cheeks were flushed and glowing. "Hi!" she called out in a voice I hadn't heard before, holding out a gloved hand to me. I took it—she squeezed down hard.

"This is Scotty," she said, pulling a round–faced little blond boy close to her side. "And this is my Mia." She smiled. The little girl was wearing a black coat and scarf like her mother. Flaming red hair peeked out, a halo for a happy little face.

"What's your name?" she asked me.

"Burke," I told her.

"That's a funny name," she said, still smiling.

"So is Mia," I replied.

"It's a
special
name," the little girl said, a trace of a pout on her lips.

"It's a lovely name," said Immaculata, stepping forward.

"This is my friend, Immaculata," I told them all, spreading my hands to introduce her.

Immaculata gracefully dropped to her haunches, her eyes level with the children's faces.

"Hi, Scotty. Hi, Mia," she said to them, holding out her hands. Mia took her hand right away, babbling on like they were old friends. Scotty hung back. "It's okay," said Strega. He came slowly to Immaculata. "You smell good," he said.

Strega's eyes lashed at me. "This is your
friend
?"

"Immaculata is going to work with Scotty. Like we agreed," I said, nothing else in my voice.

Her big eyes never shifted. "I'm trusting you," she said.

I met her gaze. Our faces were a hundred miles above Immaculata and the children. "You got any time problems?"

"Just tell me where to meet you.

"How about right back here. About seven–thirty, eight o'clock?"

"Whatever you say.

I lit a cigarette while Strega patted Scotty on the head, telling him he was going with me and Immaculata and that she'd meet him later with Mia. They'd all go to McDonald's and then for ice cream.

"Okay, Zia Peppina," the boy said, holding Immaculata's hand. His eyes were still cloudy with worry but he was going to stand up.

"Say your name again," Mia asked Immaculata.

"It is Im–mac–u–lata," she said, "but my friends call me Mac."

"That's easier," said Mia.

"It is always easier to be friends," Mac told her gravely.

"I know," said the child.

It was time to go. "It was a pleasure to meet you," Strega said to Immaculata.

"And to meet you as well," Mac told her, bowing slightly. "You have a beautiful and charming daughter."

Strega's eyes lit up at this. She bowed back to Immaculata before she realized what she was doing. Mac had that effect on people.

"Let's go, Scotty!" Immaculata said, taking the boy's hand and starting across the street to the Lincoln.

"Are you Mommy's friend?" Mia asked me.

"What did your mother tell you?" I replied.

"She said you were."

"Does your mother ever lie to you?"

"Oh, no," said the child, her mouth rounded in an O of surprise.

"Then you know," I told her. I held out my hand to Strega again.

She smiled at me, trying to crush my fingers into Jell–O. "Bye–bye," she said, turning her back on me, Mia in tow.

I lit a cigarette, watching the two little girls in their black coats cross the street to their Mercedes. Then I started across myself.

74

W
HEN I GOT to the Lincoln, Scotty was standing on the front seat looking at Max seated in the back. "Do it again!" he yelled, clapping his chubby little hands.

"Do
what
again?" I asked him, sliding behind the wheel.

"Max is a
protector
," Scotty said. "He's here to make me safe."

"That's right," I told him, watching Immaculata nod in approval.

"Max is the strongest man in the whole world!" Scotty practically shouted at me. "Do it again.
Please
!" he shouted at Max. I don't know what kind of father Max might be, but he sure as hell wouldn't get disturbed by the noise kids make.

Scotty was waving an old iron horseshoe in one hand. Max reached over the seat and took it from him. The Mongol held one end in each hand, breathed deeply through his nose with a clean, whistling sound, and pulled the horseshoe apart until it was just a straight piece of metal. He bowed his head, handed it back to the child.

"See?" Scotty asked.

"That's amazing," I told him.

"Max could lift this whole
car
if he wanted to, couldn't you, Max?" he said.

Max pressed his fingertips together, shooting his biceps full of the blood. The muscles leaped in his arms, more than a match for the thin casing of skin around them. Max pulled his hands to his chest, as if he was rocking a baby. He smiled. Then he flexed a biceps in a body–builder's pose, a vain look on his face. He shook his head "no."

"What is he saying?" Scott asked Immaculata.

"He is saying that great strength is only for protecting people, not for showing off."

"Oh." The kid thought for a minute. "Then why did he bend the horseshoe?" Whatever else they had done to Scotty, they hadn't made him stupid.

"Remember I told you that Max would be your protector?" Immaculata said, and watched the boy's solemn nod. "Well, I had to show you that Max was a
good
protector. We are friends, you and me. But you shouldn't trust new friends until they prove they are telling you the truth. Isn't that right?"

"Yes…" he said, a sad look on his face.

"I know," Immaculata said, patting his shoulders. "You are safe now. We're going to make it all better. Okay?"

The boy nodded dubiously. Max put his huge, scarred hand on the boy's shoulder. Just letting it lay there. And Scotty smiled as we drove through the city to the place on Broadway where we'd make it all better.

75

S
AFE WAS in the Village, not far from the courthouse. I found a parking spot a few doors down and we all got out together, Immaculata leading the way, holding Scotty's hand. A tall black man was seated at a desk just inside the double glass doors. He got to his feet when he saw Max and me come in behind Immaculata. "They're with me," she said, smiling. The black guy sat down again.

We walked up a long flight of stairs to what must have been a factory loft years ago. A huge room, maybe forty by a hundred feet. Gym mats in the corner. A bunch of little kids working out, practicing some form of karate, screaming their lungs out with every move. Even younger kids were playing in a sandbox at one end of the room. Some were doing finger painting. One little boy was knitting something. It seemed like hundreds of kids, all hyperactive. Sounded like a happy subway tunnel.

A young woman detached herself from one of the groups of kids and walked over to us. She was maybe five feet tall with short dark hair flying around her face as she came over. Another pretty Italian lady—the other side of Strega's coin.

"Boss lady," Immaculata whispered to me. "Lily."

"Hi, Mac," the woman said. "And you must be Scotty," she said to the boy, coming down on her haunches the way Immaculata had in front of the Family Court. "My name is Lily," she said, holding out both hands. Scotty took her hands, but his eyes were riveted to the other kids. "You can play with the other kids later," Lily said, reading his mind. "First we're going to go to a special playroom. You have a
reservation
." She made it like a big deal, and Scotty responded, feeling important.

She took Scotty by one hand. Immaculata took the other. On the way down the hall to the back office the two women lifted Scotty off his feet, swinging their arms. The kid giggled like he'd found heaven.

We turned into a small room stuffed full of kids' stuff—toy animals, a three–panel screen with puppies playing on its surface, dolls, coloring books. All the furniture was child–size.

"This is where you and Immaculata get to talk," Lily told Scotty.

"About the bad things?" he asked.

"If you want to, Scotty. We don't make you do anything you don't want to here, okay?"

He just nodded, subdued now.

"You go inside with Immaculata, and we'll all wait for you out here, okay?"

"Max too!" the boy said, tugging the Mongol forward.

Max picked the boy up by his belt and tossed him in the air. Scotty screamed in delight, never doubting for a minute that Max would catch him. Max caught the boy in his arms and carried him inside. Immaculata bowed to Lily and me and followed, closing the door behind her.

There was a long window in one wall. I could see the three of them inside. Scotty was sitting on Max's lap, Immaculata talking to him.

"One–way glass?'? I asked Lily.

"Yes," she said. "We have graduate students observing all the time."

"You videotape the interviews?"

"We don't have the facilities to conceal the cameras here. And many of our children are phobic for video. You understand?"

"Sure," I told her. Kids who had been stars in porno movies could freak out if they saw a camera.

The boy was drawing something, holding the picture up for Immaculata and Max to see every couple of seconds.

"My name is Burke," I told her.

"I know who you are," she said, mixed feelings running through her words.

"You have a problem with me?"

She gave it some thought, looking directly into my eyes. "No—not a problem. In fact, a couple of our older girls said you pulled them off the streets. And McGowan says you're okay too."

"So?"

"Mr. Burke, when we work with children at SAFE we don't edit their disclosures."

I stood there, watching Scotty make word pictures with his hands for Max. Max's arms were folded on his chest, his eyes slitted in concentration. I was waiting for this woman to tell me what her beef was.

"You know a girl named Babette?"

I nodded. I was in a mess a few months ago and she ended up going off with McGowan. I guess she landed at SAFE. It was fucking sure she couldn't go back to the stepfather who paid me to find her.

"In group one day Babette told us how she happened to get free of her pimp," Lily said. "She said you shot the man."

"I thought he was reaching for a gun," I said lamely.

"Babette said your gun didn't make any noise," Lily told me, eyes level.

I didn't say anything. If I hadn't had the silencer, it might have been some uniformed cop coming to that hotel room instead of McGowan. Shooting a pimp should only be a petty misdemeanor anyway—like hunting without a license.

"Don't worry," she said. "Nobody's going to testify against you.

"I'm not worried," I told her. The Prof had visited the pimp in the hospital—given him the word.

"We don't allow guns at SAFE," Lily said, watching me.

"You want to search me," I grinned at her, opening my coat.

"No. I want your word."

"You got it."

We both turned back to the window. Scotty had his hands on his hips and was shouting something at Immaculata. Suddenly he struck out; his little fist pounded on her shoulder. Max didn't move.

"It's okay," Lily said. "It's probably a re–enactment."

I looked a question at her. "When the child relives the experience…some of them find it easier than talking about it at first. Or maybe he's already past it…maybe he told the secret. Some of our kids fly into a rage when the truth is out…they have so much anger."

"So why's he hitting on Immaculata?"

"We encourage them to do it. At first. Then they progress to the self–defense classes. It all has to come out—first the secrets, then the anger.

"The secret is what happened to them—what people did to them?"

"No. That's what they call the 'bad stuff' or the 'scary stuff' The secret is that the offender told them never to tell anybody about what happened. They usually make it so that if the child tells, something horrible will happen."

"To the kid?"

"Usually not. To their parent, or a puppy even to some character on TV the child loves."

"The kid believes it?" I asked. When I was Scotty's age, I didn't believe anything.

"Of course. The offender is all–powerful. He can do anything. And the secret is helped by the guilt too."

"Why should a kid feel guilty if somebody did that to him?"

"Because they
like
some of it…it arouses new feelings in them. And, for some of them, they believe the person who is doing these things actually loves them. A parent will tell a child that if the secret comes out the parent may go to jail…and it will be the child's fault. You see?"

"Yeah, they make the kid take the weight."

Scotty was crying, his face buried in his hands. Immaculata was bending over him, talking to him, patting his back.

"You know a D.A. named Wolfe? With the City–Wide Special Victims Bureau?"

"Sure," said Lily. "She's the best. I do a lot of work for her office."

"You think you might be willing to put in a good word for me?"

"Are you looking for a job as an investigator?"

"No. I just want to talk with her about this case, maybe get some help. And I don't know too many people on her side of the fence."

"I could tell her what I know about you—that's all."

"Hey!" I said. "I brought the kid out safely, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Your methods left a bit to be desired, didn't they?"

"I don't know," I told her. "Why don't you ask Babette?"

Lily smiled. "I'll talk to Wolfe," she said, and we shook hands.

Scotty wasn't crying anymore. His tear–streaked face was turned to Max, his little hands flying. Max took some picture from Scotty's hands—it looked like crayon scribbles to me. Then he pulled the round wooden top off one of the tables, held it so the edge was facing the floor, and wedged it into a corner of the room. Max tested it with his hands to be sure it was solid. He wet his thumb and pasted the picture against the round surface. He bowed to Scotty, spun his wrists so the palms were facing outward, and flicked his fingers to his side. Telling them to stand back.

Lily was standing next to me at the window. "I never saw this one before," she said.

Max glided forward onto his left foot, twisting as it hit the ground. His right foot came around in a blur, shattering the wooden table like it was glass. He walked to the corner, pulled Scotty's drawing out of the wreckage, and turned to face the boy. Max tore the picture in half, throwing a piece to each side like it was garbage. The little boy's smile was wider than his face.

The door opened. Max stepped out first. He rubbed two fingers and a thumb together, pointing at me. "How much for the table?" I asked Lily.

"It's on the house," she said, a smile on her face too.

Immaculata came out with Scotty holding her hand. "I got the bad stuff out," he told Lily proudly.

"That's wonderful!" she said. "Would you like to play with the other children outside while we talk?"

"Can Max come?" Scotty asked.

Nobody answered him. "Come on, Max," he said, tugging at the Mongol's hand.

Immaculata nodded almost imperceptibly. Max and Scotty walked down the hall together to play.