Strega (32 page)

Her head lolled forward, unconscious. I unwrapped her wrists, slapping them to bring the color back. I dragged her out of the chair by the front of her robe to one of the bedrooms. Tossed her on the bed. Moved her around until she was lying face up. She looked asleep—I wasn't going to put my face close enough to her to find out.

Max and the Mole were somewhere in the house. I'd told them to give me fifteen minutes and then make tracks, but I knew they weren't going anywhere until they knew I was safe. Just like I knew the Prof would sit outside the front door with the motor running even if a SWAT team was coming up the street. I hit the stairs running. Every second in the house was a big risk now. The first floor was empty—even the kitchen looked like nobody ever ate a meal there. It was all for the neighbors, like a window display of a typical American home. The neighbors would never look in the basement.

I opened the door to the cellar stairs off the foyer and stepped through. Found myself in another small room, set up to resemble a cloakroom—coats hanging on hooks, umbrella stand in one corner. It took another minute to find the door behind the coats. Locked from the inside. I took out a credit card and slipped it between the door and the frame, working it gently, telling myself if there was a deadbolt on the other side I'd have to try another way in. But the loid worked, and the door popped open. Another couple of steps and I was at the top of a curving wrought–iron staircase. I tested my weight against the first step and then I heard a man's voice, high and shaky, like he was near the edge of something.

"Look, you guys are making a mistake, okay? I mean…I
know
people, understand? Whatever problem you got, I can take care of it. Just sitting here
looking
at me isn't doing you any good, right?"

I followed the staircase toward the voice. Halfway down, the darkness faded. Indirect lighting bathed the basement floor, coming from some concealed panels. A fat man was sitting in one of those huge beanbag chairs, one hand on each side for balance, staring into a dark corner like it held all life's secrets. The Mole was hunkered down against one wall at the side of the chair, his satchel open in front of him. His big head swiveled to cover the room, a stocking mask stretched over his thick glasses. He looked like a malignant frog.

The man's eyes rolled over to me as I came down the stairs. He watched me approach, relief coming into his face.

"Hey, are
you
in charge? These guys"

"Don't talk," I told him.

It didn't have any effect. "What difference does it make, man? This whole place is soundproofed, okay? I mean…take a look around."

I did. The walls were lined with dark–brown cork, the ceiling covered with acoustic tile. Even the rug on the floor felt like it was covering a thick rubber mat.

"So nobody can hear the kids scream?" I asked him.

"Hey! What is this?" he yelled at me, trying for a hard edge to his voice.

I cocked the pistol. He winced at the sound. I stuck the gun into his fat face, depressing the skin under his right eye. "I. Don't. Have. Time," I told him, pushing at his face with every word.

"Whaaat?" he moaned. "Just tell me…"

"I want the
pictures
. I want the
film
. I want the
lists
. I want the
money
."

The fat man wasn't going to bargain like his wife. "It's upstairs. All upstairs. I swear…down here there's just some money…in the workbench….just walk–around cash…It's all in the bank…Tomorrow morning, when the banks open, I"

"Shut up!" I told him, backing away. The workbench drawer had three short stacks of bills. I tossed the money to the Mole. It went into his satchel. The basement looked like a kid's playroom—stuffed animals, dolls, a hobbyhorse, electric trains in one corner. I checked behind the only door, but there was nothing except the oil burner and a hot–water heater. A back door opened into the extension to the house. I walked through it quickly. No windows to the outside, and the floor was concrete like the driveway. All designed so they could pull the van inside and discharge its cargo. And take pictures of kids.

It was time to disappear.

"Your wife is upstairs," I told him. "She's okay—just sleeping. I'm going to give you a shot too. When you wake up, the police will be here. You say whatever you want to say—make the best deal for yourself you can. You mention me or my people, I'll find you again, wherever you are. Understand?"

He nodded, still trying to talk. "Look—you don't need the shot—I mean, I got a bad heart, you know? I'm on medication. Tomorrow I can get you all the money you want"

The Mole took a hypo out of his satchel, pushed the plunger, watched the thin spray, nodded to me. A shadow moved from a corner of the basement, flowed behind the fat man. He was jerked to his feet, one arm braced in front of him, veins clearly visible.

"We'll do it upstairs," I told the Mole, gesturing to Max to bring the fat man along.

I took the curving staircase first, listening. Nothing. Then came the Mole, with Max last. We stopped at the landing; the fat man stood against one wall, breathing much too fast.

"We need the fire now," I said to the Mole. "Something that started in the boiler."

He nodded, returned the hypo to his satchel, and went back downstairs.

The fat man was still having trouble with his breathing, sucking in gulps of air and trying to talk at the same time. I pulled off one glove to scratch at the mask, letting him see the tattoo.

"You guys! I know your bossI mean, we have a contract, right? We got no problem…"

I put the glove back on as if I hadn't noticed what set him off. "Shut up,' I said, talking the way a machine talks.

The fat man never tried to make a move—combat wasn't his game. But it seemed like he had to find out mine—he couldn't keep quiet.

"What would it take?" he asked.

"I'm just doing a job," I told him, in the same mechanical voice.

"Look, you don't get it, okay? It's not like anyone got
hurt
, all right? Kids…they get over it. It's just a business.

I could feel the heat coming off Max, but I was empty inside. All maggots have a story to tell, and I'd heard most of them by then.

The Mole walked up the staircase, satchel in one hand. A day at the office. He held up a palm, fingers spread wide. Five minutes to ignition.

I took Scotty's picture from my pocket, held it up to the fat man's face. I was really showing Max that we'd rescued the kid, but the fat man decided I wanted an explanation.

"Hey! I remember him. Is that what this is all about? Hey,
look
, man that is one sexy little kid, you better believe…I mean, he
loved
lapping it up…It's not like I started him off or anything…"

I saw red dots in front of my eyes where his face should have been. I gripped the pistol handle so hard my hand throbbed, hearing the sound of the shot in my mind, willing myself not to pull the trigger.

"Don't!" the fat man screamed, clasping his hands in front of his chest like he was praying. I heard a sharp hiss from the darkness where Max was standing, and then a sound like a meat ax driving into bone. The fat man's neck snapped to the left—and stayed there. Max released him and the body slumped to the ground.

The Mole dropped to his knees, doing his job even though we all knew it was over. "Gone," he said.

"The jailhouse or the graveyard," I'd told the Prof. Now it really didn't matter if the old lady upstairs was dead. I gestured Max to pick up the fat man's body and we all went back downstairs. I could feel the clock ticking in my head—the boiler was going to go. "He tried to escape the flames—ran up the stairs. Slipped and fell. Broke his neck," I said to myself. We hauled the fat man halfway up the stairs, to the place where they started to curve. Leaned him across the railing and pushed him over, face first. The silent basement swallowed the sound of his fall.

"Go!" I said to the Mole, pointing to the back of the house. Max's shadow followed him back into the basement.

I pushed the button on the radio transmitter, telling the Prof I'd be hitting the front gate any minute. I still had a little piece of time left to finish what I had to do—even when the boiler went off it wouldn't reach the first floor for a while. I ran back upstairs to the big office room, grabbing handfuls of the filth, throwing it all around the hallway, dusting every room with pictures and film. I pushed a few of the cassettes back in the safe and slammed it closed, thankful for the gloves I was wearing—no time to wipe everything down.

I checked the bedroom. The woman was still lying on the bed, like she hadn't moved. Maybe she never would.

I charged down the stairs, the gun in front of me, my ears sucking in every sound, waiting for the sirens. I heard a crackling sound from someplace in the basement.

I opened the front door a narrow slit, poked my head out. The street was quiet. I made sure the door wasn't going to lock behind me, patted my pockets to check I had everything, and charged for the fence. I dropped down on the other side—the driver's door was hanging open. I dove inside and the Prof leaped out of the way—he had the car in gear, holding the brake pedal down with his hand.

I looked over my shoulder—the basement windows were full of flame. I heard an engine jump into life somewhere down the street. Wolfe's surveillance team shot straight past us, heading toward the house. I kept rolling smoothly, flipping on the headlights when I turned the corner.

The Plymouth was waiting where it was supposed to be. Nobody was following, so I flashed the lights and Michelle pulled in behind me. We took the Throgs Neck Bridge over to the Bronx, pulling off the road just past the tolls, doing the same number with the jumper cables just in case.

I left the Prof to watch the cars, pulling everyone else into the shadows.

"I got it," I told Michelle. "Anybody answer when you called?"

"Sure did," she replied. "It was a man.

"No, it wasn't," I told her, lighting a cigarette for the first time since we got out. "Any trouble?" I asked the others.

"Just the fence," said the Mole, rubbing his side. He and Michelle went back to the cars.

Max was still in the dark cloth, but the hood was off his head. He watched the Prof approach us, made the gesture of a man taking a picture, moved his hand in a "come here" sign. He wanted the Prof to see the picture. I held it out to him. The mercury–vapor lamps they use on the bridge threw a cold orange light down on all of us. Max held the picture in both hands, waiting for the Prof to look and see what he wanted. He tapped his finger against the picture of the man in the clown suit—then his head suddenly twisted to one side.

"You understand?" I asked the Prof. He had been with us—he had a right to know.

The little man nodded his head. "It means the clown went down."

94

T
HE MOLE took the Cadillac back to the Bronx. Max got back in the trunk—explaining his night–stalker getup to a passing cop would be too much trouble. We found a turnaround and headed home.

"I'll have the money in a couple of days," I said to the Prof. "Where should I drop you?"

"It's too late for the Men's Shelter—let me try Grand Central."

"Michelle?"

"Home, baby."

I drove the Plymouth into the warehouse. Immaculata appeared while I was opening the trunk for Max to get out.

"It's done," I told her.

Immaculata examined Max like he was a piece of jewelry she was going to buy someday—her eyes going over every inch. She touched his chest, feeling his body, making sure. Max suffered in silence, his face stony. But his eyes were soft.

I bowed to them both. As I backed out of the warehouse, I could see Immaculata patting her stomach, gesturing to Max—the life–taker was a life–maker too.

95

I
WAS all over the midday papers. I liked the
Post
's version best.

FIRE REVEALS KIDDIE PORN RING!

A fire late last night that killed a Queens man and hospitalized his wife led startled firefighters to discover the couple was operating a "major kiddie–porn ring" from the comfort of their Little Neck mansion, police said.

Killed in the blaze was George Browne, 44, who lived in the house at 71 Cheshire Drive with his wife Bonnie. Mrs. Browne, 41, was taken to nearby Deepdale General Hospital suffering from smoke inhalation.

Firemen, alerted by a telephone call to the emergency 911 number, arrived shortly after the fire ignited at about 10:00 p.m., and had the blaze under control by 10:45.

It was while they were examining the damage, which a Fire Department spokesman called "moderate," that firemen made the shocking discovery of "literally hundreds of kiddie–porn photographs," the spokesman said. The firemen immediately notified the police, she added.

Captain Louis DeStefano of the 11th Precinct said that in addition to the Polaroid photographs, a "substantial amount" of undeveloped film and "several videotape cassettes" were also seized.

"I'm shocked. I'm absolutely shocked," a stunned neighbor, Elsie Lipschitz, told the Post. "They kept to themselves a lot, but they were always very polite when you saw them on the street. I can't believe it," she said.

Although the Fire Department and the couple's neighbors were caught off guard, the
Post
has learned that the $450,000 house at the end of the quiet cul–de–sac has been under police surveillance and that George Browne was arrested twice for child molesting in recent years.

In 1978 Browne, who listed his occupation as "entertainer," was arrested on felony molestation charges that were eventually dropped. Two years later, he was arrested again, and ultimately pleaded guilty to endangering the welfare of a minor—a five–year–old boy from upstate, according to police sources.

Browne's charred body was discovered at the bottom of the basement stairway. An apparent broken neck has led cops to theorize he was trying to escape the fire—which may have begun with an explosion in the boiler, according to firemen—when he was overcome by smoke and fell down the stairway. An autopsy is pending.

Among the first cops to arrive on the scene were detectives conducting round–the–clock surveillance for the City–Wide Special Victims Bureau. Assistant District Attorney Eva Wolfe, who heads the bureau, would only say that the surveillance was "part of an ongoing investigation." She declined to say when the investigation began.

Mrs. Browne has not yet been arrested, ADA Wolfe said, adding that charges are expected to be filed "soon."

A hospital spokesman said the woman's condition is satisfactory.

The Prof was reading over my shoulder. "When people can't learn, they're bound to burn," he said.

The blues are the truth.