Footsteps of the Hawk (13 page)

"What would I do if I didn't—?"

"Fight? Fuck, what do I care? Take up fishing, go into group therapy. Find a good woman and have a dozen kids. Join the motherfucking Peace Corps. It don't matter what you do, you'll have
choices,
see? That's what it's about. That's your trip ticket, Frankie. First day you walk out of the joint, freedom looks as fine as a brand–new Cadillac, don't it? But that kitty ain't going nowhere 'less you got the gas money, right? The honey's in the hive, son—ain't no way you get nice without paying the price. You with me?"

"Yeah," Frankie said slowly, nodding his head, a heavy lock of black hair falling over his forehead. He looked closer to sixteen than twenty–six.

"We fight this Cuban guy next," the Prof said. "Montez. Big stupid fuck, got a whole bunch of KOs against patsy setups. Fights like a schoolyard bully—looks for the fear in your face. And he can't hit backing up. But he's got a nice record, maybe eleven straight. We take him out, the next one's for real cash, see? Do him in one, and the deal is done, got it?"

"I got it, Prof," Frankie said.

"Go run your sprints," the little man replied, turning back to me.

"S
prints?" I asked the Prof. "I thought fighters did road work."

"That's all bullshit," he responded. "It ain't no marathon the kid's training for. He runs fifty yards full tilt, then fifty half–speed. Then he jogs for a couple of hundred, then he starts again. What you need in the ring is not to get tired, but this ain't no footrace—the other guy's
hitting
you, all right? Frankie's got to be able to go in
bursts
…full–tilt, all–out, pedal–to–the–metal. And he's gotta be able to do that every round. He does that and, sooner or later, the other guy goes to sleep. I been studying this all my life—I know what I'm doing."

"Did you ask Max—?"

"I ain't asking that Mongolian misfit
nothing
, understand? I'm training a fighter, not a fucking Zen Buddhist."

"Okay, Prof, don't get worked up. I was just—"

"Flapping your gums," he finished for me. "How many times I saved your sorry ass, schoolboy?"

"Too many to count," I acknowledged.

"And now you come around asking me to do it again, right? And you're gonna give
me
advice? Fuck a whole bunch of that!"

"Hey, I'm sorry, Prof. I was just trying to help."

"You want to help, stay on the shelf. I'll handle Frankie."

"Okay," I surrendered. Then I went back to telling him about Belinda.

"W
hat the fuck is
that
?" I heard a voice asking just as I turned the corner to the doorway area of the gym. I took another couple of steps and saw a Latin bantamweight with a kit bag in one hand. He was facing Clarence, who was seated at the front desk, one hand idly scratching behind Pansy's right ear. Pansy eyed the Latin like she had a taste for Mexican food, but she didn't make a sound.

"This is a pit bull, mahn," Clarence told him, straight–faced.

"There ain't no pit bull in the world that big," the Latin guy challenged.

"This is a
West Indian
pit bull," Clarence told him, embellishing the lie to give it texture. "Direct from the Islands."

"Damn!" the Latin guy responded. "You know where I could get one?"

"No, mahn, that is not possible. Listen to me now It is not enough that you go
to
the Islands, you must be
from
the Islands, understand? These are very, very special dogs…"

The Latin eyed Pansy dubiously, indecision all over his face. "You…fight him?" he asked.

"That is not done," Clarence said, his tone dead serious, not bothering to correct the Latin's gender error. "On the Islands, these dogs are not for fighting other dogs. We love our dogs."

"Yeah, but—"

"These dogs only fight people, mahn. Understand?"

"I guess…" the Latin said, walking past me, shaking his head.

I took a seat on the desk, looked at Clarence. "A West Indian pit bull?" I asked.

"I think that is probably true, mahn," Clarence replied, deadpan. "You see how royally she stands. You see the pride in her carriage. That is nobility, mahn. It does not matter where she came from, Pansy is a West Indian in her heart. I know this."

"Yeah, okay," I agreed, being reasonable.

But Clarence wasn't going for it. "I can prove it, Burke. You watch this. Watch close now." He reached into one of those little iceboxes that look like tool chests, came out with something that looked like a fat dumpling. Pansy immediately started salivating, eyes almost spinning with rapture. "May I tell her the word, mahn?" he asked.

I nodded. Clarence said "
Speak!,
" tossing the dumpling in Pansy's general direction. She snapped it out of the air like an alligator—a perfect one–bite chomp.

"That, mahn, was a Tower Island beef patty. Pure Jamaican. I tell you something else, too. Pansy, she
loves
Red Stripe. You see, her natural diet is West Indian."

"You might be right," I acknowledged, not bursting his bubble. Truth is, Pansy would eat damn near anything—she has a digestive system like a trash compactor and no taste buds. I snapped the lead on her collar, threw Clarence the clench, and got back into the Plymouth.

I
was up early the next morning. Called Mama from a pay phone. Two messages. One from Hauser, the other from Belinda. I dialed Hauser. "It's me," I said.

"I got into the morgue at the
Daily News
," he said. "Got all the clips, right from the beginning. When are you going to have the other stuff ?"

"Maybe today," I told him. "I'll call you back. Where are you gonna be?"

"My office," he said, and hung up.

Belinda grabbed her phone on the first ring, said "Burke, I was hoping—" before I said anything.

"Do you have the—?" I asked.

"Yes! I went by your place earlier, but…"

"But what?"

"Maybe I went to the wrong address. I mean, it looked like it did before, but—"

"Where did you go?" I asked her, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

"The place on Mott Street. You know, the—"

"I. don't have a place on Mott Street," I told her quietly. "If you want to see me, use the telephone, understand?"

"Okay. I just thought—"

"That's enough," I interrupted. "You don't want me coming to your place, don't come to mine."

W
e made the meet for eleven, in the park behind the Criminal Court. That's where she wanted it—maybe out in the open so she could have her people watch better than they did last time. It didn't bother me. The park is really part of Chinatown—I could get the job done there too.

I walked up Broadway, past the giant Federal Building, which houses everything from Social Security to the FBI. The building's biggest business is Immigration—the hopefuls start lining up hours before the place opens.

On the wide sidewalk in front of the building, dozens of merchants had set up shop, selling everything from jewelry to perfume to bootleg videocassettes. Different kinds of food, pastries, fresh vegetables. Children's books, street maps, umbrellas. They were packed so close together it was hard to move along the sidewalk. All cash businesses, every single one. And right behind them, the IRS slumbered, unaware and uninterested, too busy terrorizing honest citizens to care about the outlaws.

Belinda was already there when I rolled up, sitting comfortably on a metal cross–brace to some permanent outdoor exercise equipment. The park is a monument to filth, full of pigeons rooting around for the take–out food tossed onto the ground every day. At night, the homeless take over. And rats replace the pigeons.

She waved when she saw me. Or maybe the wave was to tip off her backup—no way to tell.

I walked closer, changing my stride enough so she'd know I'd seen her. She bounced off the exercise bar, landing lightly on her feet. "Where's that big dog of yours?" she asked. "What's her name again…?"

"Betsy," I told her, not missing a beat. The difference between a professional liar like me and a garden–variety bullshit artist is that I always remember the lies I tell.

"That's right." She brightened. "Betsy. I really liked her. She liked me too, didn't she?"

"Sure did," I replied, doubling up on the lie. "You have that stuff with you?"

"In my purse," she said. "I thought we could go someplace. Inside. You live around here?"

"No," I said. "But if you do…"

"I'm not ready for that yet," she said, watching my face too closely.

I didn't push it. "I know a restaurant," I said. "It's a little early, but maybe it's open…"

"I'm game," she replied. "Let's try it."

W
e walked slowly through the twisting back streets, heading for Mama's. The white–dragon tapestry was hanging in the window, alone. Belinda's expression didn't change, like she'd never been there before. Okay. I opened the front door, ushered Belinda inside. Mama looked up from her cash register, asked "How many, please?"

"Just us," I told her.

"Sit anywhere," Mama said dismissively, going back to her ledger book. Anytime I come in the front door, she knows something's up. There's a button under her cash register. She pushes it and a light starts flashing back in the kitchen. A red light.

I led Belinda to one of the middle tables, staying away from my booth in the back. A waiter came out after a few minutes, silently handed us each a plastic–coated, fly–specked menu, the kind they give tourists. Mama has a lot of businesses, but selling food isn't one of them—the last thing she wants in her joint is repeat customers.

Belinda told the waiter what she wanted. He gave her a mildly hostile look, said something in Cantonese. "They don't speak English here," I told her. She finally pointed to the menu, ordered the #2 combination plate: pepper steak, fried rice, egg roll. The whole package cost $4.95, a bargain on the surface.

I knew what kind of bargains Mama served up, so I just ordered a plate of fried rice.

Belinda wanted a Coke—I asked for water.

The waiter left. I lit a cigarette. "At least he seemed to understand 'coke.'" Belinda smiled.

I nodded, editing out a half–dozen stupid comments I could have made. I felt the tip of Belinda's sneaker tapping at my ankle. It didn't feel like she was playing—or that she was nervous either. I kept my face empty, put my left hand under the table. Belinda met me halfway—handed me a thick envelope of some kind. I took it from her, left it on my lap.

The waiter brought the food, slapping it down on the Formica table with sullen indifference. I checked out Belinda's combination plate. The green peppers looked soggy, the steak was a suspicious two–tone chocolate color, age–ringed like an old tree. And the fried rice they gave her didn't resemble what was on my own plate.

Belinda didn't seem to notice. "I didn't have breakfast," she said by way of explanation as she dug into the food. I ate my rice in silence.

"Ugh!" she said suddenly. "This Coke is flat."

"This water's no bargain either," I told her.

"Why do you come here, anyway?" she asked.

"I live in a hotel," I told her. "No cooking facilities. Better the devil you know…"

She flashed another smile. "It's all there," she said quietly. "Some of the photocopies aren't that good—I didn't have that much time."

"I'm sure it'll be okay," I told her.

We finished the meal at about the same time. The waiter dropped a check on the table, face–up. It came to twelve bucks and change—bogus addition is another way Mama keeps her customers from coming back. I left a five and a ten on the table. Unless Belinda had the digestive system of a goat, she was going to pay
her
share later on that day. As we passed by the cash register, Mama said "Come again," with all the passion of an embalmer.

The envelope felt heavy in my inside jacket pocket as we strolled back to the park. Belinda let her hand rest on my right forearm, her soft rounded hip occasionally bumping me as we walked. "Are you already working on it?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You want to tell me—?"

"No."

"Okay, don't get hostile. We're on the same side, right?"

"Me, I'm doing a job," I told her. "We had a deal—I'm living up to my piece of it."

"Is that a subtle way of asking for the money?"

"It'll do."

"I don't have it," she said. I clenched my fist so the muscles in my forearm tightened, giving her my response. "But I'll get it," she finished quickly. "It has to come from…George. Like I told you, the—"

"Trust fund," I put in, just the trace of sarcasm in my voice.

"It's
true
," she said, in a pouty girl's voice. "You can check it out for yourself."

"What I want to check out is five thousand dollars. Like we agreed. One week, five C's, right?"

"Right. What I'm trying to tell you, if you'll just give me the chance to
say
something, is that
I
don't have it…but Fortunato does. I already spoke to him. You can go by his office anytime, pick it up yourself."

"He's gonna leave a package for me at the receptionist's desk?"

"Stop being so mean," she said. "He wants to talk to you—what's so strange about that?"

"Which means I got to call him, make an appointment, all that, right?"

"Well, I guess…"

"Guess again, sister. If you think I'm gonna work this job for you on spec, you need therapy. I work the same way Fortunato does. You know how it goes: money in front, all cash, no big bills. And no refunds."

"That's okay. I mean—"

"Here's what
I
mean," I told her quietly. "I already started this thing. And I still haven't seen any money. I'm not gonna spend a week chasing this lawyer. Call him. Tell him I'll see him today. Anytime he wants. But
today
, understand? I don't get the money today, I'm out of this."

"Okay, okay,
okay
," she spit out rapid–fire. "I'll call him. You'll get the money today, I promise."