Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [10]
"Used to be Oklahoma—I don't know."
"This is home now, brother," I told him, handing him a buck and watching his face light up. Maybe I'll never buy the world a Coke—although I know some Colombians trying to do just that—but at least I can buy a man a drink. Even so, the blues were still winning.
Across Fourth Street near Avenue C, another light, another stop. Paul Butterfield was singing "I've got a mind to give up living" through my car's speaker and the music wafted out into the thick city air. I had lit a smoke, and was thinking my thoughts, when I heard her voice—"You like that sad old music, hombre?"—and my eyes were pulled to a Puerto Rican flower: glossy raven hair hanging loose and free, big dark eyes, lips as red as blood before it dries. She was perched on a stoop near the curb, a shiny white blouse tied just under her heavy breasts, creamy skin tapering to a tiny waist and flaring out dramatically in pink toreador pants. One spike heel tapped out a rhythm on the hot sidewalk.
"The blues are the truth, little girl," I told her—and she swivel–hipped her way up to the Plymouth to hear what else the stranger had to say.
She was fifteen years old—or thirty—I couldn't tell. But she'd never again be as beautiful. Every eye on the street followed her. I looked over to the stoop where she'd been sitting and I saw four men sitting. Watching.
The Puerto Rican flower was no whore—she was a fire–starter. She bit into her lower lip, making it swell against the pressure, leaning one perfect hip against the Plymouth.
I only had a minute to make up my mind, but it was no contest—she was for sale all right, but the price was a war with at least one of the watching young bloods. I wasn't buying—young blood gets hot, and hot blood gets spilled.
"What's your name, honey?" she wanted to know. And I knew she never would. I took one of her hands in mine, the red–lacquered nails gleaming in the sun. "Make today last, beautiful girl," I told her. I kissed her hand, and drove off.
It wasn't going to be my day—I knew the feeling. I drove aimlessly, the music playing, getting it under control. It wasn't nice, but I'd do the time—I'd done it before.
I went back across the bridge, past the House of Detention, telling myself that being depressed on the street was better than being depressed in jail, but it only worked for a couple of blocks.
I parked on Nevins Avenue to get some smokes, sat on the hood of the Plymouth, and lit one up. In no hurry to go nowhere. Right across from me were three old black guys—impossible to tell how old—wearing winter coats in the warm weather, sitting on some milk crates, passing around a bottle of wine, talking to each other about something. Minding their own business, sitting in the sun. Not all clubhouses have doors and windows.
Then I saw the pack of punks bopping up the street on the same side as the old men. Four white kids; they all had those weird haircuts, short and spiky in front, long in back, streaks of bright color and sticking up. They were dressed in short–sleeved leather jackets. One sported a long black cane with an eagle's head on top and probably a sword inside. Another one had a collar around his neck that looked like it belonged on a bulldog. They all were wearing black half–gloves, the kind that leave your fingertips out and knuckles bare. The punk with the cane came first, the others fanning out behind him. Then the biggest one moved up on the outside wing of the flying wedge, bouncing up the street throwing left jabs at anyone who came by—the others laughing as people fell over themselves to get out of the way.
As they passed by the old men, the big one fired a vicious jab square into the chest of one of them, knocking the old–timer right off his crate. I stepped off the hood of the Plymouth, reaching into my pocket for the roll of quarters I always keep there to pay tolls—but before I could move, the old man shook his head violently and struggled to his feet. He rubbed his face with both fists, drew a deep snarfling breath through his nose, and shuffled