Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [104]
A few years ago a suspected UGL triggerman was busted for blowing away a dope dealer who took his business too near an elementary school. The federales offered him pure immunity—a walkaway if he'd testify about the organization. No sale.
The gunman's trial was no revolutionary showcase—very straightforward. He pleaded "not guilty," claimed the dealer had a gun too and was beaten to the draw. Pablo was just one of a dozen character witnesses, all neatly dressed, solid citizens. No revolutionary slogans, no picketing, no clenched fists in the air.
The defense attorney was good—a hard piece of work. A heavy–set, bearded guy from midtown, he pounded away at what a slimeball the dead dealer had been, never compromising, fighting the prosecutor and the judge every step of the way. The gunman was tried for murder— the jury was out three days and finally came back with manslaughter. The judge gave the gunman five to fifteen.
Everybody walked over to congratulate the defense attorney. He'd done a hell of a job to pull this one out—if the gunman fell for murder, he was looking at twenty–five to life. The lawyer sat at the counsel table, tears in his eyes, bitter that he hadn't won the whole thing. Not too many lawyers like that left, and they're worth whatever they cost.
The gunman went upstate and did some good time—a man of respect. He never had a blank visiting day, his commissary account was always full to the brim. And his wife hit bolita—the Spanish numbers game—for a big piece of change. Just lucky, I guess, but it took good care of his family while he was down.
When he hit the bricks, they threw a block party for him that lasted four days. He's still on parole, a driver for the ambulance service that works out of Pablo's clinic. To the cops, he's another ex–con. To his people, he's a POW returned to his home country.
If it was business, I would have called first. From a safe phone. But I just wanted to talk. I pulled the Lincoln into the empty space that's always in front of the clinic. Before I could even turn off the ignition there was a tap on the window. The glass whispered down into the door with a push of the little button. The guy tapping on the window wasn't too tall, but his width matched his height. A head the size of a basketball grew out of massive shoulders without benefit of a neck. Half his face was covered with old razor scars surrounding a glass eye—and that was his good side. The guy was ugly enough to need an exorcist.
"No parking here, hombre," he snarled.
"I'm here to see Pabloel doctor?"
"Who you?"
"Burke," I said.
The monster held out his hand, palm up. I pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them over. He growled something and left.
He was back in a couple of minutes, his lips twisted in what he probably thought was a smile—his teeth were broken stumps. He jerked a thumb in a hitchhiker's gesture. I climbed out of the Lincoln. A young guy in a bright–red shirt worn outside his pants came up. The monster handed him the keys and the young guy climbed inside. They'd leave the Lincoln someplace—I could pick it up when I left. UGL's version of valet parking.
The monster gently shoved me ahead of him, guiding me through the maze of cubicles inside the clinic. A Spanish woman in a white nurse's uniform sat at the reception desk, the hard lines in her face the price of survival, not marring her beauty. The monster nodded to her as he prodded me forward, paying no attention to the activity around him. Phones rang, people yelled at each other, doors slammed. The people in the waiting room looked subdued, but not dead the way they do in the city hospitals.
Pablo's office was all the way in the rear. He was typing something on an ancient IBM when we came in. His eyes sparkled behind the round glasses he wore as he jumped to his feet to greet me. Pablo's got to be damn near as old as I am, but he looks like a young man. With his clear brown skin and neatly cropped hair he could get by any Puerto Rican mother in the world. He has four children that I know about and