Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [11]
The street was quiet, but you could feel the joy swelling out of the bodegas and the bars. The big kid lay where he dropped—I scanned the street, but his running buddies were nowhere in sight. About what you'd expect. And the old man was back on his milk crate, being with his friends.
When the old man heard the bell, he knew what he had to do. Maybe he was past talking about it, but he could still do it. When I looked around again, the big kid was gone. And so were my blues.
5
THE THIRD shift was just getting started when I wheeled the big Plymouth up Flatbush Avenue to the gas station. I pulled up to the high–test pump, told the jockey to fill it up, and watched the shifty–eyed slob pour an extra twenty–eight cents' worth of gas down the side of my car just so the total would come out even and he wouldn't have to count to make change. When he came around to the window, I just said "Julio?" and he nodded toward the back. Before he could ask for his cash, I flicked the lever into Drive and took off.
As soon as I pulled behind the station and saw the white Coupe de Ville I knew Julio had sent one of his stooges to make the payoff—the old man's idea of a class act. The white Caddy had the driver's window down—the guy inside picked up the Plymouth and was opening his door even before I came to a stop. Just what I expected: a full–race Cheech— about twenty–five years old, blow–dried hair over a blocky face sporting an Atlantic City tan and dark glasses, white silk shirt open to his chest so I could see the gold chains, dark tight pants, shiny black half–boots. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show me muscular forearms, a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist, a thin gold watch on the other. Central Casting.
The Cheech stepped out of his Caddy, flicking the door shut behind him, strolling over to me.
"You Burke?" he wanted to know.
"Sure," I told him. I wasn't there for the conversational opportunity.
"I got something for you—from Mr. C."
I held out my left hand, palm up, keeping my right where he couldn't see it.
"I got ten big ones here," he said, tapping his front pocket.
I didn't say anything—the jerk was unhappy about something, but it wasn't my problem.
He peered into the Plymouth, watching my face. And then he came out with it. "You don't look so tough to me, man. Whatever you did for the old man—I coulda done it."
"Give me the fucking money," I told him pleasantly. "I didn't drive out here to listen to your soap opera.
"Hey, fuck you, you don't want to listen! Money talks, right?"
"I don't know, kid. But the money you're holding for me better walk, you understand?"—opening and closing my hand a couple of times so he'd get the message.
The Cheech took off his dark glasses, hooked them over his dangling chains, acting like he was really thinking about not paying me—or acting like he was really thinking, I couldn't tell which. Then he decided. He handed over the envelope without another word, something still on his mind. I tossed it into the back seat, giving him something else to think about. I took my foot off the brake and the Plymouth started to roll forward.
"Hey!" he said. "Wait a minute."
"What?"
"Uh…look, man. You ever use anyone else on jobs…you know. I could always use some extra coin, right?"
"No," I told him, my face flat as a prison wall.
"Hey, just listen for a minute, okay? I got experience, you know what I'm saying?"
"Kid," I told him, "I got warrants out on me older than you," and started to roll forward again.
The Cheech's hand went in his pocket again,