Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [110]
I spent the next two days asking soft questions in hard places. Marking time until the week was up and I could return Bobby's Lincoln. I called him from a pay phone on Twelfth Avenue, near Times Square.
"It's Burke. My car ready?"
"Yep. Running like a watch. When's the last time that thing had a decent tune–up?"
"I don't know—didn't think it needed one."
Bobby made a growling sound in his throat—abusing good machinery made him crazy.
"You have any luck with that other thing?" I asked him, heading off a lecture on auto mechanics.
"Sure. No problem. Pick up your car this afternoon. About four, okay? We'll talk then."
"I'll be there."
"By yourself," he reminded me.
"I'll be the only person in the car," I told him. Pansy was going to get a ride in a Lincoln.
83
THE MASTIFF sniffed the Lincoln like it was an enemy dog—circling around a couple of times, pawing at the tires, burying her giant snout in the front seat.
"It's okay," I told her, but she took her time, getting it right. Finally, she climbed into the back seat, growled a couple of times, then flopped down. She was half asleep by the time I wheeled onto Atlantic Avenue.
It was just past four o'clock when I pulled up. This time it was Bobby himself sitting on the crate in front of the garage. He raised a fist in greeting, hitting a switch to open the door so I could pull the Lincoln all the way in. My Plymouth was parked just inside, nose aimed at the street.
"I could've painted it while it was here, but I figured you'd rather keep it the way it was," Bobby said.
"That's right, Bobby. Thanks."
But I wasn't getting off that easy. He insisted on taking me through everything he'd done to the car—piece by piece. "What you got here is a complete tune–up, Burke. Valves adjusted, points and plugs, carb cleaned and rejetted, timing reset. And we aligned the front end, rotated and balanced the tires. Changed all the fluids—power steering, transmission. Had to bleed the brake lines—you got silicon fluid in there now. Had to adjust the bands in the tranny too. It runs perfect now."
"What do I owe you, Bobby?"
Bobby waved my offer away.
"Let's hear how it sounds," I said with an enthusiasm I didn't feel.
Bobby twisted the key—it was so smooth it sounded like a turbine. Pansy recognized the sound—her monster's head appeared in the windshield of Bobby's Lincoln. He heard something, looked.
"What the fuck is that?" he asked me.
"It's just my dog, Bobby." I went over and opened the Lincoln's door, slapping my hip for Pansy to come to me.
"Jesus H. Fucking Christ!" Bobby said reverently. "How much does it weigh?"
"I don't know—maybe one forty or so.
Bobby made a full circuit around Pansy, checking her lines. He didn't try and kick the tires.
"Could I pat it?" he asked.
"Pansy, jump!" I snapped at her. She hit the deck, lying prone, her murderer's eyes the color of the East River, watching Bobby the way she watches food. "Go ahead," I told him. "She won't do anything now.
Bobby had enough sense to squat down so Pansy wouldn't think he was trying to dominate her. He scratched behind her ears. "I never saw anything like this outside of a zoo," he said. Pansy made a gentle rumble in her throat—like a subway pulling into a station. "Is he mad?" Bobby asked, still scratching.
"No," I told him. "That's when she's happy."
"It's a girl?"
"Sure is," I said.
Bobby got to his feet. "The other guys are out back, Burke. Okay?"
"Okay. You want me to leave Pansy out here?"
"Fuck no," Bobby said. "She might eat one of the cars."
Bobby led the way, me following, Pansy taking the point position to my left and just slightly in front of each stride. She knew what to do now—she was working.
There was only one car in the back this time—the Mustang. And three men—two a few years older than Bobby, the other more like my age. They