Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [114]
I didn't say anything—I had a lot of questions but it wasn't my turn to talk.
"She told Victor no weapons—if someone made a move on them with a gun, he was supposed to turn over the bag he was carrying. He was just muscle, okay?"
I nodded. The woman wasn't worried about a hijack—Victor was there to intimidate the people who supplied the kids. He could do that just by being himself.
"You're sure she has this picture?" he asked. "No question," I told him.
"This means she has others—that she does this all the time?"
"It's what she does," I told him.
The leader was wearing his sunglasses even inside the garage, but I could feel his eyes behind the dark lenses. "I'm a thief," he said, "just like you are. We don't fuck kids."
"I know that," I said.
"Some of our guys…they're a little crazy…like B.T. He'd stab a nigger just to stay in practice, you know?"
"I know."
"But none of us would do little kids. Our brotherhood .
I bowed my head slightly. "You have everyone's respect," I told him.
"We do now," he said, his voice soft. "If word got out that we were involved with kids like this…"
"It won't," I said.
He went on like he hadn't heard me. "If that word got out, we'd have to do something serious, you understand? We can't have anything hurt our name—people would get stupid with us."
I kept quiet, waiting.
"We give you the information you want—you going to try and buy this picture from her?"
"If she'll sell it."
"And if she won't?"
I shrugged.
"Victor made a lot of those cash runs for her," he said. "A couple of day–care centers, private houses…even a church. There has to be a fucking lot of those pictures around."
"Like I said—she's in the business.
The leader ran his fingers through his hair—I could see the tattoo on his hand. His voice was still soft. "Her name is Bonnie. The house is on Cheshire Drive in Little Neck, just this side of the Nassau County border. A big white house at the end of a dead–end street. There's a white wall all around the property—electronic gate to the driveway. Big, deep backyard, trees and shrubs all around. Two stories, full basement, maybe some room in the attic too."
"Anything else?" I asked him.
"She has that schoolbus you talked about—a little one, maybe a dozen seats in the back. She uses the big, fat guy as the driver.
"Any security in the house?"
"I don't know," he said. "The Real Brotherhood—we play it straight—we weren't even thinking about taking her off."
I handed him two grand, all in hundreds. "That square us?" I asked him.
He smiled. "I'll take B.T.'s money out of this," he said.
I held out my hand. He took it—his grip was firm, but not a bone–crusher. I wouldn't give B.T. the same opportunity.
"I'm going to move fast now," I told him.
"Do what you want," he said. "Take your time. She put down our name, you understand?"
I nodded—someday soon, B.T. was going to get the idea the woman was a front for the NAACP.
I slammed the door in Pansy's face, waved a clenched fist to Bobby to thank him, and drove the Plymouth out of the garage.
84
EVEN PANSY felt the difference in the Plymouth as it purred along, heading back to the office. Bobby had done a beautiful job. I rolled to a stop at a red light on Atlantic near the Brooklyn–Queens border. An orange G.T.O. screeched to a stop next to me—two kids in their street racer. The passenger rolled down his window, smiling at me while his partner revved the engine, waiting for the light. I raised my eyebrows in respect for their dragster, and stomped the gas just as the light changed. I heard the G.T.O.'s tires squeal, hunting for traction on the rough road, but the Plymouth leaped ahead as though their orange machine was tied to a stake. The speedometer needle flicked at seventy before I backed it off for the next red light. I heard the G.T.O. roaring behind me,