Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [115]
Pansy popped her head up from the front seat, snarling at all the noise. I heard another squeal from the G.T.O.'s tires and it was gone. The light was still red.
It was getting dark. Time to start making the phone calls, checking my traps. I wanted to drop Pansy off at the office, but I was short of time. The leader of the Real Brotherhood seemed like a patient man, but he was raised the same places I was—places where if your name went down, your body wouldn't be far behind.
I pulled up behind Mama's, opening Pansy's door to let her out. She prowled the walls of the narrow alley, finally relieving herself against both of them. She sniffed the air, a soft growl coming from her throat. I don't know if it was the smells from Mama's kitchen or whether she missed old B.T.
I let her back in the car and went inside through the kitchen. My table in the back was empty like it always was—Mama's heavy dinner crowd didn't fill half the joint—she kept the prices high and the ambience foul to discourage yuppies.
"Trouble?" she asked, approaching my table, her voice soft.
"No trouble, Mama. But I have to make a bunch of phone calls—and I have Pansy with me. Out in the car."
"This new puppy, Burke?" She knew my old Doberman, Devil.
"She's not really a puppy anymore, Mama."
"Big dog?"
"Big dog," I assured her.
"Maybe keep puppy in basement, okay?"
"Perfect, Mama. Just for a little while, right?"
"Sure," she said, doubtfully. "I tell cooks everything okay. Come."
I followed her back to the kitchen; she fired some Cantonese at the collection of thugs.
"Go get puppy," she told me.
I snapped Pansy's leash on. She lifted her head, wondering what was going on. She only got the leash when she was going to be around citizens. When we walked through the back door, one of the cooks made a sound like "Eigh!" and backed all the way into the stove. They all started talking at once—arguing about something. Pansy sat at my side, drooling. They couldn't be sure it was the food. Two of them were pointing at the beast's head, standing chest to chest, screaming at each other. I couldn't make out a word. I had started to the basement with Pansy when Mama held up her hand.
"Burke, what country this dog from—don't say word, okay?"
I should have known—all the screaming and yelling was about some dumb bet—and Mama was looking for the edge. Mama's alleged cooks would stab you in the stomach and then bet you how long it would take you to die.
"Pizza," I told her, under my breath.
Mama charged into the argument, adding her own voice to the din. Finally, she pointed to one of the cooks.
"Germany?" she asked me.
"No," I said.
She pointed to another.
"England?"
I said "No" again, watching their faces.
"China?" she asked, pointing to a young man in the corner.
"No," I told her again. "The dog is from Italy."
A smile broke out on Mama's face. She made me say it again, so everyone in the room would get the benefit of her wisdom. Everybody bowed to her. I didn't see money change hands, but I figured their pay envelopes would be a little short that week.
Pansy snarled her way down the steps to the basement, threatening the darkness. Mama switched on the lights—the place was filled floor–to–ceiling with boxes, some wood, some cardboard. Drums of rice stood to one side. There was still another basement below this one—I remember one time when the cops were looking for Max and they thought he was down there. They waited two days to find me to ask him to come out quietly.
"Puppy want food, Burke?"
"Sure, Mama. Whatever you think is best."
She bowed. "I come back soon," she said, and went back up the stairs. More screaming and yelling in Chinese erupted—I think the cooks wanted a rematch. She came back down with a volunteer helper; he was carrying one of those giant stainless