Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [117]
I went back inside the restaurant, killing some time until Lily would be available. One of the waiters brought me some soup and a plate of fried rice and beef, green pea pods lancing through the mixture. Mama walked by, smiling. She tossed the News on the table in front of me. I scanned the headlines. Half of Queens County was getting indicted. Politicians were grabbing their lawyers in one hand and their guts in the other and dashing to the courthouse, offering everyone they knew in exchange for immunity from the deals they'd done together. That's why they call it the rat race.
The sports pages read like the front pages—one role model was using cocaine, another was going into an alcoholism rehab program. Another claimed he threw a prize fight.
But on the racing page I saw my horse again. Flower Jewel, running in the eighth race against the same collection she had faced last week. I checked my watch—not even nine–thirty yet.
Maurice didn't answer until the sixth ring—probably a lot of late action coming in.
"It's Burke," I told him.
"No kidding?" he said. Maurice didn't have the manners of a pig, but he was taking lessons and hoped to be right up there soon.
"The eighth closed yet?"
"Not until ten—where've you been, fucking Idaho?"
"Flower Jewel," I told him. "Three to win."
"Flower Jewel, eighth race. Three to win. That right?"
"Right," I said.
"Send your man around tomorrow with the money," Maurice said, slamming down the phone.
I went back to my dinner, wondering if even Pansy could eat all the food Mama had left down in the basement for her.
I lit a cigarette as the dishes were cleared away. Flood's face drifted up from nowhere, floating in the smoke—I ground it out in the ashtray, but it didn't help.
Lily herself answered when I called SAFE.
"It's Burke," I told her. "Did you speak with Wolfe?"
"Yes, I did."
"And?"
"And she gave me a number for you to call—anytime between eight and nine in the morning."
"She'll talk to me?"
"She just gave me the number to give to you."
I hadn't expected Lily to get over with Wolfe so easily—McGowan had been my backup plan. If he did get around to calling tomorrow, it wouldn't hurt. I sure as hell wasn't going to call him back and tell him to forget it—he'd be sure I was up to no good.
"Okay," I said. "The kid's been coming for treatment?"
"Right on time. But his mother doesn't want to be involved."
"The redhead?"
"Yes."
"She's not his mother."
"Oh. Will his mother?"
"I don't know. I'll see about it, okay?"
"Just so long as they keep bringing the child."
"I'll talk to his people. And thanks, Lily."
"Be careful," she said, hanging up.
I said goodbye to Mama and collected Pansy from the basement. She was still behind the barrier, but the steel container was as clean as if it had been washed. I could see her teethmarks on the rim.
Pansy was happy to be home, insisting on visiting the roof for old times' sake. I had a couple of hours before I had to meet Strega. I found a pro wrestling match on television and lay back on the couch to watch with Pansy. She growled in contentment—if she could have nailed B.T. it would have been a perfect day.
86
THE MOON's cold light never penetrated to the dark streets, but I felt it deep in my spine as I wheeled the Plymouth past the burnt–out buildings on Atlantic. The radio was talking about Marcos settling down in Hawaii. He split the Philippines a few weeks ago, traveling light—a couple of loyal subjects, and the gross national product of his entire country for the last dozen years. A major–league scumbag.
I cut the engine, letting the Plymouth coast around to the garage in back. The door was standing open. Only the BMW was there. I backed the Plymouth inside, found the button, and closed the door. Waiting in the darkness.
A door opened. I could see her back–lighted silhouette standing there, weaving slightly—a candle flame in a gentle breeze.
I climbed out of the Plymouth. When I looked up again, the doorway was empty. I went through the opening and saw her gently floating up the stairs. Her body