Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [118]
No lights were on in the house. I found my way into her white living room and took off my coat. I took out a cigarette, scraped the wooden match into life. As I touched the tip of the cigarette to the flame, I heard her voice. "Me too," she whispered, floating into the dark room, bending her face forward to the flame. A lollipop stick of marijuana was in her mouth.
I held the light for her, watched her puff to get the joint going and then suck in a massive breath. She floated away from me to the couch—the tip of the joint was a glowing pinpoint in the dark room.
"You having a séance?" I asked her.
"You afraid of the dark?" she retorted.
"I'm afraid of a lot of things," I told her.
"I know," she said, dragging on the joint again, holding her breath, expelling it in a hiss.
"It'll be over soon," I said. "I'm getting close."
"To the picture?"
"To the person who took the picture. I can't be sure the picture is still around—like I told you. But I think I can get some answers soon."
"You want me to do something?"
"I just want an answer to something. I have a couple of more things to do—then I'm going to the people who took the picture, okay? But the picture may be with a whole bunch of other pictures. I may not have time to look through them all—you understand?"
"So?"
"So what if I just destroy all the pictures? Make sure there aren't any pictures left. Of anybody."
Another drag on the joint, red tip blazing, sharp intake of breath, hiss when it came out. "I want to see the picture," she said.
"I'll do my best. But I'm not hanging around if things go bad, see? Scotty wasn't the only one—I'm sure of that now. The people who took the picture, they're in the business, understand?"
"Yes."
"I don't know how much time I'll have once I get inside."
She took a last drag and the joint went out; maybe she just pinched off the tip—I couldn't tell.
"You want to get inside now?" Strega said, coming off the couch toward me.
"No," I told her.
"Yes, you do," she said, standing next to me. She dropped to her knees, the black gauze fluttering behind me. Bat's wings. Her face was in my lap, her hands at my belt. My hand dropped onto her back, feeling the fabric—and the chill.
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
I watched my hands grip the arms of the chair; the veins stood out. A picture formed on the back of my hands—below the waist I was somewhere else—the picture formed and I could see my passport into the woman's house.
I felt myself go off, but her mouth stayed locked to me for a long time. She reached back one hand, pulled off the gauzy wrapper—her body was a gleam of white.
Strega took her mouth from me, wrapping the gauze around me, cleaning me off, tossing the fabric to the floor.
"You didn't even have to ask—I know what to do," she whispered against my chest.
I stroked her back. It felt too smooth to be a person.
"I'm a good girl," she said, her voice certain and sure of itself, the way a kid gets sometimes.
I kept stroking her.
"Yes?" she whispered. "Yeah," I said. We stayed like that for a long time.
"I'LL be right back," she said, her voice strong and hard again. "I have to get something for you." She got to her feet and padded away.
The downstairs bathroom had two matching sinks; a telephone was built into a niche near the tub. I caught my reflection in the mirror—it looked like a mug shot.
When she came back downstairs, I was standing next to the wall–size window in the living room, watching the lights in the yard. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe; her hair was wet, copper–colored in the soft light.
"This is for you," she said, opening her hand for me to see.
It was a thick gold chain the size of my wrist—each link must have weighed a couple of ounces. I held it in my hand, feeling the weight. It was solid enough to be a collar for Pansy.
"It's beautiful," I said, slipping it into my pocket.
"Put it on," Strega said, reaching into my pocket to pull