Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [119]
I thought of the tattoos on B.T.'s wrists. "I don't wear chains," I told her.
"You'll wear mine," she said, fire–points in her eyes.
"No, I won't," I told her, my voice quiet.
She stood on her toes, reached behind me to pull at my neck—she was so close I couldn't focus on her eyes. "I'll keep this for you—I'll sleep with it next to my body. When you come back to me—when you come back with the picture—you'll put it on."
I put my lips against her—she pulled her face away.
"Bring me that picture," she said, turning her face to the window.
I left her standing there, looking like a little girl waiting for her father to come home from work.
87
THE PLYMOUTH took itself back to the office. I had to call Wolfe in a couple of hours; no point in trying to sleep.
I kicked my feet up on my desk, a yellow pad in my hand, and jotted down notes of what I knew, telling myself I was putting it together. When I opened my eyes, it was almost eight in the morning. Somebody had written Bruja on the pad and crossed it out—I could read the word through the scratches.
I took a shower, waiting for Pansy to come down from the roof. Checked the phone—clear to call. The number Lily gave me for Wolfe rang a couple of times.
"City–Wide."
"Ms. Wolfe, please."
"This is she."
"It's Burke. I'd like to talk to you about something."
"Yes?"
"In your office—if that's okay."
I could feel her hesitate.
"I have something to give you—something that will be of value in your work."
"What?" she asked.
"I'd prefer to show you." Another silence. Then:
"You know where my office is?"
"Yes."
"Make it nine o'clock. Give your name to the desk man."
"There isn't much time," I told her. "I live all the way up in Westchester County—the traffic and all…"
"Nine o'clock tonight, Mr. Burke."
She hung up. I went back to sleep.
88
THE DAY came up bleak—dirty skies, a cold wind hovering over the city, waiting its turn. I blocked it all out, walking through the case inside my head, looking for a handle to grip. I didn't walk around while I was thinking—one of the first things you learn in prison is not to pace, it just underlines that you're in a cage. If you stay inside your head, you can go over the walls.
I'd been playing this all wrong—not paying attention to all the tuition payments I'd made in jails and hospitals over the years. Something about this case was making me afraid, but that wasn't so strange. I'm scared most of the time—it keeps me from getting stupid. But I'm used to being scared of the usual things—like being shot or doing more timenot this bruja nonsense Pablo told me about. You ever watch a fighter who slugged his way into a championship bout decide he's a fucking boxer and blow his big chance? You have to go with what got you there. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, thinking it over. Crime had never made me rich, but it kept me free. And it was what I knew best.
I didn't get started until late afternoon, taking my time about getting ready. I picked over my clothes, looking for something that wouldn't make the people in Wolfe's building nervous. I found a black wool suit with a faint chalk stripe hanging in the closet. It was brand–new, but a bit rumpled from storage—car trunks do that. I matched it with a white shirt—genuine Hong Kong silk, which is like saying "virgin vinyl." And a plain black tie. I washed my hair and combed it the best I could. Shaved carefully. Polished the black half–boots. I checked myself out in the mirror. Clothes do make the man—instead of looking like a thug who worked the docks, I looked like a pilot fish for a loan shark.
I folded some money into one pocket, took a couple of other things I needed out of the desk, and shut the place down. Pansy raised one eyebrow, still near comatose from the cubic ton of Chinese food. I told her I'd be back late and took the back stairs to the garage.
I checked my watch. A little past six. Plenty of time to have something to eat, get my mind right for the meeting.
When I first rolled past the restaurant, the blue dragon tapestry was in the window.