Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [12]
"Don't fucking move! You got that? You fucking sit there and you listen when I talk, you understand? I ain't no fucking nigger you can just walk away from—I'm talking to you."
I looked at him, saying nothing. There was nothing to say—Julio sent me a messenger boy with some dangerous delusions. It's hard to get good help nowadays.
"You show me some respect, huh?" barked the Cheech. "You ain't no fucking better than me."
"Yeah, I am," I told him, nice and calm and gentle. "I think about what I'm going to do before I do it. Now you think about it. Think about me coming here alone. Think about how you're going to get out of this alley if you pull the trigger. Think about what you're going to tell the old man. Think about it…then think about what you have to say—and say it."
The Cheech tried to think and hold the gun on me at the same time. It was too much work and his brain overloaded. The snub–nose trembled in his hand for a second and he looked at it as if it had tricked him. When his eyes came back up to me, he was looking at the sawed–off shotgun I was holding in my right hand.
"I'm listening," I told him. But he had nothing to say. "You know how to load that thing?" I asked him. "Or did someone do it for you?"
"I know…" he mumbled.
"Then fucking unload it, kid. And do it slow—or I'm going to blow your pretty gold chains right through your chest."
He pointed the pistol up, popped the cylinder, held it upside down, and slowly dropped out the bullets. They made a soft plopping sound as they hit the ground. There was so much wet garbage in that alley you could have dropped a safe from a ten–story building without too much noise.
"Listen to me," I said, calm as an undertaker. "You made a mistake. You even think about making another one, go make out a will, understand?"
He just nodded. It was an improvement.
I tapped the gas and the Plymouth rolled out of the alley, heading home. By the time I crossed Flatbush Avenue, my hands had stopped shaking.
6
THE PLYMOUTH slowly made its way down Atlantic Avenue. It wasn't the fastest way back from Brooklyn, but it was the quietest. I eyeballed all the antique shoppes and trendo restaurants which had sprung to life in the last few months—the wino–rehab centers and storefront churches never had a prayer. The new strip runs from Flatbush all the way down past the Brooklyn House of Detention—pioneer–yuppie lofts with stained–glass windows sat over little stores where you could buy fifty different kinds of cheese. Some of the stores still sold wine, though not the kind you drank out of a paper bag. But news of the urban renaissance hadn't filtered down to the neighborhood skells yet—it still wasn't a good idea to linger at a red light after dark.
I turned up Adams Street, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge. The first streaks of filthy daylight were already in the sky. The Family Court was on my right, the Supreme Court on my left. It works good that way—when the social workers are done with the kids, the prisons can take them.
The newsboy was standing on the median strip just before the entrance to the bridge. He had a stack of papers under one arm, hustling for an honest buck. Motorists who knew the system beeped their horns, held their arms out the window, and the kid would rush over, slap a paper into your hand, pocket the change, and keep moving. Every once in a while a patrol car would decide the kid should work some other corner, but mostly the cops leave the kids alone.
I pulled into the Left Turn Only lane, ignoring the sign like everyone else. When I hit the horn, the kid came over. I pushed the switch to lower my window and took a close look: black kid, about fifteen, husky build, Navy watch cap over a bushy Afro. I waved away the Daily News he offered.
"Roscoe working today?" I asked.
"Yeah, man. He working. 'Cross the way, you know?"
I already had the Plymouth rolling, timing it so I'd get caught at the light. I watched