Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [14]
I didn't need a disguise—it's no great feat for me to look like a used–up wino. And the Mole always looks like the lunatic he is—not the kind of human you'd want to make eye contact with on the subway. Max can adjust his posture and muscles in his face so he looks like an old man, and that's what he was doing.
The deal is this: If anybody hassles me, I take any amount of abuse that won't cripple me or make me lose the papers. If anyone moves on the Mole, Max steps in, leaving me carrying and clear. And if anyone moves on Max, me and the Mole just sit there and watch. It never takes long.
But that night we weren't alone in the subway car. First this Oriental woman gets on at 14th Street. She was wearing a black cape with a red silk lining over a white silk dress. It buttoned to the throat, but the straight skirt was slit to past mid–thigh. Heavy stage–type makeup, overdone eye shadow, spike heels. Maybe some Off Broadway lames were reviving Suzie Wong. She looked at me without expression, didn't even glance at Max or the Mole. She sat there primly, knees together, hands in her lap. Her eyes were unreadable.
And we rode together like that until we got deep into Brooklyn, where the wolfpack boarded the train. Two white kids and a Puerto Rican, dressed alike in the standard hunting outfit: leather sneakers, dungaree jackets with the sleeves cut off, gloves that left their fingertips exposed, studded wristbands, heavy belts with chains dangling. One carried a giant radio, the others were empty–handed. They checked the car quickly, eyeballing the girl.
But they were looking for money, not fun. A fast score from some working stiff. And Max was the target.
Ignoring me, they surrounded him. One sat down on each side; one of the white kids remained standing, facing Max. The spokesman.
"Hey, Pop—how about twenty bucks for a cup of coffee?"
Nobody laughed—it wasn't a joke.
Max didn't respond. For one thing, he doesn't speak. For another, he doesn't pay a lot of attention to bugs.
I glanced over at the Mole under the brim of my hat. The yellow–orange subway lighting bounced off his thick glasses as he buried his head deep into some papers. He never looked up. The skells weren't paying any attention to me, just concentrating on Max. One of the white kids snatched Max's old raincoat, jerking the lapels toward him to pull Max to his feet. But nothing happened—I could see the muscles ripple in the kid's arm as he strained, but it was like he trying to pull up an anchor. The other maggots crowded in, and the Puerto Rican kid snarled, "Give it up, old man!" The other white kid started to giggle. He pulled out a set of cheap brass knuckles, the kind they sell to kids in Times Square. He slowly fitted them over one hand, made a fist, smacked it into an open palm. The slapping sound brought the Mole's head up for a second. Max never moved.
The kid with the brass knuckles went on giggling to himself while the other white kid struggled to pull Max to his feet and the Puerto Rican kept up a steady stream of threats. None of them was in a hurry.
Then the girl got to her feet. I could hear the tapping of her spike heels as she closed the gap between herself and the maggots. They never looked her way until she hissed at them: "Hey! Leave the old man alone!"
Then they spun to her, delighted with new prey, abandoning Max. The Puerto Rican kid was the first to speak.
"Fuck off, bitch! This ain't your business!"
But the woman kept closing on them, hands on hips. Now the whole wolfpack had its back to Max, moving toward her. The white kid was still giggling, still slamming his brass knuckles into an open palm. The woman walked right into the center of the triangle they formed. As the white kid reached a hand toward