Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [28]
Okay—I was ready for him. We went over the thing a dozen times. He had me tell my story out of sequence, did his best to trip me up—it always played the same. But slowly he got a few more details out of me.
"Tell me again about this guy who approached you.
"I already told you," I said. "About thirty years old, long hair, almost like a hippie, dirty army jacket. He was carrying a piece in a shoulder holster—didn't care if I saw it or not. Said his name was Smith."
"And he told you?"
"He told me he had this stuff, right? And it belonged to your people, okay? And I should make arrangements to sell it back to him for two hundred grand. And all I had to give him was one fifty—the rest was for me."
"You thought he stole it?"
"I didn't know how he got it, right? What did I care? I figured the old man would be happy to get his stuff back—I'd make some heavy coin—it'd be a wash, right?"
"You ever see this 'Smith' character again?"
"He didn't show up at my trial, that's for fucking sure."
"Mr. Burke, think back now. Is there anything about this guy that would help us find him?"
"You got pictures I could look through? Maybe he's one of your own.
"He's not," snapped the lawyer.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," I acknowledged. "He was like one of those buffs, you know? A real whacko."
"A 'buff'?"
"Yeah, like those guys who carry around PBA cards and pretend they're fucking off–duty cops and shit. You know what I mean."
His eyes flickered, just for a second, but I'd been watching for it. "Why do you think this individual was in that category?"
"Well," I said slowly, "two things, really. Besides the shoulder holster, he had another gun strapped to his ankle. And when he reached in his wallet to come up with the front money I wanted…for the supplies…I saw a gold shield. I guess it was one of those complimentary badges the cops give you if you make some contribution."
The lawyer screwed around for another hour or so, but his heart wasn't in it. I read in the Daily News three weeks later how an undercover narcotics officer was killed in East Harlem. Shot four times in the face, but they left his money alone. Only his gold shield was missing.
17
BUT THAT was years ago. Today I left seven grand with Mama. Max would know that five was for him and he should hold the rest for me. There was no time for Mama's endless nonsense about Max, but I did have time to eat before I went back to the office to change. I had a court appearance for the afternoon, and I wanted to look my best.
Even though it was just a preliminary hearing, I normally wouldn't go into a criminal court. There wasn't any point pretending I had a private investigator's license, and even a flyweight defense attorney would have a ball asking me where I'd spent twelve years of my life. I testify a lot in civil court, though—matrimonials and crap like that. And I'm a lot more honest than the lawyers: I charge a flat rate for perjury, not so much an hour. But this was a special case.
It really started in Family Court, where this woman came in to get an Order of Protection against her husband. Seems they were showing a film about child sexual abuse in school and one of her daughters started crying and the whole sleazy story came out. Anyway, she gets this Order, and he's supposed to leave the house, but he comes right back in and starts screaming at the kid how the whole thing is her fault and how she's going to go to an orphanage and stuff like that. And the poor little kid just plain snaps out—she was only ten years old—and they take her to this psychiatric hospital and she's still up there. The slimeball naturally takes off, and the woman hired me to find him. It only took a couple of days. I threw a quarter into a pay phone and the Warrant Squad picked