Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [35]
"Who're you trying to kid? After what you did in the…?"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" I snapped at her. "You really want to talk, you'll get your chance, okay? You want to make some tapes for the federales, you make them someplace else. Got it?"
She got it. Her face got hard again, like I'd insulted her, but she didn't say another word. Two hard dots of red stood out on her cheeks—not her makeup.
The big Plymouth worked the city streets the way it was created to dopassing through traffic as anonymously as a rat in a garbage dump, eating the potholes, smoothing the bumps, quiet and careful. The tinted windows were up on both sides, the air conditioner whisper–quiet, watching the streets.
I spotted the first bunch of working girls on 37th. Business was always slow this time of day, but the girls who worked the trucks and cabs for a living had to try harder than their sisters across town. On Lexington Avenue, the girls wore little shorts–and–tops outfits—over on the West Side, they worked the streets in bathing suits and heels. Even that was more subtle than you'd find elsewhere in the city—over in Hunts Point, they work in raincoats with nothing underneath.
Nothing but hard–core pros over here—black women who hadn't been girls since they were twelve, white ladies too old or too out of shape for the indoor work. The pimps kept the baby–faces for the middle–class trade farther east—the runaways worked Delancey and the Bowery or strictly indoors. I love the words some of the jerkoff journalists use in this town…like "call girls." The only thing these ladies ever used a phone for was to call a bail bondsman.
I slid the Plymouth to the curb. A tall black woman with a silky wig swivel–hipped over to the window, wearing one of those spandex suits, the green metallic threads shimmering in the sun. Her bright smile never got near her eyes.
"Looking for something, honey?"
"For someone. Michelle. She around?"
"You her man, baby?" the whore wanted to know, casting a sly glance at the Plymouth—it wasn't exactly your standard pimpmobile.
"Only if someone gets stupid with her," I told her, just so she'd know.
"Honey, I'm out here in this heat about some money, you understand?"
"You find her and bring her back over here, I'll pay one trick's worth—deal?"
"I don't work blind, man," she said, all business now.
"Tell her Burke needs to talk with her."
She seemed to be thinking it over—looked past me to where the princess was sitting, nodding her head like she understood what was going on. Traffic was slow—her sisters strolled the sidelines, bored but watchful. It had been a long time since they'd seen anything new—or anything good. Finally, she made up her mind. "I get a half–yard for a trick, baby. That's the price for bringing Michelle around, okay?"
There was no trick in the world this woman could get fifty bucks for, but insulting her wasn't going to get the job done.
"I'll pay you your piece, okay? Let your manager go look for his commission someplace else. Fifty–fifty, right?"
She flashed me a quick smile and swivel–hipped her way back to the other girls. No car–trick whore splits fifty–fifty with a pimp, but letting her think I believed that myth was worth the discount—for both of us. It's a sweet life out on the stroll in this city—every street–whore has a guaranteed time–share in the jailhouse. And the emergency ward is her only pension plan.
I pulled the Plymouth through a wide U–turn into the mouth of the construction site, reached in my pocket for a smoke, and got ready to do some waiting.
22
THE REDHEAD wasn't good at waiting like I was— I could tell her life hadn't been like that. Too fucking bad. I let my eyes roam around the flatlands, watching the whores work, checking for any backup the redhead might have brought along. It's easy to tail a car in the city, but anyone following us would have to be some distance away or I'd have spotted them by now.
She shifted her hips on the bench seat, recrossed her legs. The silk–on–silk sound was smooth and dry to my ears. Like a gun being