Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [39]
"Okay," I told her.
The redhead. ran her fingers through her hair in an absent–minded gesture. The diamond flashed on her hand. "My best friend has a…"
"Hold it," I told her. "Where's the money?"
"You listen to me first."
"No way."
"I thought only lawyers got money up front. You're only a private detective."
"Lady, you don't have the slightest idea what I am," I said, "but I'll give you a hint. I'm a man who's going to listen to your story—after you put five hundred dollars on the table."
Her hand darted into her purse. Out came five new century notes. She fanned them out—held them up. "Is this what you want?" she snapped.
"It's half of what I want."
"You mean you want a thousand?"
"I mean I want you to tell me your story and then get out of my life—like we agreed," I told her.
She released her grip on the money. It dropped to the seat between us. The street was still quiet—plenty of people around, but no problems. I picked up the money and pocketed it.
"So?" I asked her.
"My best friend, Ann–Marie. She has a little boy, only two years older than my daughter. He was in like a nursery–school thing during the day. Someone there did something to him. A sex thing. And they took pictures of him. We didn't even know about the pictures until the therapist. explained it to us. But the boy, Scotty, he keeps saying they have his picture. Like they have his soul."
"This picture…he's doing something in it?"
"I think he must have been doing something…but he won't tell us. The therapist is working on it. I think if he got that picture, and we tore it up right in front of him…then maybe he'd be okay again."
"Just one picture?"
"That's what he said—he saw the flash."
"Lady, that picture's either in some freak's private collection or it's out on the street. For sale, you understand? It's just about impossible to come up with the stuff you want. And even if I found one print, the people who do the marketing make thousands of copies. It's a better business than cocaine: as long as you have the negative, you can make as many copies as you want."
"All we want is one picture…he's too young to know about making copies. I want to be there when we tear it up in front of him."
"It's a real long shot, you understand?"
"Yes. But it has to be done."
I looked directly at her—the little gangster princess wasn't going to take no for an answer. She wasn't used to it. "Why come to me?" I asked.
She had the answer ready. "Because you're friends with the Nazis."
24
I LOOKED straight ahead through the windshield, trying to get a grip on what she just said. If she knew about the Nazis, then she knew about some of the scores I'd pulled over the past few years—home–grown Nazis are a con man's delight. Knowing an old hotel address was nothing, it wasn't the trump card she thought it was. But the Nazi thing—she could hurt me. A cold wind blew through my chest. She held better cards than I thought.
Nothing moved in my face. I lit a cigarette, throwing the question at her out of the side of my mouth. "What're you talking about, lady?"
"Julio said you were friends with them. In prison. He saw it himself."
The weight came off my chest. Those Nazis were a different breed.
"Julio's got a lot of medical problems, doesn't he?" I asked.
"What medical problems? He's in perfect health, specially for an old man.
"No, he's not," I told her, my voice quiet and calm now. "His eyesight hasn't been good for a long time. He's losing his memory. And his mouth is out of control."
She understood what I was saying. I wouldn't have to do anything to the old man myself—if some of his bloody brothers got the word that Julio was writing his memoirs, he was gone.
"He only told me," said the redhead, her voice tight with tension, trying to convince me. "He wouldn't tell anyone else."
"Sure."
"I mean it. I made him tell me. I was desperate, okay?"
It wasn't okay. I took a close look at her. I might have to describe her someday and I didn't think she'd pose for a picture. The red hair framed