Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [43]
"When I was a young man, the worst thing you could be was an informer. The lowest thing. That's all over now—you can't count on anything," he said.
"You said that already. When I was a kid, it used to be 'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time.' Now it's 'Don't do the crime if you can't drop a dime.' " The old man made a dry sound in his throat—it was supposed to be a laugh. "Only now it's a quarter," he said. The laugh never reached his belly, like the smile never reached his eyes.
"I still want to know what this has to do with me, Julio. It's your family, not mine."
"Yeah. My family." He took a breath, turned his flat eyes on my face. "Gina is my family," he said, as if that settled it.
"Whose idea was it to send that clown with my money?"
"Okay, it was wrong. I know. She wanted him to do it—I didn't see the harm. There was no disrespect. You got your money, right?"
I just nodded.
"Did Vinnie get stupid?" he wanted to know.
"Vinnie is stupid," I told him.
Julio didn't say anything. Being stupid wouldn't disqualify Vinnie from employment.
"The girl threatened me," I said. "Like I do her work or else…"
"She don't know no better, okay? When she wants something, she's like a crazy person. I'll talk to her."
"Do that. I'd appreciate it."
"It's done," he said. The old man put his hand in his pocket, came out with a roll of bills wrapped in a rubber band. He handed it to me. I pocketed the money, waiting.
"For your trouble," he said.
"My past trouble or my future trouble?"
"For the past. I apologize. I never thought she'd go all the way on this."
"You know what it is?"
The old man took a breath. The smoke came out his nose in two faint wisps. He took too long to think about the answer. "Yeah," he said. "That picture."
Now it was my turn to just nod. The jackpot question was still on the table.
"I just walk away? No problems?" I wanted to know.
"Burke, you want to walk, you walk. But if you did this thing…for the girl …if you did it, I would be grateful. You would have my gratitude, understand?"
I nodded again. A hundred feet away the two cars stood in silence. They looked like two giant dogs, nosing each other to see who was in control. It was a good question.
The old man walked over to the Caddy. He never looked back. His door closed; the Caddy backed away from the Plymouth and pulled out with a chirp of tires on the pavement. I was alone.
27
I SAT in the front seat for a minute, lighting a cigarette and looking around. The pier was empty. I didn't expect anything else. There was no need for Julio to have me followed—I don't advertise in the Yellow Pages, but people know where to find me if they want to bad enough.
The bridge was quiet too, that time of day. I drove slowly back to Manhattan, thinking my thoughts, trying to put it together. I was making the turn onto Allen Street when this old fool stepped right in front of the Plymouth. I hit the brakes just in time. Instead of apologizing, the old bastard gets red in the face and screams, "Why didn't you blow your horn?" A real New Yorker. "If I'd known you were fucking blind, I would've!" I shouted back. I live here too.
I pulled into the alley behind the old industrial building near the Hudson where I have my office. It's all been converted to "living lofts" and the landlord is making a bundle. Except on me. I unlocked the garage and drove the Plymouth inside. The back stairs go all the way up to the top floor, where I have the office. Steel doors block the stairway at the top and bottom. There's a sign that says the doors have to be kept unlocked in case of fire, but it's always too dark to read it. The top floor has a door near the front stairs and another near the back. The one near the back is sealed from the inside—I haven't tried to use it in years. The other door has a fat cylinder set into the middle—when you turn the key, a bolt drives into both sides of the doorframe and into the