Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [57]
I found the spot I wanted and pulled all the way in, leaving the Plymouth with its nose pointing back out to the road. The redhead was right behind me, but she didn't have room to turn around—like I wanted it.
I killed the engine.
Her door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass. She stalked over to where I was sitting, her little fox face set and hard.
"You all through playing games?" she snapped.
I got out of the Plymouth, reaching for the flashlight I keep in the door panel. I walked past her to the BMW, opened the door, and shone the light inside. Empty.
"Open the trunk," I told her.
The redhead made a hissing sound, but she turned and reached inside her car for the keys. I shined the light on her to help. She was wearing what looked like half a normal skirt, reaching over to the middle of her thighs. It had vertical black and white stripes and was topped by a wide black belt. Her stockings had dark seams down the back of her legs. She bent inside the car to get the keys—it was taking too long.
"Having trouble?" I asked her.
She looked back over her shoulder. "Just wanted to make sure you got a good look," she said, a bright smile on her face.
"Just get the keys," I told her, an edge to my voice.
She gave her hips a sharp little wiggle, then turned around with the keys in her hand. She walked back to the trunk, opened it, and stood aside. I shined the light inside. Lots of junk, but no humans. I pulled up the carpet, looked inside the spare–tire well. Nothing there either.
I gave her back the keys. "Follow me to the street," I told her. "We'll find a place to park your car and you can come with me."
"No way!" she snarled. "Go with you where?"
"Someplace where we can talk, okay?"
"We can talk right here."
"You can talk here if you want. You want me in on the conversation, you come with me.
"And if I don't?"
"Then we don't talk."
She ran her fingers through her fiery hair, front to back, thinking.
"Julio…" she started to say.
"Julio's not here," I said.
The redhead gave me one of those "You better not be fucking around with me" looks, but that was her last shot. She climbed back into the BMW and started the engine. I pulled the Plymouth away and headed out of the park.
38
I FOUND an empty spot on Metropolitan Avenue, pulled past it, and waited. She wrestled the BMW into the space, put a big piece of cardboard in the side window, and walked over to me. I got out and went over to look at what she left. It was a hand–lettered sign—"No Radio." I thought all BMWs came with those signs straight from the factory.
She slammed the Plymouth's door closed with all her strength. I made a U–turn on Metropolitan back toward the Inter–Boro eastbound. We pulled onto the highway, following the signs to the Triboro.
"We're going into the city?" she asked.
"Just keep quiet," I told her. "We'll talk when we get there."
She didn't say anything else. I checked the mirror. It was a relief not to have her driving lights burning in my eyes. Just before the turnoff to the Long Island Expressway, I pulled off into Flushing Meadow Park. She opened her mouth to say something, but I held my finger to my lips.
Nobody was following us, but I didn't want her saying where we were going in case Michelle's search had given her some ideas.
"How come you use those driving lights even when there's traffic in front of you?" I asked her.
"They look nice," she said, as if that settled things.
I circled the park slowly until I came to the parking lot on the east side. A few cars were already pulled in, facing the sewage the politicians named Flushing Bay. The cars were spaced well apart, the windows dark. The cops used to make a circuit through here, flashing their lights. If they saw two heads in the window they kept on going. They stopped when the merchants on Main Street complained they needed more coverage of their stores.
Couples used to park back in