Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [58]
I pulled in between an old Chevy with a jacked–up rear end, "José and Juanita" painted on the trunk in flowing script, and a white Seville with fake wire wheels. Lights from the incoming planes to LaGuardia reflected off the black water.
I cracked my window and lit a cigarette. By the time I turned to the redhead, she was already unbuttoning her blouse.
39
WHAT THE HELL are you doing?" I snapped at her, my voice louder than it should have been.
"What does it look like?" she asked. "I'm showing you I'm not wearing a wire." She smiled in the darkness, her teeth so white they looked false. "Unless you have your little whore–friend with you in the back seat…" she said, looking over her shoulder.
"There's nobody here," I told her.
She kept unbuttoning the blouse like she hadn't heard me. She wore a black half–bra underneath, the lace barely covering her nipples. The clasp was in front. She snapped it open and her breasts came free, small and hard like a young girl's, the dark nipples pointed at me in the cool air. I didn't say anything, watching her. When I felt the cigarette burn my fingers I pushed it out my window without looking back.
The redhead reached behind her and pulled the wide belt loose. "I have to unzip this. I've got a big ass for such a small girl and the skirt won't go up. I'm sure you noticed."
I wanted to tell her to stop but maybe it was a bluff…maybe she was wired and this was a game. I kept quiet.
The zipper made a ripping sound. She wiggled in her seat until the skirt was down past her knees. Her panties were a tiny black wisp, the dark stockings held up by wide black hands across her thighs. If she was wired it had to be inside her body.
"Yes?" she asked.
I just nodded—I'd seen enough. But she took it the other way. She hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her underpants and pulled them down too. There wasn't enough light to see if her flaming hair was natural.
"Look out the window—smoke another cigarette," she hissed at me. I heard her struggling with her clothes, muttering something to herself. A tap on my shoulder. "Okay, now," she whispered, and I turned around.
"You have another cigarette for me?"
I gave her one and struck a wooden match. She came close to catch the fire. She didn't move her face, but her eyes rolled up to look at me.
I reached over and took her purse from her. She didn't protest while I went through it. She had her own cigarettes, a matchbook from a midtown restaurant, a few hundred in cash, and some credit cards. And a metal tube that looked like lipstick. I pulled off the top. Inside was a nozzle of some kind and a button on the base. I looked a question at her.
"Perfume," she said.
I pointed it outside the window and pressed the button. I heard the thin hiss of spray and smelled lilacs. Okay.
"I'm listening," I told her.
The redhead shifted in her seat so her hips were wedged into a corner, her back against her door, legs crossed, facing me.
"I already told you what this was about. I want you to do something for me—what else do you need to know?"
"Is this a joke? You're nothing to me—I don't owe you anything."
"It's not a joke. I'm not a joker." She drew in hard on her cigarette, lighting her face for a second.
"You don't owe me but you owe Julio, right?"
"Wrong."
"Then why did you do that other thing?"
"What other thing?" I asked her.
"In the park…"
"You're riding a dead horse, lady. I don't know anything about a park. You got me confused with someone else."
"Then why did you come out here at all?"
"Because you're pushing me. You're playing some silly rich–girl's game. I want you to get off my case, and I wanted to tell you to your face so you'd get it."
"I don't get it," she snarled at me. "And I won't get it. You work for money—like everyone else—I've got money. And I need you to do this."
"Get