Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [61]
"This was on the man's hand?" I asked her.
"Yes."
"Back of his hand?"
"Yes."
"What did you do?" I asked her.
The redhead took a breath. "I showed the drawing to Julio. He took one look and said, 'Jailhouse tattoo.' I asked him if there were Nazis in prison. He said he really didn't know too much about it. I pressured him—I made him tell me. And that's when I got your name—he said you knew them."
41
IT WAS cold out there by the water, especially along my spine. We had a deal—I had listened to her story and now I could walk away. But I wanted to buy some insurance—make her understand that I wasn't the man for the job anyway.
"Julio's full of shit," I told her in a flat voice.
"I know," she said, quiet and soft.
"I mean about the Nazis. I don't know them—they were in prison with all of us—nobody knows them—they keep to themselves, you understand?"
The redhead twisted in my lap until she was facing me. She grabbed the lower half of my face like I had done to her. I could smell the perfume on her hand. She put her little face right up against me, grabbing my eyes with hers.
"You're lying to me," she whispered. "I know all about men—I know more about men than you'll ever know. I know when a man is lying to me."
I met her stare with no problem, even though the moon was dancing in her crazy eyes.
"I'm telling you the truth," I said.
She leaned against me, shoving her lips hard against mine. I could feel her teeth. Then her tongue. She stayed like that for a solid minute, her hands somewhere on my chest. "Please?" she whispered.
She pulled her face away. "No," I said. I started to get up but she was still sitting on my lap. She put her face against me again, opened her mouth, and bit into my lower lip with all her strength. The pain–jolt shot through me like electricity—I stiffened two fingers and a thumb and drove them into her ribs. She grunted and pulled away from me, blood on her mouth.
The redhead rolled off my lap and bent double at the waist. I thought she was going to throw up, but she got herself under control. Her head came up. She was chewing on something—a piece of my lip.
"Mmmmm," she said, "it's so good." I watched her swallow a part of me. Her smile had red in it, like smeared lipstick.
I got up from the bench and walked back to the Plymouth, leaving her where she was. She didn't move until she heard the engine kick over. Then she walked to the car, taking her time.
She got in the passenger side, opened her window, and looked out—away from me. She didn't say another word until we pulled up next to her BMW.
42
METROPOLITAN Avenue was quiet. The BMW was sitting there undisturbed. It was that kind of neighborhood.
The redhead turned to me. "Can I say one thing to you before you go?"
I just nodded, tensing my right arm in case she decided she was still hungry.
"One hundred thousand dollars. In cash. For you."
She had my attention, but I didn't say anything.
"One hundred thousand dollars," she said again, like she was promising me the most erotic thing in the world. Maybe she was.
"Where?" I asked her.
"I have it," she said. "And it's yours if you find me that picture."
"And if I don't? I mean, if I look and come up empty?"
"How long will you look?"
"If I look, I'll look four, five weeks. After that, there's no point. You could run some ads, shake some trees…but if it's around, still local, that's all the time there is."
"How do I know you'll really look?" she asked.
"You don't," I said, "and that's the fucking truth."
"Five thousand a week?"
"Plus expenses.
"For a hundred grand, you can pay your own expenses.
"If I find the picture," I said, "the hundred grand covers it all, okay? But if I don't, you pay five grand a week for a max of five weeks, plus expenses.
The redhead stroked her own face, soothing herself, thinking. Finally she