Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [72]
I met the Mole when I was doing a job for an Israeli guy, but I didn't really get to know him until I did another job, much later. Another one of those anonymous Israeli guys came to my office one day. He wasn't the same guy I'd met the first time, when they wanted me to find some ex–Nazi, a slimeball who'd worked as a concentration–camp guard. I did that job, and now they wanted a gun–runner. The Israeli said he wanted to buy weapons and needed me to set up the meet. Somehow I thought there was a bit more to it. The man he wanted to meet sold heavy–duty stuff—shoulder–fired missiles, antitank cannons, stuff like that. And he sold them to Libya.
I told the Israeli I wouldn't meet with the guy myself—I didn't do business with him and I didn't want any part of someone else's beef. When I said I didn't trade with the gun–runner, the Israeli asked me if I was Jewish. He's the only guy I ever met who asked me that.
It was the Israeli who took me to the junkyard the first time. They left me alone in the car, the dog pack cruising around me in the night like sharks lapping against a rubber raft. I don't know what they talked about, but the Israeli got back into my car carrying a little suitcase.
The Mole has no politics—he doesn't consider blowing up Nazis political. After the second job, I was a friend to Israel. And after a lot of years, I was the Mole's friend too. After I took the weight down in the subway tunnel, I was his brother.
I threw a token into the Exact Change basket, hooking a left and then a right to Route 95. But I ducked into the warehouse district off Bruckner Boulevard, finding my way to the Mole's junkyard. Hunts Point—New York's badlands. Topless bars. Diesel–fuel stations. Whores too raunchy to work Manhattan stalked the streets and waved at the truckers, flashing open their coats to show their naked bodies, then closed them quickly before the customers got a good look. I heard pistol shots, spaced a couple of seconds apart. Over to my right, two men were standing a few feet away from an abandoned old Chrysler, pumping shots into the body. Glass flew out of the windows; the old wreck's body rocked with each shot. It wasn't a homicide going down—just a seller demonstrating his goods for a prospective buyer. Hunts Point is a dead zone for police patrols—no citizens allowed.
I turned the corner near the entrance to the Mole's joint, driving slowly, scanning the street with my eyes. I heard a horn beep. The Mole's head popped up in the front seat of a burnt–out Volvo sitting at the side of the road. He climbed out, wearing his dirt–colored jumpsuit, a tool belt around his waist and a satchel in his hand. He looked like another part of the wrecked car.
He walked over to the Lincoln and climbed into the front seat. "Mole!" I greeted him. He nodded, confirming my diagnosis. We drove around to the side entrance, a rusting old gate secured by a dime–store lock. It wouldn't keep a self–respecting thief out for ten seconds. The Mole jumped out, selected a key from the several dozen he had on a saucer–sized ring, and popped the lock. I pulled the Lincoln inside while he locked up behind me. I kept the windows up as we pulled deeper into the junkyard—I couldn't hear them, but I knew they were around. I glanced in the rearview mirror—the ground around the gate was already covered by a thick blanket of dogs. More of them loomed up from the dark depths of the yard, padding forward slowly, all the time in the world. The gate wouldn't keep a thief from getting in, but no power on earth was going to get him out.
The dogs were all sizes and shapes. I remembered the old Great Dane—a black–and–white Harlequin monster, now missing an ear. A matched set that looked like boxers approached from the front with something that might have once been a collie on their flank. But the real pack bounded up on my side of the car—lupine heads closer to wolves than German shepherds, alert, intelligent black faces over broad chests, thick tails curled