Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [78]
"How many could I buy for…say, a thousand dollars?"
The young man's eyes flared for a split–second. Only a Class A chump would bargain like I was. "You want action photos or just poses?"
"Action," I whispered, my eyes downcast.
"That's four for a thousand," he said.
"Four different boys?"
"Four different. Action shots. Color."
"I have to go home and get the money," I said.
"Take Terry with you," the young man said. "After you buy him some pizza."
I just nodded, moving my Adam's apple in my throat like I was gulping it all down.
The pimp put his hand on the back of the redhead's neck. The little kid's face contorted in pain, but he didn't say anything. "You be a good boy, now," said the pimp in a dead–flat voice. The kid nodded.
The young man opened the door of the Lincoln, shoved the boy inside. He held out his hand for the hundred dollars.
I handed it over. Making my voice brave, I said, "How do I know you'll be there?"
"You've got my merchandise," the pimp said, pocketing the hundred and walking away in the same motion.
53
I PULLED out into traffic, grabbing a quick look at the boy sitting next to me. He was huddled against the passenger door, head down. The digital clock on the dash said seven–fifty–six—about four hours until I got to meet the man with the pictures.
I hit the power–door lock button—the boy jumped when he heard it click home. He looked at me, twisting his hands together in his lap. "Are you going to hurt me?" he asked in a calm voice. He wasn't looking to talk me out of it, just asking what was going to happen to him.
"I'm not going to hurt you, kid," I told him in my own voice.
His face shot up. "Are you a cop?"
"No, I'm not a cop. I'm a man doing a job. And I want you to help me.
"Help you?"
"Yeah, Terry. Help me. That's all."
The boy was scanning my face, looking for the truth—probably wouldn't recognize it if he saw it.
"What do I have to do?"
"I'm looking for someone. Out here. I'm going to drive around the streets, looking. I want you to look too, okay?"
"Really?"
"Really."
"Who are you looking for?"
"You know the little black guy with no legs–the one on the skateboardpushes himself along with his hands?"
His face brightened up. "Yeah! Yeah, I know him. I talked to him once. He asked me if I wanted to run away."
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I was still talking to him when Rod came along."
"Is Rod the guy who I was talking to?"
"Yeah, that's him. He kicked the little black guy right off the skateboard. He has legs, you know," the kid said, his voice serious.
"I know," I told him. "You keep your eyes peeled now—we want to find him."
"How come?" he asked.
"He's going to help me do something tonight," I said.
"You're not going to hurt me?" he asked again.
"No, kid. I'm not going to hurt you," I promised him again, keeping my distance.
I made a couple of slow circuits through the cesspool, cruising between Sixth and Ninth on the cross streets, my eyes passing over the action, searching for the Prof. A police car pulled next to us; the cop's eyes were bored. Almost all the people on the street were male—dream–buyers looking for sellers, wolfpacks looking for prey. Hell eats its tourists.
I looped around at 39th, heading back uptown on Eighth. We were across 44th when the boy shouted, "I see him!," pointing excitedly at the front of a gay movie house. The Prof was on his cart, working the traffic, begging for coins with his cup, watching from ground zero like the cops never could. I ran the Lincoln into the curb, pulled the ignition key, and locked the door behind me, leaving the boy inside. The Prof heard my footsteps pounding toward him and looked up, his hand inside his long ragged coat. When he saw it was me, he grabbed some sidewalk and gave himself a heroic shove in my direction. In our world, when someone moves fast, there's trouble behind.
"Prof, come on," I told him, "we got work to do."
"If you're singing my song, please don't take long," he bopped out, ready for whatever, telling me to get on with it.
I grabbed his outstretched hand and