Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [81]
"You think I was standing under that streetlight because I lost something, honey?"
I threw up my hands in surrender, reaching for my shirt pocket.
"Honey, I have told you time and time again not to carry cash in your shirt pocket—only dice players do that. It's bad enough you dress like a bum."
"Hey!" I said. "This is a good suit."
"Burke, it was a good suit. It's yesterday's news, darling. Like your haircut," she said, a smile playing with her painted lips.
"We can't all be on the cutting edge of fashion, Michelle."
"Don't I know it," she retorted, taking the wad of bills and counting off a few fifties for herself. If I ever paid taxes, Michelle would be one hell of a deduction. She reached up to kiss me on the cheek. "Thanks, baby. That's one step closer to Denmark for me."
"Sure," I said. I'd heard it before.
Michelle climbed behind the wheel of the Lincoln as the Prof got out. She turned and said something to the boy. He scrambled over the back seat to sit next to her. She was saying something to him as they pulled away—probably telling him to keep his feet off the upholstery.
55
WHEN THE Lincoln wheeled around the corner, I was waiting. The kid was sitting next to Michelle on the front seat, eating an ice–cream cone. I climbed in and Michelle slid over, changing places with the kid so he was between us. I found the release lever, popped the trunk, and waited for traffic to pass.
As soon as it got quiet, I climbed out like I was getting something out of the trunk. "Okay," I hissed into the darkness. The Prof came out, dressed in one of those padded suits guys wear for working in meat lockers. He was carrying his own coat in one hand, the shotgun wrapped inside.
The light went on inside the trunk when I lifted it up. I took a roll of quarters out of my pocket and put it against the light. When I smacked it with the flat of my hand, the light went out. It wouldn't come on again.
The Prof checked out the interior—it was clean and new, covered with carpet. Even the spare tire was buried under the flooring. "I lived in worse places," he said, and climbed in without another word.
I worked my way back to the West Side Highway. Michelle sat with her arm around the boy, listening to me explain the deal.
"The kid sits straight up in the seat, okay? You lay down, below the windshield. When I get out, you slide over and put your hand on this release. You hear me raise my voice for any reasonno matter what I'm saying…you pop the lever."
"Terry is coming back with us," she said. Her voice was calm—just stating a fact. I glanced over at the kid—if this wasn't okay with him he was a hell of an actor.
"There won't be any problem," I told them both, the magnum heavy in my coat. "This guy doesn't try and hurt me, he won't get hurt."
"I hope he does try and hurt you," Michelle said, her voice soft.
I shot her a dirty look, but she wasn't paying attention. "Do you know what he did to Terry? You know what he makes…"
"I know," I told her.
When we crossed 14th Street I told Michelle to get down. "You just stay in the car no matter what happens," I told the kid.
"Terry knows what to do," Michelle snapped at me, sliding into position. The boy held her hand.
I nosed the Lincoln into a dark spot in the shadows cast by the big ships. No sign of the pimp. I hit the window switch, waiting.
It didn't take long. Headlights on high beam flashed behind me—the red Corvette. I climbed out of the car, walked around toward the trunk. Where I'd stash the pictures if I got any.
The Corvette hit the brakes, sending the machine into a controlled skid across the back of the Lincoln, blocking me in. The pimp revved his engine before he shut it down, climbing out in almost the same motion. The passenger seat looked empty. I walked over toward him to get a better look.
The pimp stood next to his car, hands balled into fists. I walked right up to him, stepping in his space, looking down like I was afraid. The inside of his car was empty. Good.
"The pictures?" I asked him.
He reached in a shirt pocket, coming out