Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [87]
I was into my third cigarette when I felt the change in the air—like a cold wind without the breeze. A car horn was blasting its way through the noise of the traffic—sharper and more demanding than the others. A fog–colored BMW was standing right in the middle of the bus stop, leaning on its horn and flashing its lights.
I walked over to the passenger door. The window glass was too dark to see through. The door wasn't locked. I pulled it open and climbed inside. She had the BMW roaring into the traffic stream while I was still closing my door, the little car lurching as she forced it into second gear. We shot across to the left lane, horns protesting in our wake.
"You were late," she snapped, staring straight ahead.
"I was where I said I'd be," I told her, fumbling for my seat belt.
"Next time wait at the curb," she said. Telling the cleaning woman she missed a spot.
She was wearing a bottle–green silk dress, with a black mink jacket over her shoulders, leaving her bare arms free. A thin black chain was around her waist, one end dangling past the seat—it looked like wrought iron. Her face was set and hard behind the makeup mask.
I leaned back in my seat. Strega's skirt was hiked to mid–thigh. Her stockings were dark with some kind of pattern woven into them. Spike heels the same color as the dress. She wasn't wearing her seat belt.
'Where are you going?" I wanted to know.
"My house. You got a problem with that?"
"Only if it isn't empty," I said.
"I'm alone," said Strega. Maybe she was talking about the house.
She wrestled the BMW through the streets to her house, fighting the wheel, riding the clutch unmercifully. The car stalled on Austin Street when she didn't give it enough gas pulling away from the light. "Goddamned fucking clutch!" she muttered, snapping the ignition key to get it started again. She was a lousy driver.
"Why don't you get a car with an automatic transmission?"
"My legs look so good when I change gears," she replied. "Don't they?"
I didn't say anything.
"Look at my legs!" she snarled at me. "Aren't they flashy?"
"I wouldn't get a car to go with my looks," I said, mildly.
"Neither would I—if I looked like you," she said, softening it only slightly with a smile. "And you didn't answer my question."
"What question?"
"Don't my legs look good?"
"That isn't a question," I told her. And this time I got a better smile.
64
SHE PULLED the BMW around to the back of her house and hit the button on a box she had clipped to the sun visor to open the garage. I followed her up the stairs to the living room, watching her hips switch under the green dress—it looked like a slip in the soft light. She carried the black mink like a dishrag in one hand, tossing it in the general direction of the white couch as she went by.
Strega passed through the living room to another flight of stairs, and climbed toward a light at the top, not saying a word. The bedroom was huge, big enough for three rooms. The walls were a dusky–rose color, the wall–to–wall carpet a dark red. A Hollywood bed, the kind with a canopy over the top, was in the precise middle of the room, standing on a platform a few inches off the carpet. It was all in pink—pink gauze draped from the canopy almost to the floor. The spread was covered with giant stuffed animals—a panda, two teddy bears, a basset hound. A Raggedy Ann doll was propped against the pillows, its sociopath's eyes watching me. A bathroom door stood open to my right—pink shag carpet on the floor, a clear lucite tub dominating the room. A professional makeup mirror was against one wall, a string of tiny little bulbs all around its border. A walk–in closet had mirrored doors. It was half yuppie dreamscene, half little girl's room. I couldn't imagine another person sleeping there with her.
"His bedroom is on the other side of the house," she said, reading my mind. "This is just for me."
"Your husband works late hours?" I asked.