Across Fourth Street near Avenue C, another light, another stop. Paul Butterfield was singing "I've got a mind to give up living" through my car's speaker and the music wafted out into the thick city air. I had lit a smoke, and was thinking my thoughts, when I heard her voice-"You like that sad old music, hombre?"-and my eyes were pulled to a Puerto Rican flower: glossy raven hair hanging loose and free, big dark eyes, lips as red as blood before it dries. She was perched on a stoop near the curb, a shiny white blouse tied just under her heavy breasts, creamy skin tapering to a tiny waist and flaring out dramatically in pink toreador pants. One spike heel tapped out a rhythm on the hot sidewalk.
"The blues are the truth, little girl," I told her-and she swivel-hipped her way up to the Plymouth to hear what else the stranger had to say.
She was fifteen years old-or thirty-I couldn't tell. But she'd never again be as beautiful. Every eye on the street followed her. I looked over to the stoop where she'd been sitting and I saw four men sitting. Watching.
The Puerto Rican flower was no whore-she was a fire-starter. She bit into her lower lip, making it swell against the pressure, leaning one perfect hip against the Plymouth.
I only had a minute to make up my mind, but it was no contest-she was for sale all right, but the price was a war with at least one of the watching young bloods. I wasn't buying-young blood gets hot, and hot blood gets spilled.
"What's your name, honey?" she wanted to know. And I knew she never would. I took one of her hands in mine, the red-lacquered nails gleaming in the sun. "Make today last, beautiful girl," I told her. I kissed her hand, and drove off.
It wasn't going to be my day-I knew the feeling. I drove aimlessly, the music playing, getting it under control. It wasn't nice, but I'd do the time-I'd done it before.
I went back across the bridge, past the House of Detention, telling myself that being depressed on the street was better than being depressed in jail, but it only worked for a couple of blocks.
I parked on Nevins Avenue to get some smokes, sat on the hood of the Plymouth, and lit one up. In no hurry to go nowhere. Right across from me were three old black guys-impossible to tell how old-wearing winter coats in the warm weather, sitting on some milk crates, passing around a bottle of wine, talking to each other about something. Minding their own business, sitting in the sun. Not all clubhouses have doors and windows.
Then I saw the pack of punks bopping up the street on the same side as the old men. Four white kids; they all had those weird haircuts, short and spiky in front, long in back, streaks of bright color and sticking up. They were dressed in short-sleeved leather jackets. One sported a long black cane with an eagle's head on top and probably a sword inside. Another one had a collar around his neck that looked like it belonged on a bulldog. They all were wearing black half-gloves, the kind that leave your fingertips out and knuckles bare. The punk with the cane came first, the others fanning out behind him. Then the biggest one moved up on the outside wing of the flying wedge, bouncing up the street throwing left jabs at anyone who came by-the others laughing as people fell over themselves to get out of the way.
As they passed by the old men, the big one fired a vicious jab square into the chest of one of them, knocking the old-timer right off his crate. I stepped off the hood of the Plymouth, reaching into my pocket for the roll of quarters I always keep there to pay tolls-but before I could move, the old man shook his head violently and struggled to his feet. He rubbed his face with both fists, drew a deep snarfling breath through his nose, and shuffled forward, suddenly hooking with both hands. The big kid threw up his own hands in some feeble imitation of boxers he'd seen on television, but he never had a chance. The old man drove the kid back against the side of a van like it was the ropes in the ring he must have fought in years ago, firing punch after punch to the kid's unprotected face and stomach-hard, professional punches, coming unpredictably from both hands. The big kid dropped to the street; the old man turned and went to a neutral corner, running on automatic pilot.
The street was quiet, but you could feel the joy swelling out of the bodegas and the bars. The big kid lay where he dropped-I scanned the street, but his running buddies were nowhere in sight. About what you'd expect. And the old man was back on his milk crate, being with his friends.
When the old man heard the bell, he knew what he had to do. Maybe he was past talking about it, but he could still do it. When I looked around again, the big kid was gone. And so were my blues.
5
THE THIRD shift was just getting started when I wheeled the big Plymouth up Flatbush Avenue to the gas station. I pulled up to the high-test pump, told the jockey to fill it up, and watched the shifty-eyed slob pour an extra twenty-eight cents' worth of gas down the side of my car just so the total would come out even and he wouldn't have to count to make change. When he came around to the window, I just said "Julio?" and he nodded toward the back. Before he could ask for his cash, I flicked the lever into Drive and took off.
As soon as I pulled behind the station and saw the white Coupe de Ville I knew Julio had sent one of his stooges to make the payoff-the old man's idea of a class act. The white Caddy had the driver's window down-the guy inside picked up the Plymouth and was opening his door even before I came to a stop. Just what I expected: a full-race Cheech- about twenty-five years old, blow-dried hair over a blocky face sporting an Atlantic City tan and dark glasses, white silk shirt open to his chest so I could see the gold chains, dark tight pants, shiny black half-boots. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show me muscular forearms, a heavy gold bracelet on one wrist, a thin gold watch on the other. Central Casting.
The Cheech stepped out of his Caddy, flicking the door shut behind him, strolling over to me.
"You Burke?" he wanted to know.
"Sure," I told him. I wasn't there for the conversational opportunity.
"I got something for you-from Mr. C."
I held out my left hand, palm up, keeping my right where he couldn't see it.
"I got ten big ones here," he said, tapping his front pocket.
I didn't say anything-the jerk was unhappy about something, but it wasn't my problem.
He peered into the Plymouth, watching my face. And then he came out with it. "You don't look so tough to me, man. Whatever you did for the old man-I coulda done it."
"Give me the fucking money," I told him pleasantly. "I didn't drive out here to listen to your soap opera.
"Hey, fuck you, you don't want to listen! Money talks, right?"
"I don't know, kid. But the money you're holding for me better walk, you understand?"-opening and closing my hand a couple of times so he'd get the message.
The Cheech took off his dark glasses, hooked them over his dangling chains, acting like he was really thinking about not paying me-or acting like he was really thinking, I couldn't tell which. Then he decided. He handed over the envelope without another word, something still on his mind. I tossed it into the back seat, giving him something else to think about. I took my foot off the brake and the Plymouth started to roll forward.
"Hey!" he said. "Wait a minute."
"What?"
"Uh…look, man. You ever use anyone else on jobs…you know. I could always use some extra coin, right?"
"No," I told him, my face flat as a prison wall.
"Hey, just listen for a minute, okay? I got experience, you know what I'm saying?"
"Kid," I told him, "I got warrants out on me older than you," and started to roll forward again.