Footsteps of the Hawk by Andrew Vachss

Author:Andrew Vachss [Vachss, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780375719103
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2001-09-25T07:00:00+00:00

When I checked in later, Mama told me I had a message from Belinda. "That woman," Mama called her. It wasn't much of a message—just an address in the Village and a time.

The address Belinda left was on Van Dam, a few blocks south of Houston, just off Sixth Avenue. Ten o'clock, she said. I left my car on Fifth, just north of Washington Square Park, figuring I'd walk the rest of the way.

When I was a kid, I used to come here a lot. By myself. There was always something to see: the chess hustlers on the permanent playing boards, folksingers trying out new stuff, pretty girls walking—gentle, safe stuff. I was so young then that I thought the sun had something to do with it—that all the bad stuff only happened after dark.

Or inside houses.

Even a kid wouldn't believe that anymore. The sun burned fresh–butter bright, but it didn't mellow the shirtless man wearing a heavy winter hat with flapping earmuffs, viciously arguing with a schizophrenic inner voice. And it didn't have any effect on the drug dealers and assorted lurkers. It didn't calm the nervous citizens looking over their shoulders.

An open–top, pus–yellow Suzuki Samurai slowly prowled past, a boom box on wheels, aggressively smashing its hyper–amped sound violence at hapless citizens in a scorched–earth assault. The latest city ugliness—the sonic drive–by.

A long–haired white man in a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled by, pushing one of those metal shopping carts they give you in supermarkets. The homeless love those carts—they pile all kinds of stuff in them and wheel them around the streets. The carts are stainless steel—they don't break easy and they never rust. They're real expensive too, and the supermarkets hate to lose them. In fact, they have a contract with a business that gets a flat rate for every one they recover.

The stroller wasn't homeless, he was a thief. There's a guy works out of a vacant lot off Houston on the East Side—he's got a standing offer to buy all the carts you can bring in.

On MacDougal, the precious–special shops looked depressed, pounded into near–submission by the sidewalk vendors. It was prime–time out there for cruising, but I didn't see many tourists. A man urinated against the side of a building. A woman sat on the curb, picking at her head, her blackened fingernails no match for the lice. Another boom–box Jeep rolled by, this one full of young men all decked out in brand–name gangstah–gear. Even the scavenging pigeons looked more degenerate than usual.

I stopped at a corner, right behind two guys on bicycles. They were pro messengers—you could tell by their gear. Not the Speedo pants or the fingerless gloves or the whistles on cords around their necks. Not even by the crash hats—open–weave padded leather fitted tight over their heads. No, what gave them away was the heavy combat chains wrapped around the base of the bicycle seats, always ready. One of them had his chain in his hands, talking urgently to the other.

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