By Andrew H. Vachss
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I tossed yesterday's News on the front seat and drove off, heading for Chinatown. I don't like to carry heat across the border. 7 THE CHINATOWN streets were just getting organized: young men pushing hand trucks loaded with fresh vegetables, older women lumbering toward another day in the sweatshops. I spotted Hobart Chan cruising the Bowery in his sable Bentley, a shark looking for blood in the water. Even gangsters go to work early in Chinatown. I rolled past Mama's checking the front window. The white dragon tapestry was in place—everything cool inside.
He's a degenerate, okay? And they never stop what they do. Some of them step it up, you understand? They get into more freakish shit. But they don't stop. If she goes into that park, he'll call again. " "No, this kind doesn't do that. He's a watcher—but he wants to hurt women just the same. He wants to make them dance to his tune. " The old man slumped against the fender. All of a sudden he looked ancient. But an old alligator can still bite. "She's good people, Burke. I never had a daughter, but if I did I wish it would be her.
I reached over and snatched the mirror lenses from his sweaty face—I wanted to see his eyes. They darted around in their sockets like half–drunk flies on a Teflon pan. "Give me your wallet," I told him, in a calm, quiet voice. The freak hastily fumbled open his camouflage suit and handed me a billfold. Just what I expected—a miniature police badge was pinned to one side, almost two hundred in bills, an honorary membership card from the PBA, credit cards, and other assorted crap. The driver's license and registration were my targets, and I found them soon enough.