Blossom

Acclaim for A N D R E W V A C H S S

"Burke is an unlikely combination of Sherlock Holmes, Robin Hood, and Rambo, operating outside the law as he rights wrongs….Vachss has obviously seen just how unable the law is to protect children. And so, while Burke may be a vigilante, Vachss's stories don't feature pointless bloodshed. Instead, they burn with righteous rage and transfer a degree of that rage to the reader."

— Washington Post Book World

"Taking Burke off his home turf to deal with a Midwestern kind of seediness was a brilliant move. Vachss's characters are, as always, carefully sketched, the dialogue is sharp, and the driven Burke is a creature you can't spend enough time with. Many writers are trying to cover the same ground as Vachss. A handful are good. None are better. For anyone interested in this kind of fiction, Andrew Vachss, sculpting pieces of art out of the scummiest wastes of humanity, must be read."

— People

"Compelling…powerful.…Vachss is America's dark scribe of the 1990s….His protagonist Burke is our new dark knight, a cold-eyed crusader."

— James Grady, author of Six Days of the Condor

"The best detective fiction being written….Add a stinging social commentary…a Célinesque journey into darkness, and we have an Andrew Vachss, one of our most important writers."

— Martha Grimes

"Move over, Hammett and Chandler, you've got company….Andrew Vachss has become a cult favorite, and for good reason."

— Cosmopolitan

"A sleuth who lives not just on society's edge, but on its underbelly….Strong, gritty, gut-bucket stuff, so unsparing and vivid that it makes you wince. Vachss knows the turf and writes with a sneering bravado….Burke prowls the city with a seething, angry, almost psychotic voice appropriate to the devils he deals with….Vachss is good, his Burke books first-rate."

— Chicago Tribune

"Vachss seems bottomlessly knowledgeable about the depth and variety of human twistedness."

— The New York Times

Andrew Vachss

Andrew Vachss has been a federal investigator in sexually transmitted diseases, a social caseworker, a labor organizer, and has directed a maximum-security prison for youthful offenders. Now a lawyer in private practice, he represents children and youths exclusively. He is the author of numerous novels, including the Burke series, two collections of short stories, and a wide variety of other material including song lyrics, poetry, graphic novels, and a "children's book for adults." His books have been translated into twenty different languages and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, The New York Times, and numerous other forums. He lives and works in New York City and the Pacific Northwest.

The dedicated Web site for Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com

BOOKS BY

Andrew Vachss

Flood

Strega

Blue Belle

Hard Candy

Blossom

Sacrifice

Shella

Down in the Zero

Born Bad

Footsteps of the Hawk

False Allegations

Safe House

Choice of Evil

Everybody Pays

Dead and Gone

Pain Management

BLOSSOM

A N D R E W

V A C H S S

FOR ANDREW MITCHELL

born: October 19, 1985

unearthed: September 6, 1989

you never had a good day on this earth

sleep now, child

BLOSSOM

1

THE SUN dropped on the far side of the Hudson River like it knew what was coming.

I turned off the West Side Highway at Thirtieth Street, cruising east toward Tenth Avenue. Glanced at the photograph taped to my dashboard. Marilyn, her name was. Fourteen years old, her father said. Chubby, round-faced little girl, smiling at the camera, standing next to a Bon Jovi poster in her pink ruffled bedroom.

Marilyn ran away from home. Ran herself straight to Hell. I didn't know what she was before she caught the bus that dropped her into Port Authority, but I knew what she was now.

Raw meat on the streets. A pimp's prey as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk.

She'd be out here somewhere, chasing money.

Me too.

Marilyn wouldn't be working the commuters heading home through the Lincoln Tunnel. The hard-core tunnel bunnies would take her the way a Cuisinart took vegetables. A girl that young should be working indoors, but she hadn't turned up. Only one place left.

I fluttered my hand in a "get down" gesture but Max the Silent was way ahead of me, puddling himself into a pool of shadow in the back seat.

You can't make more than a couple of passes at any one block. The working girls know all about comparison shoppers. I stopped for a light on Twelfth. The Prof was at his post, his tiny body in a wheelchair, a Styrofoam begging cup jingling coins in his hand. He caught my eye. Nodded his head. Pointed up the block with a finger held at his waist.

You couldn't miss her. Babyfat spilling out all around the borders of the red hot pants, nervously plucking at her white halter top. Face unreadable behind the thick makeup. Hair piled on top of her head to make her look taller. Wobbling on spike heels in the heat waves the retreating sun left behind on the pavement. She was leaning against a long low building with some other girls. Cattle waiting for the prod.

My eyes flicked to the I-beam girder on the corner. Something moving in the shadows. Her pimp? No, one of the triple-threat street skells: clean your windshield, sell you a vial of crack, or slash at your face while another snatched at your wallet. Whatever pays.

I slowed the Plymouth to a crawl. Empty parking lot to my right. A black girl detached herself from the lineup, cut diagonally across the block toward me, streetlights glinting off her high cheekbones, crack-lust in her dead eyes.

"Want to give me a ride, honey? Change your luck?"

"Not tonight," I said, my eyes over her shoulder.

"She underage, man. Jailbait, big time."

I lit a cigarette. Shook my head. The black girl stepped aside. Walked away, switching her hips out of habit. Her other habit. AIDS and crack— racing to see which would take her down first.

Marilyn came over. Tentative. "You want to party?" Watching my face. Wanting me to say no. Not wanting me to. Lost.

"How much?" I asked, so she wouldn't spook.

"Fifty for me, ten for the room."

"What do I get for the fifty?"

Her eyes were somewhere else. "You get me. For a half hour. Okay?"

"Okay."

She walked around the front of the car, her head down. Resigned.

She got in the car knees first, the way a young girl does. Closed the door. "Take a left at the corner," she said, fumbling in her purse for a cigarette. I knew where she wanted me to go— one of the shadowy deserted parking lots on West Twenty-fifth. In case I wanted to save the ten bucks for the room. She looked up as I drove through the green light, heading for Ninth. "Hey…I said…"

"Forget it, Marilyn." Using her name so she wouldn't think I had violence on my mind. Her pimp would have warned her about men who wanted to hurt her for fun. He'd tell her this was all about business. Beat it into her if she didn't understand. Beat her again to make sure.

"Who're you?" Everything in her voice running together in a sad-scared baby-blend.

"It's not important. Your father said you ran away, so…"

"You're taking me back there."

"Yeah."

She snatched at the door handle. Jiggled it. Hard. No go. Looked at my face. She knew. Started to cry.

She didn't look up until I pulled in behind Lily's joint. Max flowed out of the back seat. I lit a smoke, waiting.

"This isn't my home."

I didn't answer her.

Lily came back with Max, her long black hair bouncing in the night breeze. She opened the passenger door, said, "Hi, Marilyn," and held out her hand. The kid took it. They always do. Lily would keep her for a while, talk to her, see what happened, and why. Then, if it was okay, the little girl would make a call and her father would come in and get her. If it wasn't okay, Lily knew what to do.

I've been doing this for a long time. Cruising the cesspool flowing around Times Square, trolling for runaways. Sometimes the pimp is around when I work— that's why Max was along.

I used to bring them straight back where they came from. Now I know better.

It's a new game, but the same old rules— her father had paid me up front.

2

I LEFT MAX at Lily's. His woman, Immaculata, worked there too. They'd go home together. The Prof's home was in the streets. I went home alone.

Pansy's huge head loomed out of the darkness as I entered my office. Her ice-water eyes were glad to see me— disappointed that I was alone. A Neapolitan mastiff, she runs about 140 pounds. In the office shadows she looked like a muscular oil slick. I took out two hot dogs I had wrapped in napkins from my coat pocket. The beast curled into a sitting position, slobber erupting out both sides of her jaws, waiting. I gave it a few seconds. Finally said, "Speak!" and tossed the whole mess at her. It disappeared. She gave me her usual "Where's the rest of it?" look and finally ambled over to her favorite corner where she's worn the Astroturf carpet down to the original cement.

"You want to go out?" I asked. She was indifferent, but walked over to the back door out of habit. I watched her clamber up the fire escape to the roof. Her yard was all concrete.

Like mine was once.

3

IN THE STREET the next morning, I dialed the pay phone in the back of Mama Wong's restaurant. My number— the only one anyone has for me. Mama answered the way she always does.

"Gardens."

"It's me."

"You come in, okay?"

"Now."

"Yes. Front door, okay?"

I hung up. Pulled off the highway, heading east for Chinatown. Past the tiny triangular park at the back of Federal Plaza. Watched an ancient Chinese lead two middle-aged women through an elaborate Tai Chi, oblivious to the bench-covering winos.

The white dragon tapestry stood alone in the front window of Mama's joint. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't the law and it wasn't trouble.

I parked the Plymouth in the back, right under the Chinese characters neatly printed on the alley wall. I didn't bother to lock the car— I couldn't read Chinese but I knew what the sign meant. Max the Silent marking his territory.

The blank-faced steel door at the back of Mama's opened just a crack. I couldn't see inside. They could see me. The door closed. I walked through the alley to the street, turned the corner. Bells tinkled as I opened the front door. A red light would flash in the kitchen at the same time.

Mama was at her altar. The cash register. She bowed her head slightly, motioned me to her as I returned her greeting. I glanced toward the back. A woman was in my booth, facing away from me. Dark chestnut hair spilled over the back of the blue vinyl cushions.

"For me?" I asked Mama.

"Woman come in yesterday. Just ask for Burke. Say her name Rebecca."

I shrugged. It didn't ring any bells. Even alarm bells.

"Woman say she wait for you. I tell her, maybe you not come in long time. She say she come back. I tell her to wait, okay?"

"She's been here ever since?"

"In basement."

"She carrying anything?"

"Just message."

"That's it?"

Mama bowed. "You talk to her?"

"Yeah."

I walked over to the back. Sat down across from the stranger.

A slim woman, small face framed by the thick chestnut hair, dominated by big dark eyes, hard straight-cut cheekbones. No makeup. Her lips were thin, dry. Polish half flaked off her nails, roughened hands. Hands that had been in dirt, dishwater, diapers. One of Mama's waiters leaned over, put a pitcher of ice water and two glasses on the table. Replaced the overflowing ashtray. Caught my eye. I shook my head slightly. I still didn't know her.

"You want to talk to me?" I asked the woman.

"I want to talk to Burke."

"That's me."

"How would I know?"

"Why would I care if you know?"

"I'm Virgil's wife," she said, watching my face.

"Who's Virgil?"

"If you're Burke, you know."

"You having a good time, lady? You got nothing better to do?"

Her voice was hard coal, from a deep vein. "I got to know. I'm on my own here. My man's in trouble. He said to find his brother. Told me where to go. I couldn't call on the phone. He said it would be hard. Said you'd be hard. Ask me what you want first…get it over with."

"Who's Virgil?"

"If you're Burke, he's your old cellmate."

"What's his trouble?"

"Prove it to me first," she said, watching.

"Virgil went down for a homicide. Manslaughter. He stabbed…"

"I know about Virgil. I want to talk to Burke."

"You want the secret code?"

"Don't mock me. I have to be sure. These Chinese people, they kept me here. Searched my pocketbook. I don't care. If you're not him, tell me what I have to do to meet him. Whatever it takes."

"I'm Burke. Didn't Virgil describe me?"

Her smile didn't show her teeth. "Lots of men ain't so good-looking. That don't narrow it down much."

"Virgil's no Cary Grant himself."

"My husband is a handsome man," she said. Like she was telling a moron what day it was.

"Virgil I knew, he was a quiet man. Hillbilly. Didn't do much talking. He came to Chicago when the work ran out back where he came from. His woman followed him. A freak from her hometown followed her. Freak got himself diced and sliced. I spent a long time getting him ready for the Parole Board, then the fool blew it when they asked him why he stabbed the man. Virgil told them the guy just needed killing. You remember that?"

"I remember that. I had to wait another six months for him."

"He had a long, straight scar on the inside of his right forearm. Chainsaw kicked back on him when he was a kid. Wrote a letter to his woman every damn day. He could play the piano like his hands were magic."

"Still can."

"You believe I know him?"

"Yes. But I don't know you. Virgil said you'd tell me a name. He said to ask you…the most dangerous man alive…he said there'd only be one answer. And Burke would know it."

I lit a smoke. Watched her face through the flame from the wooden match. "Wesley," I said. Whispering his name. Feeling the chill from the grave.

She nodded. Let out a long breath. "It's you. Burke." She fumbled in her purse, found a cigarette. I lit it for her. "Virgil's your brother…" making it a question.

"Yes," I said, making it clear. She was asking about commitment, not genetics.

She dragged on her cigarette, shoulders slumping against the back of the booth. "Thank the Lord."

4

I FELT MAMA behind me. I dropped my left shoulder slightly. She came around to the table, standing between me and Virgil's woman.

"This is Rebecca, Mama. My brother's wife."

Mama bowed. "You want soup?"

I nodded the question at Rebecca. "Yes, please," she said.

Mama's face was composed, eyes watchful. "You not eat anything all this time. Very hungry, yes?"

"I think I must be…never thought about it."

One of Mama's waiters appeared, wearing his white jacket loose to give easy access to the shoulder holster. Mama said something to him in Cantonese. He left as quietly as he had appeared.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"It's okay, Mama."

The waiter brought a steaming tureen of hot and sour soup. Mama used the ladle carefully, filling my bowl, then Rebecca's.

"Eat first," she ordered, walking back to her register.

"Take small sips," I told Rebecca. It was too late. She snorted a harsh breath out her nose, dropped her spoon.

"Whoa! What

is

this?"

"It's Mama's soup. She makes the stock herself, adds whatever's around from the kitchen. It's good for you."

"Tastes like medicine."

"Give it another shot. Small sips, okay?"

"Okay." A tiny smile played at her lips.

She was hungry. The waiter brought a plate of dry noodles. She watched as I sprinkled a handful over the top of the soup. Did the same. The bowl emptied. I held up the ladle. She nodded. I filled her bowl again. I could feel Mama's approval from across the room. Two dots of color flowered on Rebecca's cheekbones. She was a tough woman— Mama's soup isn't an appetizer.

The waiter took the bowls away. Returned the ashtray. I lit her smoke. Lit my own. "Tell me," I said.

"After Virgil got out, we left Uptown. Moved out of Chicago. To Hammond, then to Merrillville. It's just over the line. In Indiana."

"I know where it is."

"He got work. In the mill. Things were good, Burke. I had a little girl. Virginia. She's almost ten now. And a little boy. He's called Virgil too, like his daddy. Virgil's a good man. You know that. Worked doubles when the mill was really pumping. When they cut back, he got this regular gig, playing the piano at a club in Chicago. We got a house. Ours. Not rented or nothing. Never did go back to Kentucky, get us some ground like we planned."

Get us some ground— own some land of their own. Never happen here. I dragged deep on my cigarette. Waiting for her to find the rhythm, tell me the truth.

"I got a cousin. Second cousin, really. My cousin Mildred's boy. Lloyd. He got himself in some foolishness back home. Drinking, cutting school, stealing cars for fun. Like kids do, you know?"

I nodded.

"Anyway, Mildred asked me, could Lloyd come up and stay with us for a while? He don't have no father, Mildred figured maybe Virgil'd settle him down some. We got room. I asked Virgil. My man, he didn't say a word. I wanted it, it was okay with him. That's the way he is."

I remembered. On the yard, me moving on a group of blacks who'd surrounded a new kid, wishing I had the shank I kept in my cell. Feeling Virgil move right behind me. Never having to look back— I was covered. I knew the way he is. He wasn't raised in juvenile joints like me, but he played by the same rules. Stand up or stand aside.

She lit a smoke from the butt of her first one. "Lloyd came to live with us. I got him into the high school. He was okay. Kind of kept to himself. Stayed in his room. Virgil got him a little part-time job at the 7-Eleven. He was saving for a car. Lloyd, he was real nice to our kids. Virginia really liked him. Like he was an older brother. I worried 'cause he never had him a girlfriend or nothing, but Virgil, he said a man grows at his own pace, not to fuss about it. Said I was so worried he'd take Lloyd over to one of the cathouses in Cal City. Wait downstairs for him. I told Virgil, he brings my cousin's boy to a whorehouse, he'd better find himself a motel room 'cause he wouldn't be sleeping in his own bed." Another thin-lipped smile. "I guess that cured me, though. Anyway, things were okay. Then it happened. There's this place where all the teenagers go to park. Like a lovers' lane? Out by the dunes. The cops found this young man and his girl. Shot all to pieces. The papers said it was a crazy sniper. Bullet holes all over the car. They started this big investigation." Her eyes sneered a coal miner's sarcastic respect for any investigation conducted by the government.

I waited for the rest of it.

"They were still poking around when it happened again. Not a mile away. Two more. Teenagers, the papers said. Just babies, really. Anyway, one of the kids at the school must of said something about Lloyd 'cause the cops came around. Virgil told them he was the boy's father, they could talk to him, they wanted to know anything. Cops asked, could they look in the boy's room? Virgil told 'em get a warrant. One of the cops, this big black detective, he spoke real soft. Made a lot of sense. The other guy with him, skinny, nasty man, he was real hostile. Said they'd checked, found Virgil had a record. He and Virgil, they nearly got into it right in my living room. The black cop, he told the other guy to wait outside and cool off. Sat in my living room, drinking my coffee, talking to Virgil, telling us he didn't give a damn about maybe finding some marijuana in the boy's room, not to worry. Virgil wouldn't move. You know how he is— like a mountain mule. Lloyd, he tried to say something to the cop, but Virgil told him to keep his mouth shut. Then there was a knock on the door. It was the skinny cop. He had a warrant in his hand. The black cop must of told him to go and get it. While he kept us occupied with his talk.

"Virgil got mad. The way he gets. Quiet-mad. The black cop, he took out his gun, told Virgil they was gonna search Lloyd's room. They found a rifle. An old bolt-action .22. We didn't even know he had one. And some magazines. Filthy magazines…and a camouflage suit…you know, like that Rambo wears. They arrested Lloyd. Took him down to the juvenile place in Crown Point.

"We got him a lawyer. The papers said they got the sniper. I went to visit Lloyd. He was scared to death, Burke. They had to put him in a room by himself, all the other boys threatening him and all. I asked him straight out. He said he didn't do it. But he wouldn't look me in the face. Virgil said that don't mean nothing, the boy was probably 'shamed behind those magazines in his room and all.

"The night it happened, Lloyd was out somewhere. We thought he was working, but it turned out that was his night off. He told the cops he was just off walking by himself. So he got no alibi. The lawyer said it didn't look good for him. We was still waiting on the bullet tests…the ballistics or whatever they call it…we got to go to court. The judge wouldn't set no bail. No bail at all. Remand, they called it. Then the bullet tests came back. And it wasn't from that rifle they found in Lloyd's room. That wasn't the murder weapon. So their case, it didn't look so good anymore.

"We went back to court. This time, the judge made the bail. He set fifty thousand dollars on the boy. Virgil and I, we talked it over. We put up our house, and he came home with us.

"Lloyd, he couldn't go back to school, with all this hanging over his head. Just a couple of weeks left anyway. Virgil told him to stay in the house until the trial. He couldn't go back home— the judge said he couldn't leave the state. Then one of the boys at school, he told the cops how he and some other kids used to sneak around at night in the lovers' lane. Just to watch the other kids going at it, you know? He said Lloyd used to go with them. He said, one time, Lloyd was real angry for some reason. Like he was mad at the girls. The papers got ahold of it. That was enough for the cops. The black detective, he called. Told Virgil to bring Lloyd back to court again. They were going to revoke his bail."

She lit another smoke. "That's when Virgil run. He told me where he was goin'. Took Lloyd with him. He told me to find you."

"Find me and do what?"

"He said he had a question. Only you would know the answer. That's what he wants you to do. Answer the question."

"And then?"

"And then he'll know what to do."

"The cops are looking for him?"

"Every cop in the state, seems like. They got a warrant for Virgil too. Aiding and abetting a fugitive, the black cop said."

"How'd you get here?"

"I did what Virgil said. Took a plane to New York. Took a cab to Manhattan and then I called the number. I spoke to a Chinese woman. The woman who's sitting over there right now. She asked me to tell her where I was calling from. Pay phone. Told me to just wait there. Some Chinese men came up in a car, took me here. Then I just waited."

"You know the question Virgil wants answered?"

"No. But I know you'll know the answer. Virgil said so."

"Where is he?"

"You'd never find it. I'll have to show you."

"No good. The cops'll be watching. Just tell me. Slow and careful."

It took her a long time. I made her tell me again. "You don't speak to Virgil?"

"No. He figured the phones'd be tapped."

"Okay. I'll go and see him."

"Now?"

"Soon. You go on back. I'll find him."

She grabbed my eyes with hers. "I know you will. And now I know you're Burke for real."

"How d'you know?"

"You didn't write anything down."

5

REBECCA WENT along with two of Mama's thugs. They'd take her to the airport. She didn't look back.

Virgil would be okay wherever he was. He wasn't trained like I was, but I'd schooled him good, all that time we'd spent together in the cell after lights-out. He wouldn't make any rookie mistakes. He called, and I'd come to him. But I had to clear the slate first.

6

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING. I found the Prof at work. He was hunched over the tabloids in a restaurant booth in the DMZ, a block past Times Square, listening to Olivia. She's a heavy-built black lady, works as a cleaning woman, cook, hospital orderly…whatever rich people need. She plays stupid but she doesn't even come close. And she's got camera eyes.

He felt me close in, whispered something to Olivia. She slid out of the booth, eyes down.

"Remember Virgil?" I asked the little man.

"The ridge runner? Sure."

"He got himself a major beef. Out in Indiana. I got to go see about him."

"You doing social work now?"

"He's one of us."

"Yeah, you're singing my song, but you're singing it wrong. My man's a stone citizen, Burke. He picked his home, let him go it alone."

The Prof could never forgive anyone who'd rather work than steal. People like that, they couldn't be trusted.

"I got to do it."

"Yeah. You always got to do it. That white trash holding any cash?"

"It's not like that."

"Never is, seems like. You went to school, but you still play the fool. A rhino ain't a racehorse."

"What's that mean?"

"Means you can't operate outside, bro'. The city, the streets. Even the jailhouse. You know all that, right? But you can't pay your bills in the hills. You got a subway complexion, son. And you smell like concrete. You ain't gonna fool nobody. You can't even buy yourself heat out there, turns out you need it."

"So I'll live by my wits."

"That what they call being half safe?"

"I know what I'm doing."

The little man ignored me. The way he always does when he's on a scent. "What you want to mess with all those beady-eyed, inbred Bible-thumping farmers?"

"Virgil was with us," I told him.

"Was was yesterday. This ain't. The straight track never goes back."

"I'm not asking you to come along."

"That's right. Be crazy by your ownself. You know how to work it. Lay in the cut, work the shadows. Talk loud and you draw a crowd."

"Okay."

The Prof snorted his disgust. "I ain't your parole officer, bro'. Why you reporting in?"

"Backup."

The little man nodded. "You need a loan, pick up the phone."

"The Mole, okay?"

"I'll give him a play. Once a day."

"Thanks, Prof."

He extended one hand to the counter, helped himself to my cigarettes, pocketing the pack as he lit one. Nodded his head and went back to his hustle.

7

I HAD ONE more job to wrap up before I left the city. The call had come in a few weeks ago and I'd been dancing with the freak ever since. He'd called a few times. Always the same thing: told Mama he had some information he wanted to sell. About a missing kid. He wouldn't leave a callback number. Wouldn't say when he'd call again. Wouldn't drop the kid's name.

Mama reads phone voices the way some Gypsies read palms. She'd been screening my blind dates ever since the first call, years and years ago. When I thought I could scam my way through this junkyard of a life. "Twisted man," she'd said. Voices came through the phone wire to Mama's filter all the time. Dope dealers, gunrunners, porno merchants, mercenaries and missionaries, cops and gangsters. They all knew where to find me.

They thought.

If Mama said the man was twisted, he'd bounce every needle on a psychiatrist's scale.

One night, I'd been there when he called. In the basement with Max. Mama called me to the phone. I picked it up.

"Okay. Talk to me."

"This is Burke?"

"Yeah."

"I got something." A young man's voice. "Something I want to sell."

I let him feel the silence. Feel what was in it. Waited.

"A missing kid. I know where he is. What's it worth?"

"To who?"

"That's not my problem. That's yours. You make the connection, get the cash. And we'll trade."

"Trade for what, pal? Is there some kind of reward out for this kid?"

"No. He's been gone a long time."

"So?"

"So I figure…you talk to his people …see if they're willing to pay. I don't…I can't call them myself. I don't even know where they are."

"Give me a name."

"Not a chance."

"The kid's name, pal."

"Oh."

The line went quiet again. I cleared my mind, listened: the freak's bad breathing, wires humming. No background noise. A pay phone, somewhere quiet.

"Jeremiah Brownwell."

"Never heard of him."

"Just check it out. I'll call you back."

8

THERE'S ALL KINDS of registries for missing kids, from federal to local. None of them would tell me what I needed to know to put this together. I called the cops.

The postcards show the Brooklyn Bridge from the top. From the bottom, it wouldn't attract any tourists. There's an opening at ground level along Frankfort Street just past Archway Seven. Big enough for a football game. A long time ago, they rented out the space. You can still see what's left of the faded signs: Leather Hides, Newsprint, Packing and Crating. One Police Plaza to the north, high-rise co-ops to the south.

Four in the afternoon, the moist heat working overtime. The streets would overflow with yuppie traffic in a short while, heading for South Street Seaport bistros to unwind, cool down after a hard day worshiping the greed-god. When it got dark, the urban-punk killing machines would become sociopathic clots in the city's bloodstream, preparing themselves to defend their graffiti-marked territory. Merciless and coarse, their only contribution to society would be as organ-donors.

In this city, race-hatred so thick you could cut it with a knife. Some tried.

I waited on the abandoned loading dock, playing the tapes again in my head. There's supposed to be a kid inside every adult. When women talk about men being little boys inside, they say it with a loving, indulgent chuckle. Or they sneer. I knew the little boy I'd been— I didn't ever want to see him again.

The car was the color of city dust. It bumped its way onto the concrete apron. The front doors opened and the cops rolled out. McGowan and Morales. NYPD Runaway Squad. They strolled over to where I was waiting, McGowan tall and thick, hat pushed back on his head, cigar in one hand, Irish smile on his mobile face. Morales was a flat-faced thuggish pit bull— more testosterone than brains. If he was a shark, he'd be a hammerhead.

I dropped to the ground, leaned against the loading dock as they approached.

"You okay?" McGowan asked in that honey-laced voice that had charmed little street girls and terrorized pimps for twenty years.

I nodded, watching Morales. We'd gone a few rounds a while back, then touched gloves when it was over. He wouldn't turn on me for no reason, but he'd never need a very good one.

"Is it for real?" I asked.

McGowan puffed on his cigar. "Jeremiah Brownwell was reported missing almost five years ago. He was seven then. With his mother at a shopping mall in Westchester. Just vanished. No ransom demand. Not a trace."

"So it was in the papers?"

"Yeah." Reading my thoughts. "Anyone could've picked it up."

"Was there ever a reward posted?"

"Not that I know of. It was before all this missing children stuff in the media. The kid's parents hired a PI and he put the word around. That's all. The kid's picture was in the paper."

"He won't look like that now. If it's him."

"No."

Morales leaned forward, chest out, forehead thrusting. Like he was getting ready to butt the bridge of my nose into my skull. "What's the deal? What's the motherfucker want?"

"Cash."

"Where d'you come in?"

"He wants me to see if the kid's parents will put up the money. Make a switch."

"What's ours?"

I ignored him. "You speak to the kid's folks?"

McGowan took over. "Yeah. They'd pay. Something. What they have. It's not all that much."

"If it's him…he's not going to be the same kid."

McGowan's face was grim. "I know."

"They still want him?"

"They want what they lost, Burke."

"Nobody ever gets that back."

McGowan didn't say anything after that. Morales' ball-bearing eyes shifted in their fleshy sockets. "The fuck that called you. It's extortion, right?"

"I'm not a lawyer."

"A lawyer's not what that guy needs."

McGowan shot his partner a chill-out look. Like asking a fire hydrant to run the hundred-yard dash.

"They got any sure way to identify the kid?" I asked.

"Pictures, stuff like that. Things only the kid would know. Name of his dog, his first-grade teacher…you know."

"Yeah. The freak…the one who called me…he says he wants ten large."

"They can do that."

"No questions asked?"

"No."

"Win or lose?"

"Yes."

"Let's take a shot."

"That's one thing we can't do," McGowan said, a restraining hand on his partner's forearm. Morales had flunked Probable Cause at the Police Academy— his idea of civil rights was a warning shot.

"I'll give you a call," I said.

9

THE FREAK kept dancing. It took another few days to calm him down. I let him pick the place. A gay bar off Christopher Street. He told me what he'd be wearing, what he looked like. When he'd be there. "Bring the cash," he said. Hard guy.

Vincent's apartment was on West Street. The outside looked like a set from Miami Vice.

Glass brick, blue-enameled steel tubing wrapped around each little terrace. I stood so the video monitor would pick up my face, pressed the buzzer.

Inside it was turn-of-the-century England. Vincent's twin pug dogs yapped at my heels until I sat down on the dark paisley couch. He's a big man, maybe six and a half feet, close to three hundred pounds. Long thick sandy hair combed straight back from a broad face.

"You know nothing about this person?"

"Just what I told you on the phone," I said.

"He thinks he's safe in a gay bar," Vincent said, two fingers pressed against a cheekbone. "Like he's one of us."

"That's the way I figure it."

"What can I do?"

"I need to talk to him. Not in the bar, okay?"

"You want to take him out of there?"

"Yeah."

"He won't want to go?"

I shrugged.

Vincent rubbed his cheekbone again, thinking. "You did me a favor once. I consider you a friend, you know that. But I can't be part of…uh…your reputation is…I'm not saying I personally believe every silly rumor that jumps off the street, but…"

"All I want to do is take him out of there. Without anybody noticing."

"Burke…"

"A little boy disappears. Five years later, a young guy calls me, says he knows where he is. Wants to trade him for cash. Scan it for yourself. What's it say to you?"

He wouldn't play. "It's not important. Those…creatures…they have sex with children and they say such sweet things about it. Fucking a little boy isn't homosexual."

"I know."

"I know you know. Are you saying I owe you? From that business in the Ramble?"

The Ramble is part of Central Park. An outdoor gay bar. One of Vincent's friends got caught there one night by a wolf pack. They left him needing a steel plate in his head. Good citizens, Vincent and his friends went to the cops. The badge-boys found the gang easily enough. Fag-bashers: pitiful freaks, trying to smash what they see in their own mirrors. One got the joint, the rest got probation. Then Vincent came to me. Max went strolling through the Ramble one night. The punks who'd walked out of the courthouse ended up in the same hospital as Vincent's friend. When the cops interviewed them, all they remembered was the pain.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I have to make some phone calls," he said.

10

THE MEETING WAS for ten o'clock. The pay phone in the parking lot off the West Side Highway rang at 9:50. Vincent's voice. "He just went in. Alone."

A smog-colored Mercedes sedan pulled up. Vincent's life-partner was in the front seat. "Please don't smoke in the car," he said. Didn't say another word to me, looking straight through the windshield. Dropped me off in front of the bar.

The freak was in a back booth. Short curly brown hair dropped into ringlets over his forehead. Dressed preppie, older than he was. I pegged him for maybe nineteen. Greenish drink in a slim glass in front of him.

"I'm Burke," I said, sliding into the booth across from him.

"You have the money?"

"Sure."

He dry-washed his hands. Noticed what he was doing. Fired a cigarette with a lighter that looked like a silver pencil. "How can we do this?"

"You give me the kid, I give you the money."

"How do I know…?"

"You called me, pal."

"If I tell you where he is…how do I know I'll get the money?"

I shrugged. "You want to come along when I pick him up?"

"I can't. That's not the deal."

"Is there a pay phone in this joint?"

"I guess so…I'm not sure." He waved his hand. Heavy gold chain on his wrist. Slave bracelet. A waiter came over. Didn't look at me.

"What will you have?"

"A ginger ale. Lots of ice, okay?"

"And for you?" he asked the freak.

"I'm okay. Do you have a pay phone here?"

"In the back. Just past the rest rooms."

"Thanks."

I lit a smoke, waiting. The waiter came back with my drink. A black cherry floated in the ice. All clear. I leaned forward. "We'll go to the pay phone. I'll call a friend of mine. He takes a look. While we wait, okay? He tells me he's spotted the kid…where you say he is, I give you the cash."

"Right here?"

"Right here."

"You've got it with you?"

"Sure."

"Show me."

"Not here. Out back. Okay?"

He got up. I followed him. The corridor was shadowy with indirect lighting. Past the rest rooms. No sounds seeped from under the doors— it wasn't that kind of gay bar. The pay phone stood against the wall. I reached in my inside pocket. Took out an envelope. "Count it," I told him. He took it in his hands, opened the flap. He was halfway through the bills before he noticed the pistol in my hand. Blood blanketed his face. Vanished, leaving it chalk-white.

"What is this?"

"Just relax. All I want is…"

Max loomed behind him, one seamed-leather hand locked on the back of the freak's neck. Pain took over his eyes, his mouth shot open in a thin squeak. I holstered the pistol, took the envelope from his limp hand. Max pushed the freak ahead of him. I slipped out the back door first, checked the alley where my Plymouth was parked. Empty.

We stepped outside. I heard bolts being slammed home behind us. I popped the trunk on the Plymouth. Wrapped the duct tape around the freak's mouth a few times, lifting the hair off the back of his head so it wouldn't catch. Max slapped the heel of his hand lightly into the freak's stomach. The freak doubled over. I put my lips right against his ear. "We're going for a ride. Nothing's going to happen to you. We wanted you dead, we'd leave you right in this alley. You're riding in the trunk. You make any noise, kick around back there, anything at all, we stop the car and we hurt you. Real, real bad. Now nod your head, tell me you understand."

The freak's head bobbed up and down. The trunk was lined with army blankets next to the fuel cell. Plenty of room. He climbed in without a word. Max and I got into the front seat and took off.

11

I USED THE Exact Change lane on the Triboro, grabbed the first exit, and ran parallel to Bruckner Boulevard through the South Bronx to Hunts Point. Turned off at Tiffany, motored past the mini-Attica they call a juvenile detention facility at the corner of Spofford, and turned left, heading for the network of juke joints, topless bars, and salvage yards that make up half the economy of the neighborhood. The other half was transacted in abandoned buildings. They stared with windowless eyes above crack houses doing a booming business on the ground floors.

We drove deeper, past even the bombed-out ruins. Past the meat market that supplies all the city's butcher shops and restaurants, past the battered hulks of railway cars rotting on rusty tracks that run to nowhere. Tawny flashes in the night. Wild dogs, hunting.

Finally we came to the deadfall. A narrow slip of land jutting into the East River, bracketed by mounds of gritty sand from the concrete yards and the entrance road to the garbage facility. I wheeled the Plymouth so it was parallel to the river. Max and I climbed out. Rikers Island was just across the filthy water, but you couldn't see it from where we stood. We opened the trunk. Hauled the freak out, ripping the duct tape from his mouth. He was shaking so hard he had to lean against the car.

"Take a look around," I told him.

A giant German shepherd lay on her side a few feet from us. Dead. Her massive snout buried in a large paper McDonald's bag. Her underbelly was a double row of enlarged, blunted nipples. She'd sent many litters to the wild dog packs before her number came up. A seagull the size of an albatross flapped its wings as it cruised to a gentle stop near the dog. Its razor beak ripped at her flesh, tiny eyes glaring us to keep our distance. Some kind of animal screamed. Sounds like a string of tiny firecrackers closer still.

The freak's chest heaved. He snorted a deep breath through his nose. It told him the truth his eyes wanted to deny.

"This is a graveyard," I said, my voice calm and quiet. "They'd never hear the shots. Never find the body. Got it?"

He nodded.

"You bring something with you? Something to prove you know where the kid is?"

He nodded again.

Max reached inside the freak's jacket. A wallet. Inside, a Polaroid snapshot of a kid. Long straight hair fell down either side of a narrow face. The kid in the picture was wearing blue bathing trunks, standing on a dock, smiling at the camera.

"Tell me something…something so I know it's the right kid."

The freak dry-washed his hands. "Monroe found him. A few years ago. In Westchester. He ran away from home."

"I won't ask you again."

"Lucas…that's what we call him…he told us everything. Just ask me…anything…I can…"

"Tell me what his room looked like— his room at home."

"He had bunk beds. His parents always thought they'd have another kid. Lucas, he said that bed was for his brother, when he came. And he had a whole G.I. Joe collection. All the dolls. And the Transformers. He loved the Transformers."

"He have a TV set in his room?"

"No. He was only allowed to watch television on the weekends. In the morning."

"He have a dog, this kid?"

"Rusty. That was the name of his dog. He cried all the time about Rusty until Monroe got him a dog."

Yes.

I lit a cigarette, feeling Max close, waiting. I handed the freak back the money envelope, feeling every muscle in his body soften as he took it.

"Tell me something," I asked him. "How old were you when Monroe found you?"

He didn't waste time playing. "How did you know?"

"How old?"

"Ten."

"And now you re…"

"Seventeen."

"So when you got too old, the only way to stay with Monroe was to bring him someone new, yes?"

His face broke, trembled for control, lost it. I listened to him cry.

"Lucas, he's old enough now, isn't he? And you're out."

He slumped down on the filthy ground near the car, head in his hands. "I could've helped him…find someone else."

"Yeah. But Monroe, he's gonna let Lucas do that. And you, you wanted the money for a new start?"

"He never loved me at all!" the freak sobbed.

I squatted down next to him. "Where is he?"

"I'll tell you everything." He started talking, his voice a hiss that he couldn't stop, spewing pus. When he got to the home address, I left Max standing next to him. Pulled the mobile cellular phone from the front seat. A gift from a nujack whose nine-millimeter automatic wasn't as fast as Max's hands. Punched in the number, hit the Send button. McGowan was right there. I gave him the address. "The kid's not going to want to go," I told him.

He sighed into the phone. I cut the connection to McGowan.

I walked back over to the freak. Looked down and let him hear the truth. "You're square now. Somebody did something to you, you did something to somebody else. It's over, okay? You're gonna need a lot of help now, understand? You got some real decisions to make. You'll find some phone numbers in your pocket later. Those people, they can help you, if you want the help. You don't want the help, that's up to you. There's another number. Wolfe, over at City-Wide. You want to testify against Monroe, she'll handle it. Set you up with anything you need. But this other stuff, it's over. You go back to your old ways, you re coming back here. Understand?"

He nodded, watching me from under long eyelashes, trembling slightly.

"You come back here, you're coming back to stay."

I nodded at Max. He did something to the kid's neck. We put him back into the trunk. He'd wake up later with a bad headache and five hundred bucks in his pocket.

12

I MET MCGOWAN and Morales early the next morning. At the diner where they hang out. They hadn't been to sleep yet.

"You found him?" I asked.

"Yeah." McGowan's voice was dead.

"Get him home?"

"He said he was home. His name is Lucas. A special boy, he told us he was. A special boy. He's a poet. You wanna see his poetry?" He slid a slick magazine across to me.

Boys Who Love it said on the cover. Picture of a kid sitting astride a BMX dirt bike, sun shining behind him.

"Page twenty-nine," McGowan said.

The poem was entitled "Unicorn." All about little buds needing the pure sunlight of love to bring them to full flower.

"You lock the freak up?" I asked.

"Yeah. He's got his story ready, this Monroe. He found the kid wandering around a shopping center. The kid told him he was being sexually abused at home. This Monroe, he saved the boy. Raised him like his own kid. Spent a fortune on him. Private tutors, the whole works."

"And the kid won't testify, right?"

"Right. We took him home. Saw his mother and father. Looked right through them."

"What's next?"

"Lily talked with him. She says he's 'bonded' to that devil. Harder than deprogramming a kid caught up in one of those cults. Gonna take a long time. We ran it by Wolfe at City-Wide. She says she's got enough to indict Monroe even without the kid.

"And Lucas said there was another kid. Older than him. Layne. Wolfe wanted to know, maybe this Layne, he'd testify against Monroe…"

His voice trailed off, making it a question. I shrugged.

"I fucking told you," Morales said.

"And the ten grand's gone too?"

"Yeah."

"Wolfe's the best. She was standing by. Got a telephonic search warrant. There was enough stuff in the house…pictures and all…Monroe goes down for a long time even without the kid's testimony. Wolfe says they can use that DNA fingerprinting, prove this kid is who the parents say he is. She asked if you were in this."

"And you told her…"

"No."

It wouldn't fool Wolfe. She wasn't asking McGowan for information, she was sending me a message. The beautiful prosecutor played the game right to the edge of the line, played it too hard for the degenerates to win.

But they kept coming. Tidal waves from a swamp the EPA could never clean up.

Morales ground out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Hard, the way he did everything. "Whatever he gets, it's not enough. Next to him, a rapist's a class act." His eyes held mine, waiting.

"What're you saying?"

"He's not saying nothing," McGowan snapped. "Just frustrated, that's all."

"You think the federales will play Let's Make a Deal with this freak?"

"They could. He knows a lot. Networked all over the place. He even had one of those computer programs where you send images over the wire to a laser printer."

"Good." You do enough bragging about where the bodies are buried, you could join the crowd.

Morales weighed in. "Yeah. Fucking great. He drops a pocketful of dimes on his brother freaks, does a few soft years in a federal rest camp, sees one of those whore-psychiatrists, comes out and gets a job in a day-care center or something. Maybe writes a book."

I shrugged.

Morales took it as a challenge. "You think those fucking therapists can fix a freak like him?"

"No. They know what to call it, that's all. Pedophilia. Like it's a disease. They had a disease named after hijackers, maybe I would of gotten past the Parole Board the first time."

Morales wouldn't let it go. "A few years ago, they'd have to lock slime like that away from the regular cons. Not no more. Baby-raping motherfuckers like him need to resist arrest more often."

McGowan shook his head sadly. He got up to leave, Morales trailing in his wake. The cops tossed bills on the table for their breakfast and split. I watched the smoke collect near the ceiling of the diner. Thinking of something Wesley once told me.

Something he once called me.

13

I WAS AS CLOSE to square as I was going to get. I could go on vacation, not worry about the mail piling up on the doorstep.

But a responsible businessman doesn't take a vacation unless his desk is clean. After a half hour of dodging potholes deep enough to have punji sticks at the bottom, the Plymouth poked its anonymous nose off the BQE at Flushing Avenue. Heading through Bedford-Stuyvesant. Some people call it "do or die Bed-Stuy." Those people are called something else. Escapees.

On to Bushwick. A bad piece of pavement even by city standards: if you went down on these streets from less than three gunshot wounds, the hospital would write "natural causes" on the death certificate. Just before the intersection at Marcy Avenue, a three-story shell of a wooden building, blackened timbers forming X-braces, decaying from the ground up. Next to it, an abandoned Chinese take-out joint. Hand-painted sign: Houes of Wong. Parked in front, a car full of black teenagers, baseball caps turned on their heads so the bills pointed backwards. Waiting for night.

The going rate for three rocks of instant-access cocaine is five bucks. The dealers won't take singles, makes too much bulk in their pockets. The bodegas operate as war-zone currency exchanges: a five-dollar bill costs you six singles.

I crossed Broadway, past a pet store that advertised rabbits. For food. A rooster crowed from somewhere inside one of the blunt-faced buildings.

A Puerto Rican woman strolled by on the sidewalk, wearing a bright orange quasi-silk blouse knotted just below her midriff, neon-yellow spandex bicycle pants with thick black stripes down the sides stretching almost to her knees. Backless white spike heels, no stockings. She was fifteen pounds over the limit for a yuppie aerobics class, but on this street, she was prime cut. She acknowledged the men calling out to her with her lips and her hips, but she never turned her head.

Another couple of blocks. The projects. An olive-skinned little boy was playing with a broken truck in a puddle near a fire hydrant, making it amphibious.

Most of the businesses were war casualties, liquor stores and video rental joints the only survivors.

And the crack houses. Fronted by groups of mini-thugs hoping to grow up to be triggerboys. Watching the escape vehicles slide by, Mercedeses and BMWs, seeing themselves behind the wheel. Ghetto colors slashing the grime, not telling the truth.

Gut-grinding poverty. Sandpaper for the soul.

Pigeons overhead, circling in flocks. Hawks on the ground.

Make enough wrong turns and you're on a no-way street.

A no-brand-name gas station on the corner. It pumped more kilos than gallons. A big dirt-colored junkyard dog was entertaining himself, dropping a blackened tennis ball from his mouth down a paved slope, chasing it once it got rolling. A trio of puppies watched in fascination.

The sign outside said Custom Ironwork. A sample covered the front door. I rang the bell. Door opened. Guy about five feet tall answered. Red Ban-Lon shirt, short sleeves threatened by biceps the size of grapefruits. He either had a pin head or a twenty-inch neck. One dark slash was his full supply of eyebrows. His hands gripped the bars like he could bend them without a welding torch.

"What?"

"Mr. Morton."

"Who wants him?"

"Burke. I got an appointment."

He must have been told in front. In one-syllable words. I stepped back as he shoved the iron gate open, stepped past him as he stood aside.

"Upstairs."

I heard him behind me on the steel steps, breathing hard by the second flight. Bodybuilder.

"In here."

Bars on the windows, gray steel office desk, stacks of army-green file cabinets against the wall. The man behind the desk was younger than I expected. Deep tan, expensive haircut, heavy on the gel. Diamond on one finger, wafer-faced watch on his wrist. Manicure, clear nail polish. White silk shirt, tie pulled down. Suit jacket on a hanger, dangling from a hook on the wall.

"Mr. Morton?"

"Yeah."

"My name is Burke. We have an appointment."

"You got what you're supposed to have?"

"Yes."

He looked sideways at the bodybuilder. "You pat him down?"

"No, boss. I thought you…"

Morton glanced across at me, tapping his fingers. "Never mind," he told the bodybuilder in a disgusted voice. To me: "Put it on the table." Hard edge in his voice, looking me right in the eyes. Tough guy, projecting his image.

I had his image: lunch meat, on white bread. I reached in my pocket, laid the thick envelope on the desk.

"You got this straight from him? You look inside?"

"Yeah."

"How come? You don't trust the senator?"

"I didn't want to come up short. It wouldn't be respectful."

He nodded. "You know how much this costs?"

"I know what he told me. Twenty-five K."

"That's what's in there?" Gesturing at the envelope.

"In hundreds. Used, no consecutives."

"Okay." He took a nine-by-twelve manila envelope from the desk drawer. "You want to look?"

"No."

His head tilted up. "No?"

"I agreed to bring you an envelope, bring him an envelope."

"What if this one's empty?"

"It wouldn't be."

"Or else what?"

"You have to ask the man. It's not my business."

He lit a cigarette. "I know you. I know your name. I wouldn't want you to come back if the man was unhappy."

"Sure."

"What's that mean?"

"It means, you know my name, you know I'm not a chump. Like the senator, right? Don't jerk my chain. The pictures are in there. And the negatives. Not because you're worried about me coming back."

"Then why?"

"Only a fucking sucker buys pictures. We both know that. You got more. Or copies of the negatives. Maybe you'll never do anything with them, maybe you will. But it won't be soon."

"That sounds like a threat."

I reached in my pocket. The bodybuilder's mouth-breathing didn't change. He was a side of beef— couldn't guard his own body. I lit a cigarette of my own, blew out the wooden match with the exhale, dropped it on the floor. The manila envelope was fastened with a string wrapped around two red buttons. I untied the string, spilled the pictures on the desk. Eight-by-tens, black&white. Nice lighting, good contrast, fine-grained. Professional setup. The senator flat on his back, a girl riding him, facing the black calf-length socks covering his feet. Camera got both their faces nice and clear. Side-shot of the girl on her knees, mouth full. Long light-colored hair trailing down to her shoulders. Half a dozen others. Different positions. One thing in common: you could always see both faces. I smiled at Morton. "Melissa never seems to get older, does she?"

White splotches flowered under his tan. The hand holding the cigarette trembled.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I dragged deep on my smoke. "Twenty-five grand. That wouldn't cover your investment, would it? How'd you work it this time? Pay off the clerk, get her a new birth certificate? Register her at some high school? Get her to visit the senator for some term paper?"

His cigarette burned his hand. He snubbed it out in the ashtray, concentrating like it was a hard task.

"Get out of here," he snapped. He wasn't talking to me. The beef left the room— maybe he wasn't so stupid.

The door closed behind him. I didn't turn around. Morton put his hands on the table. "What d'you want?"

"Melissa, she's been running this con forever. She's got to be twenty-two, twenty-three by now. She came to you, right?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, she knows how to work it. The senator, he's getting ready to announce for Congress. Make his big move. How old you tell him she was, fifteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Yeah. It's a nice scam. The twenty-five, that's good-faith money, right? You're a square guy, you turn over the pictures behind an up-front payment, he sends you the rest."

He nodded again.

"I figure it for a hundred large. Minimum. What's your piece?"

"Half."

"How'd she do it? You first?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath. Lit another smoke. "You know the Motor Inn? By the courthouse in Queens?"

"Sure."

"She was working the cocktail lounge. Not a hooker. I took a room there, waited for her until her shift was over. She must of run my plates. Sent me a picture in the mail. Just to show me how it was done."

"She didn't threaten you?"

"No. Said it would be an easy fifty grand. Maybe more, later. If the senator goes higher up the ladder."

This greaseball had about as much chance against Melissa as Charles Manson did of getting work release. I put the pictures back in the envelope. The negatives were in a separate wrapper. "You had a week since I called you. You asked around, checked me out?"

"Yeah."

"So you're not going to be stupid."

"No. Not twice."

"I'll take these to the senator. Far as I'm concerned, my job is over. Understand?"

"You won't tell him?"

"Fuck him. Why should I? You sting a senator, you're on my side of the street."

An oil-slick smile twisted his mouth. He nodded agreement.

I picked up the cash envelope. Stuffed it in my pocket. Got to my feet.

"Hey! You said…I was on your side of the street…"

"This is the toll," I said.

14

SOME GUY who knew more about adjectives than he did about the junkyard once wrote that the city never gives up its secrets. But it'll sell them.

I stopped at a light on Hester Street. Two men shambled up to the car, clutching filthy rags— the tools of their trade. Smeared dirt around the windshield, held out their hands to me, palms up. I reached under the seat for my supply of those little booze bottles they give away on airlines. A stewardess I know brings them home from work. Handed them each a bottle. Watched their faces light up as I cut out the middleman.

The newspapers call them "homeless." They don't get it. Today, the Grapes of Wrath come out of a bottle of Night Train.

I left the Plymouth in lower Manhattan. It didn't look like anything worth stealing, but I flipped the switches to make sure. There was twenty-five grand under the front seat.

Tail end of the evening rush hour as I walked down the steps into the subway tunnel. Both branches of the Lexington Avenue line pulled in at the same time. I opted for the 6 train, the local. The only advantage of having a seat on the subway is that your back is covered.

A legless man pulled himself along the floor of the train, his hands covered with tattered mittens. The upper half of his body sat on a flat wooden disc, separated from the cart by a foot-high column. So you could see he wasn't faking it. He rattled the change in his cup, not saying a word. Humans buried their faces in newspapers. I tapped his shoulder as he rolled by. Stuffed a ten-dollar bill in his cup. He pulled it out, looked it over. Locked my eyes.

"Thank you, my brother," he said. Strong, clear voice.

We always know each other, those of us missing some parts.

I got out at Seventy-seventh Street, walked west through the throngs of trendoid ground slugs toward Park Avenue. Found the senator's co-op. Told the doorman my name was Madison. He called up, told me to go ahead. The senator let me in himself.

"We're alone," he said. Like I cared.

His study was just what you'd expect if you read a lot of magazines that never leave the coffee table.

He gestured to a leather chair, took one himself. I lit a smoke. He frowned. "My wife doesn't like smoking…I'm afraid there's no ashtrays anywhere in the house."

I took out a metal Sucrets box, popped it open, tapped my cigarette into it. Handed him the envelope.

"Did you look inside?"

"No."

He was a tall, thick-bodied man, graying hair carefully coiffed to hide a receding hairline. Light brown eyes held mine. His famous "anti-corruption stare" the TV cameras liked so much. On me, it was as useful as an appendix. He dropped his eyes, opened the envelope, held the pictures so I couldn't see them. Leafed through them, one by one. I watched his face. Melissa's rightful prey: he'd never want a woman grown enough to judge him.

He put the pictures away. Five to one he wouldn't burn them. "You do good work, Mr. Burke."

"That's what I'm paid for," I reminded him.

"Oh. Yes." He handed me a #10 business envelope. Heavy, cream-colored stock. "You want to count it?"

"I trust you, Senator," I assured him.

He stroked his chin in a gesture so practiced it had become habit. "I never did anything like this before." Meaning deal with thugs like me, not fuck underage girls. "It seems to have worked out well. Perhaps I'll have something for you to do in the future."

"Anytime."

"You came highly recommended. I didn't want to deal with…you know…"

I knew.

"I mean…I know how you people work. You have your own code. You'd never talk even if…" Reassuring himself. I knew who'd given him my name. Cops have their own code too.

I got up to go. He didn't offer to shake hands. I'd see him again someday. The senator wasn't cut out for crime. He was the kind of man who'd use vanity plates on a getaway car.

15

THE EXPRESS took me back as far as Fourteenth Street. A little kid squatted at the curb with his pants down, dumping a load while his mother shared a joint with a mush-faced human in a sleeveless dungaree jacket. In New York, the pooper-scooper laws only apply to dogs. On the corner, a guy was handing out leaflets, facing away from me. He fed me one with a deft behind-the-back move, slapping it into my palm like passing the baton in a relay race. I glanced at it. A topless bar. Where We Know How to Treat a Gentleman. I crumpled it up, tossed it at an overflowing garbage can. Missed.

Another leaflet-dealer at the next corner. Look down or look hard. I grabbed his eyes as I closed in, my hands clenched into fists. "Don't look so angry, chief. I saved one for you," he sang out. Fuck it, I took one. Jews for Jesus.

A derelict combed his hair, holding a rearview mirror from a car in one hand, adjusting his look. Fancy running shoes on his feet— you can always pick up a pair in the homeless shelters. The yuppies donate their old models every time a new style comes out. Tax-deductible relevance.

A blissed-out dude with long hair and Star Trek eyes sat on a blanket, jet-lagged from time travel. A hand-lettered sign propped up next to him: Wind Chimes. Empty pint bottles of wine all around him. A woman stopped in front of him. Asked, "Where are the wind chimes?" He held up one of the bottles, admiring the play of sunlight on the glass. Tapped it gently with a tiny hammer. The bottle cracked, tinkled as the glass fell onto the blanket. His smile was pharmacological.

Something white under my windshield wiper. As I came closer, I saw it was a business card. A tiny black&white photo of a woman in bra and garter belt, red lipsticked imprint. Dial 555-PAIN slashed across the top. I read the small print. Press (I) Submissive Sarah; (2) Two beautiful bisexual girls; (3) Adventures of Lady Whiplust. Smaller print: $1.50 first minute, $0.50 for each additional minute.

16

NOTHING ON the all-news station. Pushed the buttons. Found some sports-talk program. So sad to listen to callers desperate to stay on the line, prolong the contact. Mike, I've got a couple of quick questions, and then a comment, okay?" Not all Dumpster-divers are homeless— the city's a giant cellblock, stuffed with humans who never see each other. As lonely as masturbation.

You make your bed, you have to sleep in it. Some people smoke in theirs.

I opened the newspaper. In the Personals: hand-drawn picture of a little girl, pretty bow in her hair, licking a lollypop. A child's rounded scrawl: "Call me, please." It was signed Bridgette. The phone number said: $3.50 a call, max. Adults Only.

Virgil had called at the right time. New York was always hard, but now it was ugly.

Full of checks that bounced and women who didn't.

A good time to go.

17

BUT FIRST, I had to see my lawyer. Davidson was in the conference room, surrounded by a mountain of books, arguing with two other guys. One was about my age, the other a rookie.

"But the law clearly says…" the young guy was saying.

"Says to who?" Davidson challenged him. "You think the jury's going to be a bunch of smartass law students?"

"But your defense…it admits guilt."

The older guy smiled. "He is guilty, Denny. But the State has the burden of proof. The cases all hold…"

Davidson cut him off. "This isn't a bar exam, kid. Vega shot Suarez. Four fucking times, okay?"

"But if you put him on the stand…"

"Yeah, yeah. The DA will bring out that this isn't the first time Vega used a gun on somebody. But my man gets to tell his story."

"Some story."

"Hey! The dead guy, Suarez, he gets into an argument with our guy Vega in the club. Vega slaps him. Suarez walks out. He tells every hombre in the place that he's going home, get his shit, and make a comeback. All right? Couple of hours later, the door opens. Suarez rolls in, puts his hand in his pocket. Our guy shoots first. Self-fucking-defense."

"Suarez didn't have a gun. All he had in his pocket was a knife."

Davidson shrugged. "You threaten a man in a South Bronx social club, you come back inside and reach for your pocket, you're supposed to get shot. That's the law, kid."

I shook hands with Davidson. Lit a cigarette. It didn't make a dent in the fumes from Davidson's bratwurst-sized cigar. He introduced me around. As Mitchell Sloane, a lawyer he was working with on a Jersey case. With Davidson, confidentiality goes a long way.

He didn't ask the other two guys to leave. Even though his partner knew the score, we talked obliquely. Habit. I asked him if he ever got paid on the last matter we covered and he nodded. Meaning: my credit was good if I got popped again.

The kid stepped out. Came back with another guy. I knew him from the courts. Drug lawyer. Good-looking boy, nice rap. Took his cash in paper bags, put some of it back into his wardrobe. Ruby ring, diamonds around the bezel of his watch. Very stylish.

The new guy ignored me. "You going to handle the Simpson trial?" he asked Davidson in a flea-market voice.

"Yep."

"I got a piece coming."

"How so?"

"Goldstein referred it to you, right?"

Davidson shrugged.

"Simpson came to me too. Same day as Goldstein. I guess he didn't like the fee— so he went shopping."

Davidson raised his eyebrows.

"I quoted him seventy-five. Too rich for his blood— he went for the lower-priced spread— that's how Goldstein got called."

"So you figure…he doesn't go to Goldstein, I don't get the case?"

"That's about it." The guy smiled, looking over at me, including me in his slice-of-the-pie bullshit. One lawyer to another.

"How much you figure it's worth?" Davidson asked him.

"Well, Goldstein gloms a third, right? I figure I should…How much is he paying you anyway?"

Davidson puffed on his cigar. "A buck and a quarter."

The guy's face went white. "A hundred and twenty-five fucking thousand dollars?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"That's what I charged him."

The guy sat down, wondering what went wrong with the world. His ruby ring dimmed.

Davidson ignored him, turned to me. We have something to discuss? Some new matter?"

"No rush," I told him. "I got plenty of time."

We smoked in silence for a minute.

The other guy made a face. "You ought to start working out," he said to Davidson. "Give up those weeds."

"I can kick your ass on the basketball court," Davidson sneered at him.

"Please! You got to be fifty pounds overweight."

"A little bulk's good for you." Davidson truly believes that. His son is two years old— kid looks like a sumo wrestler.

The drug lawyer shot his cuffs, looked at his watch. Total self-absorption was the one commitment he never failed to keep. "I was thinking…maybe being married isn't such a bad thing. Ever since I got divorced…this AIDS thing…really puts a damper on your social life. You ever read the Personal ads…like in the Voice?"

"No," Davidson said.

"I read them all the time," I told him.

"Yeah? You think it's a good idea?"

"What?"

"Putting an ad in…maybe meet something really good?"

I shrugged.

"You ever met anybody you wanted to meet that way?"

"Sure," I said.

Davidson smiled. He knows what I do.

The guy rubbed his chin. "The wording…that's tricky. I mean, you don't want to say too much, but…"

"I got the ad for you," I told him.

He looked up, waiting.

"Got a pencil?"

He whipped out a fat Montblanc pen, like doctors use to write prescriptions.

"Take this down: Woman wanted. Disease-free. Self-lubricating. Short attention span."

His face went blotchy-red. Davidson raised his hand above his head. His silent partner looked up from a law book, slapped him a high-five. The drug lawyer gave me what he thought was a hard look and walked out.

I ground out my smoke. Handed Davidson a business card. Mitchell Sloane. Private Investments. Address, phone number, fax number too. Clean engraved printing, very classy. The address and the numbers were Davidson's.

"I need a corporation formed," I told him. "Just like it says on the card."

"How long is this corporation going to be in business?"

"A month, maybe two. No more."

"You need a sign on the door?"

"I thought, maybe a nice brass plaque."

"Un-huh. And the phones?"

"The number on the card, I can bounce it to anywhere I want. Say to one of your dead-end lines?"

"I'll have Glenda pick it up during business hours. You want a tape on the machine for evenings and weekends?"

"Yeah."

He spread his palm out before me. Five. I counted out the cash.

"It's done," he said. "Glenda will sweep the tapes every morning when she comes in, okay?"

"Okay. You licensed to practice in Indiana?"

"I'll get a local guy to do the paperwork," he said. Davidson took cases all over the country.

We shook hands. He was dictating the incorporation memo as I walked out the door.

18

BACK AT THE office, I tried to hustle Pansy into a vacation at the Mole's junkyard. She acted like she didn't know what I was talking about, so I let her out to her roof while I fixed her a snack. A half gallon of honey vanilla ice cream with a couple of handfuls of graham crackers mixed in. It was waiting for her when she ambled downstairs. Lasted about as long as a politician's promise. It would end up being worth the same too. The beast prowled a step behind me as I went through the place throwing everything I'd need into an airline-size bag.

It's easy enough to beat the scanners they use in the security corridors at the airport, but I was traveling clean.

A handful of loose change spilled on the floor. Pansy snarfed at it experimentally. I let her play with the coins. I wouldn't even tell a dog to drop a dime.

19

TERRY OPENED the gate for me at the junkyard. It seemed like he was bigger every time I saw him. He wouldn't have a kid's body much longer. His eyes hadn't been a child's even when I found him. When he was for rent on the streets.

The dog pack swirled around Terry, growling and snapping, eyes down. Waiting. Simba bounced into the circle, his ears up, tail rigid as a flagpole behind him. "Simba-witz!" I greeted the beast. He ignored me, eyes pinning Pansy. The Neapolitan watched him from her higher perch, calm as stone if you didn't know her. But I saw the hair on the back of her neck bristle and felt her tail swish rhythmically against my leg. Terry jumped on the hood of the Plymouth and I pressed the gas. Some of the pack yapped after us, but Simba stood rooted, confident that he had faced down the new arrival without bloodshed.

I followed the path Terry pointed out, planted the Plymouth in a spot between two gutted yellow cabs. I gave Pansy the signal and she didn't protest when Terry came close. We walked the rest of the way to the Mole's bunker.

"I'll get him," the kid said, disappearing down the tunnel, leaving me outside with my dog.

"You'll be okay for a couple weeks, girl," I told her. "You've been here before, remember?" She growled an acknowledgment, not bitching about it.

The Mole shambled up to us, seating himself on the cut-down oil drum he uses for a deck chair. Greeted me the same way he answers his phone…by waiting for someone to speak.

"Mole, I got to go away for a while. An old buddy of mine got himself in a jackpot in Indiana. You can keep Pansy for me…let me leave the Plymouth here too?"

"Okay."

"The Prof will be calling you. Once a day, all right? I need to get a message to him, I'll leave it with you."

"Okay."

"You working on anything?" I asked. Just to give him room— I couldn't understand the stuff he does if I had another life sentence to study it.

"The Mole's teaching me about heavy water," the kid piped up.

"I'm sure your mother will be pleased," I said to the kid, giving the Mole an opening.

"Michelle called you?" he asked.

"Mole, you know the deal. She said she was going to Denmark. That's a name, a name for what she wants done. Not a place. She could be in Europe, could be down to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. She'll call when she's coming home. You know that."

"I get letters," the kid said. Proudly.

Michelle, the beautiful transsexual hooker. The slickest hustler I ever knew. The woman who made Terry her son. The strange, lovely woman who danced for years with the Mole. Never touching. But she'd never change partners. When I was coming up, I always wanted a big sister. Big sisters, they taught you to dance, told you how to act around girls, stepped into the street for you when it came to that. Showed up on visiting days when you were locked down. Sold whatever they had to pay for lawyers. Little sisters, they were nothing but grief. You had to jump in anyone's face who messed with them. And their girlfriends, by the time they were old enough for you to play with, your little sister didn't bring them home after school. They'd get married, get beat up by their husbands. More work to do. I told Michelle once she was like a big sister to me, trying to tell her I loved her the only way I could. All she heard was "big." Like she was older than me. She told me I was a pig and a guttersnipe, ground her spike heel into the toe of my shoe and stalked out of Mama's restaurant. Didn't speak to me for weeks. Until I got in trouble and she came running.

She'd been threatening to have the operation for years. "I'm going to lose these spare parts one day, baby. Stop being trapped. Be myself." We never took it seriously until she left. I missed her. Terry was patient. The Mole was breaking up inside. "My biological family" was the only reference Michelle made to her parents. She was the one who told me what "family of choice" meant. The Prof knew. "She don't just know how to say it, bro', she knows how to play it."

A transsexual who could never have a child. And a solitary genius who never would. Terry was their child. Snatched from the night. Blooming in a junkyard.

The Mole drove me over to a gypsy cab joint where I could catch a ride to the airport. He didn't wave goodbye. If it wasn't Nazi-hunting, it wasn't on his list.

20

I FLEW IN TO MIDWAY on a Thursday night, traveling light. Adjusted my watch to Central Time. A city snake shedding its skin, coming into a new season.

The countergirl confirmed my reservation, asked me if I was interested in an upgrade. She made the word sound so orgasmic I went for the optional car phone.

She didn't blink twice at Mitchell Sloane's American Express gold. It wouldn't bounce. I'd had it for years. Charged something every couple of months, paid the bills by check. Sloane was a solid citizen. Had the passport to prove it.

I would rather have paid cash, not left so much paper behind me. But the drug dealers ruined that: paying cash is a red flag to the DEA, and everyone has a phone. I was lousy with cash. New York cash. Enough to live on for years if I went back to my underground ways. After Belle went down, I went crazy. Off the track. I had the bounty money the pimps had paid me to take the Ghost Van off the streets. All the money Belle had been saving for her wedding day. But I went after more. Not for the money— just to be doing something. Cigarettes by the truckload from North Carolina. Cartons of food stamps, sold to bodegas with nothing on their shelves— you can buy TV sets with them in Puerto Rico. Extortion. Rough stuff. Scoring like a madman. Never getting square.

Until a dead man pulled me out of the pit. Wesley.

21

I KNEW WHERE to go. The Lincoln Town Car had a full tank of gas. Clean inside, but not fresh. Like a motel room where they put a sanitation band across the toilet seat.

The road to Indiana smelled like steel and salt. Near the water it smelled like sewage. Near the mills, like rust.

The motel was outside Merrillville, where Virgil had his house. One story, X-shaped. Mid-range: not classy enough for the desk clerk to tell me about their fine restaurant, not raunchy enough to ask me if I wanted anything sent to my room.

I set the door chain, unpacked, clicked on the TV set. I balanced a couple of quarters on the metal doorknob, positioned a glass ashtray

on the napless carpet underneath it. Closed my eyes and drifted away.

When I woke up, the Cubs were in the mid-innings of a night game. I went back to sleep.

22

THE NEXT MORNING, I took a long shower. Shaved carefully. Put on the dove-gray summer-weight silk-and-worsted suit Michelle made me buy when we'd both been way ahead after a nice score. White silk shirt, plain dark tie. Black Bally slip-ons, thin gray Concord watch with tiny gold dots on the band, black star sapphire ring. Black aluminum attaché case filled with charts, projections, blueprints, maps. Ready to go.

The freestanding building had space for a dozen cars. Only two slots occupied as I pulled the Lincoln into the lot. Evergreen Real Estate.

Pleasant-faced middle-aged woman at the front desk. "Good morning, sir. Can I help you?"

"Yes, please. I wonder if I could see the manager."

"Certainly, sir. Your name, please?"

"Sloane."

She tapped one of the buttons on her console. "John, a Mr. Sloane to see you." A pause. "Well, I don't know, do I?" She gave me a flash-smile, shrugged her ample shoulders. "He'll be right out."

The manager was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, open-necked white shirt underneath. He was a tall man with a dark crewcut just past military length. He extended his hand. "I'm John Humboldt, Mr. Sloane. You wanted to speak with me."

I shook his hand. "Yes, sir, I did. It's about some investments. I wonder if we could talk in…"

"Right this way."

He led me back to his office, stepped aside to usher me in first. "Have a seat."

The office walls were paneled in knotty pine, covered with laminated certificates and engraved plaques. Apparently, John Humboldt was a whale of a salesman.

I handed him the Mitchell Sloane business card. "I'm in the area to check out some potential sites. I have a number of clients…a consortium of investors with cash…who want to get in on the ground floor."

He scratched his head, doing the country boy act for the city slicker. "Well, that's mighty interesting, Mr. Sloane. But the ground floor of what? I guess you must know heavy industry isn't exactly working overtime lately in these parts."

I lit a cigarette, my face telegraphing the struggle. Should I trust this man?

Hell, yes.

"Mr. Humboldt, we both know the legislature has just given approval for pari-mutuel racing in this state. For the first time."

"That bill hasn't passed. It was just introduced."

"It'll pass this time," I assured him. "And once it does, they'll need racetracks."

"And you think Lake County…?"

"No doubt in my mind."

"I see."

"Sure you do. I'm going to be looking around for appropriate sites. Spend a couple of weeks. When I locate something I believe might be appropriate, would you be in a position to make the approach? We don't want anyone knowing about this…once they think there's outside money available, you and I both know what'll happen to the price."

"You can rely on me," Humboldt said, extending his hand again.

"I'm sure. Now, I'll be staying at different places. Low profile, you know? But my office will always know where to reach me. And I'll write the number of the car phone on the back of this business card for you, okay? I'm looking forward to us doing business."

"Me too." As sincere as any real estate broker ever was.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Humboldt."

"Call me John," he said.

23

I SPENT THE REST of the day driving around. Stopping occasionally, making little squibbles in a notebook. Not for me— my eyes photographed what I needed to know. In case somebody decided to take a look inside the real estate speculator's fancy car.

I used a pay phone just off Sixty-first Avenue. Called the number on my business card. Glenda answered, grown woman's professional voice with just an undercurrent of purr. She knew how to do it.

"Mitchell Sloane Enterprises."

"It's me, Glenda. Any calls?"

"Just one. Hung up when I answered. Probably a wrong number."

"Probably wasn't." Nice of Humboldt to be so trusting. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Bye-bye."

24

EARLY AFTERNOON CAME. The diner was set back from the road, squatting on a rectangular slab of blacktop, near the intersection of U.S. 30 and 41. Couple of miles from the Illinois line. The parking lot was about a third full: pickup trucks with names of businesses painted on the doors, a clay-splattered 4 X 4, sedans and hardtops. Working cars, working people. The food was either good or cheap.

The joint had wraparound windows. All the booths looked out to the parking lot. Long counter lined with padded stools. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out. I walked through slowly— found a booth near the back.

The waitress was a stocky girl, light brown hair cut in a short bob. She was wearing a plain white uniform with a tiny red apron tied across the front. The skirt was too short and too tight for off-the-rack. She leaned over, both palms flat on the Formica tabletop, plump breasts threatening to pop out the top piece of her uniform where she'd opened a couple of extra buttons. A little red plaque shimmered on her chest. When she stopped bouncing, I could see what it said. Cyndi.

"Hi! You need a menu?"

"Please."

"Be right back."

I watched her switch away. The sweet rolls in this joint weren't only on the shelves. Seamed stockings. Medium-height white spike heels. Hell of a sacrifice for a waitress to make on her feet all day. If they all dressed like her, the meals had to be lousy.

She was back in a minute, a one-page plastic-covered menu in her hand. I looked it over quickly. The cook must have figured whatever was good enough for Ted Bundy was good enough for food. I slid past the burgers and the chicken to something that looked safer.

"The tuna salad…you make it up here?"

"You can get an individual can if you want." She leaned over again, flashed me a smile. Dot of red on an eyetooth from the carmine lipstick. "That's what I do," she said, patting one round hip. "I have to watch my weight."

"That seems like a nice job."

"Waiting tables?"

"Watching your weight."

"Oh, you!" Giggling. At home now. With what she first learned in junior high.

"I'll have the tuna. An order of rye toast. And some ginger ale."

"We serve beer here too. Cold. On tap."

"Not while I'm working."

She scribbled something with her pencil, long fingernails wrapped around the corner of her order pad, the same color as her lipstick. "I haven't seen you before. You're new in town?"

"Just passing through for a couple of weeks."

"You said you were working. I mean, nobody comes here for a vacation."

"I'm looking over some property."

"Oh. Are you one of those developers?"

"Sort of. I…"

"Hey, Cyndi. Shake it up, will ya? You got two blue plates sitting here!" A voice barked from somewhere behind the counter.

She leaned forward again, shouted, "How's this?" over her shoulder, and wiggled her rump furiously. A line of laughter broke from the counter, working its way around the curve. "That what you been wanting, Leon?" Someone laughed. Cyndi's face was lightly flushed. "The old man's a pain in the butt."

"You're not worried about losing your job?"

"I wish. This place isn't my idea of heaven. I used to work over at the Club Flame, you ever go there?"

"I just got here."

"It's a topless joint," she said, watching my eyes. "The tips aren't as good here, but at least you don't have guys trying to grab your ass all the time."

"I guess you have to be comfortable if you're going to do your work."

"Well, I'm not about to spend my life here. Not in this town. I…" She turned as another waitress walked past. A slim woman, lemon-blonde hair tied back with a white ribbon. Her uniform was the same material as Cyndi's, but on her it looked like a nurse's outfit. The hemline was below her knees, white stockings, flat shoes, blouse buttoned to her neck. As she turned, her body-profile was an upside-down question mark. Cyndi put a hand on the blonde woman's arm. "Blossom honey, could you grab those two blue plates from Leon while I take this man's order?"

"Sure." The blonde walked away, shoulders squared. Something buzz-bombed my mind— then it was gone.

"Now what was I saying?" Cyndi licked her lips like it would help her concentrate.

"You're not about to spend the rest of your life here."

A smile flashed. "You listen good, don't you, honey? Yeah. Not here. I like Chicago better. You ever been there?"

"Lots of times."

"There's where I like to go. Get out of this town…like for a weekend, you know?"

"Sure."

"I'll get your order. Think about it."

I lit a cigarette, looked out the window at the traffic.

Cyndi bounced her way back to my booth, unloaded her tray. "Give me a dollar for the jukebox." She smiled. "This place is too quiet."

I handed her a buck.

"What d'you like?"

"Whatever suits you."

"Hmmm…" she said. Like she was thinking it over.

The blonde walked past again. "Cyndi, they want you over on four."

"Okay, honey." She caught my eye. "Ain't she something! Poor girl doesn't make nothing in tips. I tried to talk to her, let her know how to work it. She's not much in the boobs department but she's got a sweet little butt on her. I told her there's things you can do to these stupid uniforms…like I did. But not Miss Priss. I don't think she likes men, you know what I mean?"

I nodded, sticking a fork into the tuna. I ate slowly, watching the women work. One of those sugar-substitute girl singers came over the jukebox. Some sad song. No juice.

The blonde came past my table, a tray in each hand, nicely balanced. Slender neck, broad, flat nose, thin lips. Ripple of muscle on her forearm. No polish on her nails. Her big eyes flicked at mine, went away. She walked smoothly, the loose skirt not quite hiding what Cyndi worked so hard to advertise. Blossom.

Cyndi came back just as I was lighting a smoke. "Was it okay?"

"Sure."

"You want some dessert?"

"I'll pass this time."

"Then you'll be back, right?"

"This is your regular station, this booth?"

She gave me a little bounce, big smile. "Yeah. Sometimes you get lucky, huh?"

"Sometimes."

"Which one is your car?" she asked, leaning over again, looking out the window.

"The gray one."

"The Lincoln?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, you must be in a good business."

"Good enough."

"This one isn't so good. I start at the breakfast shift and work right through to six. That's when I get off."

"I'll remember."

"See that you do, honey." Dropping the check on the table, walking away, giving me a last look at what I'd be missing if I wasn't around at six.

The diner's jukebox was time-warped. Patti LaBelle. "I Sold My Heart to the Junkman."

I left a ten-dollar bill sitting on a four-dollar check.

25

DARKNESS DROPPED to meet the steel-mill smog. A blanket you could feel. I showered, changed my clothes. Lay back on the bed, redrawing the map Rebecca had given to me on the ceiling of the motel room.

I looped the Lincoln past the strip bars on the Interstate, watching. Nothing. Pulled over on U.S. 30, got out and checked under the hood. I gave it another half hour, zeroing in so I could feel it if anyone came inside the zone. Still nothing. Anyone following me was better at it than I was.

Time to move. I turned off the highway, found the blue house at the end of the block. The garage was standing closed at the foot of the driveway. I left the Lincoln in the street, slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves, used the key Rebecca had given me, opened the garage. Inside, a late-'70s Chevy sedan, key in the ignition. I started it up, eased it out into the street. Put the Lincoln inside, pulled my airline bag from the front seat, closed the door. Looked back at the house. The lights were on in the front rooms. Rebecca's cousins. I didn't know what she'd told them but I know what they'd tell the cops if anything happened. Nothing.

The Chevy blended into the terrain, at home on the back roads. I followed Rebecca's directions to Cedar Lake. Found Lake Shore Drive. A resort area, mostly summer cottages. I stopped at a bench set into a wooden railing across from a funeral home. Smoked a cigarette and waited. The sign said Scenic Overlook. Told me the lake was 809 acres. Three miles long, a mile and a half wide. Twin flagpoles on either side of the bench. Electricity meter on a pole. I stood at the railing. Somebody had carved Steve & Monica inside a clumsy heart. I traced it with my fingers. Three bikers went by on chopped hogs, no helmets.

Still quiet. Safe.

The house was set on a sloping rise, right next to a railroad overpass. I nosed the Chevy up the dirt road, pulled around to the back. Turned the car around. As soon as I closed the door, the car looked like it'd been there for years, rusting to death.

The house was dark. One back window had been repaired with a cardboard carton and some tape. I peered inside. Bulks of furniture, steady shadows, dirt and dust. Nobody lived there. I took a quarter out of my pocket, holding it between my fingers. Tapped it sharply on the steel door to the cellar. Three fast, three slow. Waited. Did it again. Convict code. We always find a way. A guy who did time on the Coast told me about scooping all the water out of the steel toilets, using the tubing as a communication line to the other blocks. Guys in solitary use a kind of Morse code. Takes a whole day to pass a message along. We played chess through the mail. Used little scraps of mirror to see what's happening down the tier. Hand signals. We'd find a way. And some guys, they'd be in solitary even when they hit the streets.

Three answering taps, spaced the same way. I tapped back, this time six in a row, all quick. The padlock on the storm door was a phony— it rested alongside the rings, not through them. I pulled it open and stepped into the darkness.

Down a flight of concrete steps, feeling my way. When I got down far enough, I reached up, pulled the storm door closed behind me.

I hit the bottom of the steps, put a palm along the wall to guide me. A white burst of light in my face, rooting me where I stood. It snapped off, leaving bright-spangled lights dancing inside my eyelids.

A switch clicked. Soft pool of light in a corner of the basement.

"Thanks for coming, brother."

Virgil.

26

HE LOOKED about the same. Thick black hair, combed back along the sides '50s style, hazel eyes, a long face, pointed jaw, dominated by a falcon's beak for a nose. Indians had visited his grandfather's turf and they hadn't all got themselves shot.

Taller than me, a mountain man's build, the power in the bone, not the muscles. Big hands, thick wrists. The whole package built to survive the mountains and the mines.

Or prison.

He extended his hand, gave mine a brief squeeze, dropped it, and turned to stand next to me. Letting me see it for myself. My eyes adjusted, working in figure-eight loops from the pool of light. Small refrigerator against one wall, two-burner hot plate, canned goods stacked almost to the ceiling. Virgil handed me a flash. I swept the rest of the basement. It was as neat and clean as a lifer's cell. Three army cots, big portable radio with speakers on each side and a carrying handle, a pair of sawhorses with a rough plank across them for a table.

Virgil took the flash from me, pointed it and followed the beam, me right behind. I left my bag on the floor, keeping both hands free. The basement had more than one room. We turned the corner, stepped into a small bathroom. Just a toilet and a drain in the floor for the shower someone had put together out of a length of hose draped over a hook. We walked through to the furnace area. An ancient oil burner squatted, dying of metal fatigue, its plug pulled years ago.

Virgil spoke. "Come on out of there, boy. It's okay."

The door to the oil burner opened from the inside. A kid stepped out, blinking his eyes at the light. A slightly built boy with close-cropped light hair, trembling.

"Uncle Virgil…"

Virgil ignored him. "This here's Lloyd," he said to me. "My wife's kin."

The kid watched me like a bird watching a cat. A bird who couldn't fly.

"Get on inside," Virgil said to him, stepping aside so the kid could walk in front of us.

Back in the big room, Virgil nodded toward the left-hand corner. A triangle of packing crates, hubcap on the floor between them. I took a seat. Virgil settled in. "You too," he told the kid.

He nodded his head at the corners of the basement. "This here's the living room. Over there's the kitchen, far side's the bedroom. You already seen the bathroom. Man who owns this house, he's kin of Rebecca's." He said her name the way they do in Appalachia, twanging hard on the first "e," dragging it out.

"Ain't nobody gonna come around. We got electricity for at least another month, until they turn it off. Garbage goes in the plastic bags. We stack 'em back behind the furnace. Got enough food here for a long time. Anybody comes, it's me they find. Lloyd hides himself in the furnace. Reba'll come back for him, it comes to that."

"You going to go quietly?" I asked him.

He saw where I was looking. At the pair of long guns resting against the wall just behind him.

He shrugged. "They don't want me for much of nothing. Helping a bail jumper, that's no kind of time. It just didn't seem natural to hole up without some firepower."

"This an ashtray?" I asked, pointing at the hubcap on the floor.

"Yeah. The basement windows are all boarded up but there's plenty of cracks in them. It clears out pretty good."

I lit a smoke, sneaking a glance at the kid in the flare of the wooden match. He was sitting soft, waiting. Like Terry, when I first rented him from a kiddie pimp. Not exactly like Terry: this boy didn't know why I came. And he did care.

I looked across at Virgil. We'd done time together and he'd passed the test. More than once. The test of time, the test of crime. In my world, no difference. "What's my end?" I asked him.

"I need to know some truth. Reba, she'd'a told you what happened over here, right?"

I nodded.

"First the cops thought it was Lloyd. Then they didn't. Now they back to where they was. It's Lloyd. In their minds. Me, I don't know about this stuff. Freak stuff. But you know them…"

Them. Humans who kill for love. Torture for fun. They set fires to watch the flames. Black-glove rapists. Snuff-film directors. Trophy-takers. Baby-fuckers. Pain turns on the switch. Blood lubricates the machinery. Then the power-rush comes. And they do too.

It's not sex. Castrate the freaks and they use broomsticks or Coke bottles.

I've been studying them all my life. Since I was a tiny little kid. They taught me. Nightmare walkers.

Virgil was right. Whoever ventilated those kids in lovers' lane…

"I know them," I said in the quiet darkness. The kid couldn't meet my eyes. Or wouldn't.

"You're here to talk to Lloyd. When you're done, you tell me the truth. You'll know. Nobody's better at it than you. I know you did it before. For that lawyer. I remember you telling me about it. Never forget it. That's what I need now."

I dragged deep on my smoke. "I'm in."

Virgil nodded. Turned to the kid. "Lloyd, this man's my brother. You heard what he said. He's gonna talk to you. You're gonna talk to him. When it's done, I'm gonna know the truth. You got it?"

"Uncle Virgil…"

"What?"

"I didn't do it."

"You didn't do it, my brother will know. Then I'll get something together for you. Whatever it takes. You a member of the family. My wife's cousin. Blood kin. You didn't do it, we're behind you. I risked my house for you. My home. Where my children live. And it looks like I may be going back to jail for a little bit too. That's okay. A man's got no more than his family."

"Will I have to go to jail?"

"Jail? Boy, you better pray you going to jail. Only way you're going inside is you didn't do what they say you did."

"Uncle Virgil," the kid's voice was a ribbon of broken glass, drooling out of his slack mouth. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

Virgil lit a cigarette of his own. I knew what he was doing. Getting his thoughts together, making sure it came out right. "Lloyd, you didn't do this…my brother tells me you didn't do this…then we come up with a plan. Some plans don't work out. And then people go to jail. You have to go to jail, you'll go like a man, you understand? That ain't no big thing. And you'll always have your people. Inside and out. Something waiting for you. Like I had."

He took another hit on his cigarette, hazel eyes anchored on Lloyd. "But if you did it…if that was you sneaking around killing those kids…then I won't shame my wife by letting her know. I won't have kin of mine doing evil like that."

"I…"

"Lloyd, it turns out you did it, you gonna be what they call a fugitive. Only they never gonna catch you, understand?"

"You mean…I'm going to run away?"

"No. You did this thing, you not running any farther than this basement."

27

THE BOY slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. Shoulder blades bowed like broken bird's wings, dry-crying, chest in spasm. But he didn't say a word.

I watched him for a minute. Virgil was granite. I knew he'd kill if he had to— that's how he came to prison. And I knew his word was good.

I looked up. Caught his eye. "Virgil, I'm beat. Just got in from the Coast. This interrogation, it's going to take a long time. How about if I catch some sleep, talk to Lloyd when I get up?"

He got it. "Whatever you say, brother. I could use some sleep myself. We got all the time in the world. Take the first bunk, the one over on the left."

I got up, walked over to the cot. Folded my jacket into a pillow, lay back, closed my eyes.

Virgil smoked another cigarette. "Lloyd," he said, "I need to take a shower before I sack out. I'll talk to you later."

I heard the rush of the shower. Heard the kid get up, light himself a smoke. Heard the hubcap rattle on the cement floor as he ground it out. I rasped a breath through my nose. As many times as the nose had been broken, it was perfect for faking a snore. Virgil took his time, giving the boy every chance to bolt. He didn't go for it. By the time Virgil came back inside, I'd heard the kid's cot creak.

Dead quiet. You could hear crickets chirp, a car pass on the highway. The summer heat didn't penetrate the basement. Faint whiff of diesel fuel on the air.

It was worth the shot. If the kid tried to get out while we were asleep, we'd know.

But if he didn't run, we'd know nothing. Sniper-blasting unsuspecting kids in a parked car wasn't the same as trying to get past Virgil in the dark.

28

I LET THE past play on the blank screen of my mind, regulating my breathing, focusing. Getting to the center. Virgil had called the right number— I knew how to do it.

A long time ago, I had this fool dream of being a private eye, working off the books. This young lawyer reached out for me through Davidson. I met them both in the parking lot near the Brooklyn Criminal Court. Davidson made the introductions. Vouched for me. He let the young lawyer speak for himself.

"I represent Roger B. Haynes." Like I should have heard of the guy.

"Eighteen-B," Davidson interrupted. Telling me the young lawyer was assigned to the case, not privately retained. Any money for me was coming out of his pocket.

"He was arrested for the rape of a little girl. The rape took place right near the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. In broad daylight. The girl ID'd him in a lineup. There's plenty of medicals to prove she'd been raped, but nothing to connect Haynes to it."

"SODDI?" I asked him. Some Other Dude Did it.

"That's what he says," Davidson growled.

"It's true," the kid said. "Haynes was in New Hampshire when it happened. At a flea market. He was buying stock for his store. A dozen people saw him. There's no way he could have driven back in time to commit the rape."

"So what d'you need me for?"

The young lawyer tilted his head at Davidson. "He says you know these people…child molesters and all. I thought…maybe you could ask around…maybe there's one of them working that area."

I shrugged.

"He's got priors," Davidson said.

"For what?" I asked the young lawyer.

"The same thing. But that was years ago. He did his time. He's even off parole. And he's been discharged from therapy."