Down in the Zero

I wondered if Angel was a man or a woman— they both pimp in the city now. Or maybe it was an S&M game.

I got on the A train. Sat right next to a white man who'd shaved only half his face that morning. His eyes were spinning in their sockets. One wrist was bandaged, the other had a watch tattooed on it, beautifully detailed. The maniac looked down at his wrist, saw it was 7:15. By the third stop, he'd checked it three more times, tapping his fingers impatiently.

I walked home from Canal, got some sleep. Around noon, I strolled over to the Brooklyn Bridge stop on the Lexington Avenue line. Took the local uptown so I could be ready for Peter's lunch hour.

A man with shoulder–length hair had the corner of the car to himself. He smelled like rot, dressed only in a baggy pair of blue jeans and a torn red T–shirt. Gym shoes, no socks. He was muttering, a vicious dialogue with an invisible enemy. Two black teenagers watched him, awestruck. I could see what they were wondering at— the man's upper body was bulging with sharply cut muscle mass— he looked like an ad for bodybuilding.

I could have solved the mystery for the kids: psycho–isometrics. The poor bastard had been raging against the chemical handcuffs for years before they "de–institutionalized" him.

It was hard to get a seat on that train— a pain for some, a chance to vogue for others. A pair of pretty–girl teenage twins got on, dressed in matching green sheaths so short you could see the heavy black bands around their thighs where their stockings stopped. One took an open seat, the other sat on her lap, kicking her legs, smiling, showing off. They chattered to each other like they were the only ones there, but they registered it all. At Fourteenth Street, they switched places…so they'd each have a turn on stage.

I got off at Fifty–first, took a short walk. Had a couple of cigarettes. Waiting for Peter.

A bubble–butted model pranced on the sidewalk, holding the pay phone at the end of the cord in one hand like a rock singer with a microphone. A trio of flash–dressed young execs watched her, dreaming of trophies you could buy with gold cards. A limo driver waited at the curb, bored. A bag lady shuffled past, pushing a baby carriage full of returnable plastic bottles.

Most days Peter just walked around. Sometimes he'd buy a hot dog from a street–corner vendor, sit on a bench, munch it slowly. Some

times he didn't eat at all. He made a decent salary— maybe he was just cheap.

A whole week went by, same routine. It was a Tuesday when Peter started walking. Up Fiftieth, against the traffic flow. By the time he crossed Sixth and turned left, I had it figured out.

The topless joint served overpriced meals, but nobody was there for the food. Peter ordered a drink and a sandwich. He spent the rest of the lunch money he'd been saving on a tall girl with long black hair who danced for him. Right on top of his little table. Her high breasts stayed unnaturally stiff no matter how much the rest of her bounced. He looked up at her, never moving his face. Tipped her good too, stuffing a few bills down the front of her G–string. She acted like she knew him, gave him a little kiss before she walked off, switching her marriage–wrecker hips.

The black–haired girl worked hard for her money. In those joints, management doesn't pay the talent— they're all independent contractors, renting space to do their work. They keep their tips, management gets the booze and meal money. It doesn't bother the yuppies— they can put the whole thing on their business account as long as they don't eat alone. It's easier for them to watch for–sale flesh in packs anyway.

Extras are extra.

In the back, in the VIP Room, they have lap dancing available. It's just what it sounds like. Peter didn't go back there. Didn't go for the shower room, the slow–dance body rubs…any of the extras.

It was just before rush hour when I headed back. The subway car was almost deserted. A slender, light–skinned black kid with a short, neat haircut got on. He was wearing a resplendent soft leather jacket. The front panel was maroon, ballooning white sleeves ran over the top of the shoulders with a black circle on each one, a white 8 inside the circle. The back was a red triangle tapering to the waist, with blue filling in the gaps, a huge eight ball smack in the middle.

An 8–Ball jacket is a major prize for ratpacking teenage gangstahbandits— they cost a few hundred dollars. I caught the kid's eyes, shook my head, telling him he was a chump for being such a target. The kid looked back, calm, tapped his waistband, gave me a sweet, sad smile. You want his jacket, you ante your life.

That's what it costs today.

It's easy to stalk— all you need is the time and the focus. It was a little past four in the morning when the tall black–haired girl hailed a cab in front of the topless joint. A couple of other girls stood on the sidewalk next to her. Not talking, tired from the work.

I pulled out behind the cab, my old Plymouth an anonymous gray shark, a moving block of dirt in a dirty city. The yellow cab crossed town, heading east. I followed to the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge, trailed it all around the loop to Queens Boulevard. It settled down then, rolled straight ahead.

She got out in front of a squat old building in Rego Park. There was no doorman to greet her.

The table dancer was named Linda. Lynda, she spelled it now, but it was Linda on the lease she signed. Linda Sue Anderson. The apartment was a one–bedroom. She paid $650 a month, utilities separate. She'd been there seven months, never caused any problems. I TRW'ed her through a guy I know. It was easy— her righteous Social Security number was on the credit application she'd filled out for the apartment. Date of birth too. She was twenty–nine, right on the border.

Linda Sue was a college girl. LSU, class of 1986. Drama major. Came to New York in 1987. Big dreams, dying slow, dancing on tables instead of the stage. Her legs weren't long enough for the Rockettes, I guess. And the implants wouldn't hold the stealing years back forever.

Her apartment was on the same subway line Peter took every day, a local stop. Peter would have to switch to the G train to get off where she did.

He never did that, coming or going.

I could have braced her someplace, got her to tell me all about Peter.

But I already knew all about Peter.

I told Michelle to tell the customer it was a false alarm— Peter didn't have anything on the side.

I've gone dead before. But this time, it didn't feel like it would cycle out.

When it got real bad once, I went over to Max's temple. Worked the heavy bag in his dojo until I couldn't see straight, until I couldn't lift my arms to throw another vicious shot.

I never laid a glove on the sadness.

Betrayal was around. A piece of the environment, like winos sleeping on park benches. I didn't check with Mama much, just enough to keep her from thinking I was gone. Belinda kept calling. I'd met her working the last job. She was jogging in the park, stopped and said she liked my dog. Turned out she was a cop. Maybe she was working undercover in the park, maybe she was working me. I never did find out. Never returned any of her calls.

I might have gone on like that forever, just numbing my way through the finish. Now I didn't even want to try. Didn't want to die either— at least not enough to just do it. In prison, the scariest guys were the anesthetics— once they went off, you could club them, mace them, it didn't matter— they just kept coming. Maybe they didn't feel the pain. Maybe it was like you get in a gunfight…the blood–adrenaline rush blocks your ears so you don't even hear the shots.

I was walking around like that.

I was in Mama's restaurant, waiting for Michelle. I'd promised to drive her up to the junkyard. Max was there, trying to be with me. Max the Silent, not even talking with his hands now, a warrior lost without an opponent. But lost only with me— he had another life. His woman, Immaculata. And their baby, Flower. Not such a baby anymore.

We still played at our life–sentence gin game once in a while, but I couldn't get with it. Max had been on a winning streak for months, even with Mama's occasional dumbass advice.

I felt…institutionalized. Used to it. They didn't need the Wall— I wasn't going to make a break.

Michelle came in, made a big show of kissing Max, bowing to Mama. At first, they had walked soft around me, giving the pain plenty of room. But that passed. For them, anyway. Now I was furniture.

"You ready to go, baby?" Michelle asked me.

I nodded, started to make my move. One of the pay phones in the back rang. Mama got up to answer it.

"For you," she said. "Money man."

With Mama, it's all in the inflection— she meant a man who came from money, not a man with cash.

"Tell him I'm not here," I said, not looking up.

"You not going to work?" Mama asked. "Not make money?" Her tone was confirmation of my madness.

"I got enough."

"Don't be crazy, Burke."

I could see this wasn't going to end. So I did what I'd been doing…just moved with it. I got up, went to the pay phone.

"What?"

"Mr. Burke?" A young, thin voice, tremolo with something worse than nervousness.

"What?"

"I have to talk to you."

'Talk."

"Not on the phone. Please. I…I think I'm next."

"Next for what?"

"I can't… my mother said to call you. If I ever got in trouble, big trouble. She said to call you.

"Tell your mother she made a mistake, kid."

"I…can't. She's not here."

"Where is she?" Dead? Which one of them is gone, now?

"In Europe. Switzerland. In the clinic. She goes every year. There's no phones there, nothing."

"Look, kid, I…"

"Please! My mother said…

"Who's your mother?"

"Lorna. Lorna Cambridge."

"I don't know her."

"She said to tell you it's Cherry. Cherry from Earls Court. She said you'd remember."

I did.

I did, and I owed her. I guess I had that much left. I answered on auto–pilot.

"I'll talk to you, kid. Talk, you understand?"

"Yes. Sure! Just tell me…"

"You know Grand Central?"

"Grand Central Station?"

"Yeah."

"Sure, I can— "

"Be there tomorrow morning. Before ten. Stand under the clock. You know the clock?"

"Yes, I— "

"Just wait there. Someone'll come up to you, ask you your mother's name. Just go with them, understand?"

"Yes. Sure, I'll…"

I hung up on him. Went back inside. Told Mama to find the Prof, have him sheep–dog the kid in from the station tomorrow.

I drove Michelle to the junkyard. She goes there on her own all the time— I'm just easier than a cab. We slipped through the city, over the bridge to the South Bronx, the Plymouth finding its own way to Hunts Point. Terry opened the gates, shooing the dogs aside. He walked around to my side of the car— I started to slide over so he could drive the rest of the way when Michelle barked "Hey!" at him through her window.

The kid stopped dead in his tracks. Walked around to the passenger side, said "Hi, Mom," gave her a kiss. She tried to look fiercely at him, reminding him of his manners, but it was no go— love beamed out of her eyes, bathing the kid in its glow.

Terry got behind the wheel. He didn't adjust the seat, just worked the pedals with the tips of his toes. He piloted the big car expertly, not showing off anymore like he used to, just a man doing a job.

After the car was hidden, we switched to an old Jeep they keep there as a shuttle— Michelle ripped the Mole one hell of a speech last time about having to walk through the junkyard in her spike heels.

The Mole was sitting on the cut–down oil drum he uses for a chair, looking into the middle distance where he spends most of his time. A tawny shadow flitted at the edge of my vision— Simba, boss of the wild dog pack. The beast came closer, sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, watching with more interest than the Mole showed.

Terry went into the bunker and came out with a chair for Michelle. A real one, black leather, sparkling clean. She sat down, lit a smoke, took the glass of mineral water Terry brought for her. At home like it was a cocktail lounge.

Terry sat next to her. They talked, close in. After a while, the Mole would come down from wherever he was, and he'd talk too— as much as the Mole ever does. I didn't wait for that.

I walked back to the Plymouth, feeling the dog pack around me. I drove slow, meandering my way back downtown.

Before I went upstairs to my place, I grabbed a pay phone, rang the restaurant.

"It's me," I told Mama when she answered. "You find the Prof?"

"Just now. He say he bring the boy tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure."

I drove by the restaurant early the next day. Checked the window. Only the white dragon tapestry was standing there…the all–clear flag flying.

I parked in the alley behind the joint, tapped on the flat–faced steel door, walked through the clump of gunmen masquerading as cooks, went past the bank of pay phones into the dining area.

I took my booth in the back. Mama detached herself from her cash register, walked over to me, snapping something in Cantonese to the men in the back. She'd gotten tired of me saying no when she asked me if I wanted food…now she just brings it. She sat across from me, served me a portion of her infamous hot–and–sour soup from the tureen, served herself. I blew on my spoon, took some of the potion into my mouth, feeling her eyes.

"There's something different," I told her.

She bowed slightly, so slightly I could still see the little twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"Good. You pay attention."

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Ginseng powder."

"How come…"

"Ginseng for wounds."

"I'm not wounded anymore," I told her, tapping my shoulder where the bullet had taken me coming out of that house in the Bronx.

She bowed again, expressionless.

I finished the soup. Waited for her to refill the bowl, sipped it more slowly this time— if I emptied it too fast, she'd just deal another round. I looked at my watch: 9:30. Plenty of time.

"You work soon?" Mama asked.

"Maybe."

She left me after that, going back to her wheeling dealing stealing.

The bell over the front door sounded. Too early for customers, especially with the CLOSED sign displayed. I looked up. The Prof stepped in, a tiny man with the face of an African prince. He was wearing a white and blue poncho that looked like an Indian blanket…it trailed almost to his feet. Behind him, a white kid. Gawky, tall and skinny, pasty–faced, dark hair long in the back, spiked straight up in the front. The kid was dressed in a black chino sport coat two sizes too big, worn over black baggy pants gathered at the cuffs around black Reebok hightops. The huge tongues of the sneakers had little orange circles on them…Pumps…the only spot of color anywhere on him. Clarence came in behind the kid as if his mission was to take up the chromoslack with a canary yellow silk jacket that draped almost to his knees. A heavy gold bracelet dangled from his left wrist— his right hand was in his pocket.

The convoy rolled over to my booth. The Prof slid in first. Clarence ushered the kid into the next seat, then sat next to him, boxing and blocking. One of the waiters walked past, ignoring us, taking up a position at the front. The place started to bustle. It might have felt like a restaurant gearing up for customers if you'd never spent time in a guerrilla base camp. A stranger was inside— time to see if he'd brought friends with him.

"It's done, son," the Prof said to me. "This here's Randall Cambridge— he's lean and he's clean."

So whatever the kid was, he wasn't wired.

"You wanted to talk to me?" I said to him.

"I…thought we could speak…alone."

"We can't."

"This is kind of…personal."

I reached for my pack of cigarettes on the tabletop but the Prof was there first— he had hands faster than Muhammad Ali. Always did. I cracked a wooden match, fired both our smokes, blew some in the kid's face. He blinked rapidly, started to touch his eyes. Clarence shifted his weight, twisting the shoulder next to the kid. The kid's hands stayed on the counter— the Prof would have schooled him about the rules for a meet on the way over.

"Tell me about your mother," I said.

"She's…Lorna Cambridge. Like I told you. Cherry, that's the name she said to give you. Cherry from…"

"Yeah, I know. When did she tell you about me?"

"Before she left. Before she left the first time. I asked her not to go, but she has to. She always goes. Every year. She said, if you didn't believe me, I should tell you something. A man's name. Rex. Rex Grass."

"Okay, you told me. I got it. Now tell me what you want."

"It's…hard."

"So's life, kid. Me too. I'm not a fucking guidance counselor, okay? Spit it out or go back where you came from."

Clarence slid out of the booth, moved over to a seat directly across from us. The kid didn't move.

"Shove over, Rover," the Prof barked at him. The kid moved to his right, breathing easier. Clarence watched him the way a pit boss watches the dice roll— any way they came up, he'd deal with it.

"I think I'm next," the kid said.

"You said that before. On the phone. Next what?"

"Next to die," the kid said, a ready–to–break bubble under the surface of his voice.

"You do this a lot?" I asked him, leaning forward. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Do what?" he muttered, surly now.

"Tell melodramatic stories to people you don't know."

His hands gripped the counter but he wouldn't look up, mumbled something I couldn't catch.

"What?"

"Fuck you ! I didn't come here for this…you don't care…"

"You got that right, kid. I don't care."

"My mother said…"

"It doesn't matter what your mother said. She thinks I owe her, I just paid it off. I said I'd listen to you, not hold your little hand, wipe your nose for you. All your mother knows, I'm a man for hire. You understand what I'm saying? Not a goddamned babysitter, okay? This is a simple deal— even a punk kid like you could get it. You want to talk, talk. You don't, walk."

The kid jumped up so suddenly that Clarence had the automatic leveled at his chest before the waiters even had a chance to pull their own hardware. The kid gasped, flopped back down like his legs had turned to jelly. He put his face in his hands and let it go, crying.

Clarence watched him for a minute or so before he reholstered his gun. I exchanged a look with the Prof. He shrugged his shoulders.

We waited.

The kid sat there crying, ignored. The rest of the joint moved into what it does: phones rang, people came in and out the back door, Mama's messengers and dealers and traffickers went about their business. The kid sat through it all, unmoving, a stone in a stream.

Starving to death in a restaurant.

When he looked up at me, his eyes were yellow–flecked with fear. If he was faking it, he was the best I'd ever seen.

"They have a way of coming for you. Getting inside. I didn't believe it at first. When Troy and Jennifer did it, everybody said they just wanted to be together. You know what I mean? Together forever. Kids talked. Like, maybe, she was pregnant or they wanted to get married and their parents wouldn't let them. But those kids…they don't know us. Our parents…it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't stop us from doing anything. Then Lana did it too. And Margo. They all did it."

"Did what?" I asked him.

"Died," the kid said. The way you explain something simple to someone simpler.

"They got done?"

"Huh?"

"Somebody killed them?"

"No. I mean…yes. I don't know. Suicide, that's what they called it. In the papers. Suicide."

"And you think it wasn't?"

"It was…I guess. I mean…they did it to themselves and all. But I think, maybe, they had to do it. And I will too."

"I don't get it, kid. People kill themselves. Kids kill themselves. They go in groups. Couple of kids, they're so sad, they play around with the idea, push themselves over the edge. The next kid sees all the weeping and wailing and special funeral services and how everyone knows the dead kids' names for the TV coverage. He doesn't focus on how they won't be around to bask in the light. He puts himself in that place…like he could have the funeral and be there too. And then goes to join them. It's a chain reaction— they call it cluster suicide. It's okay to be scared— that's a natural thing. But you don't need a man like me, okay? What you need, you need someone to talk to, like…"

"That's how it started !" the kid blurted out. "In Crystal Cove."

The Prof threw me the high–sign. I got up, left the two of them alone.

Clarence followed me out the back door. I stood there, watching the alley. It was empty except for my Plymouth and Clarence's gleaming British Racing Green Rover TC, both moored under a NO PARKING sign. The sign didn't have any effect on the community, but the graffiti did. You looked close, you'd see the spray–painted scrawls were really Chinese characters. Max the Silent, marking his territory with his chop.

I lit a smoke, thinking about Cherry. I left it alone— I'd play the tapes later.

"That is one weak sissy whiteboy, mahn," Clarence said, the Island roots showing strong in his young man's voice.

"He's just scared, Clarence. It happens."

"Yes, it happens to us all. Fear is a devil, for sure. But that boy, he is on his knees to it."

"It's not my problem," I said.

"Whatever it is, my father will find out. No man can hide the truth from him."

I glanced sideways at Clarence. I knew how he felt about the Prof, heard the pride in his voice. But I'd never heard him give it a title before.

"Yeah, the Prof is a magician."

"A magician, yes, but with the heart of a lion. He sees it all, but he never fall."

I started to tell this young man that I had come up with the Prof. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had, too. Made the jailhouse into my school, turned me from gunfighter to hustler. Saved my life. But Clarence, he knew all that. He was another savage cub whose heart the Prof found.

He'd been a pro even then— a young gun, working muscle for Jacques, the Brooklyn outlaw arms dealer. Up from the Islands he was, but he dropped straight into the pits, where the money was. The only thread that bound him to the straight side of the street died when his mother did. He was a quiet, reserved young man— his gun was much faster than his tongue. Jacques had him marked for big things, but Clarence got caught up in my war.

Clarence was there— waiting for me when I came out of that house of killing. He lay in the weeds, a few feet from the body of a cult–crazed young woman who would have taken him out with her long knife but for the Prof's snake–quick shotgun. Lay there in the quiet, lay there after the explosion, lay there during the gunfire. He asked the little man then, what do they do? Wait, the Prof said. Wait for me. And if I don't come out? Wait for the cops, the Prof told him. And die right there— die like a man.

After that night, the Prof had his heart. They bonded tighter than any accident of birth, flash–frozen together forever.

Me, I had a body. A baby's body.

I smoked through a couple more cigarettes in silence. A slope–shouldered Chinese stepped out the back, jerked his thumb over his shoulder. We went back inside.

The Prof was sitting next to the kid, holding an earless teacup in both hands. The kid had one too.

I took my seat. The Prof made a flicking gesture with his hand. Clarence walked over, put a slim, immaculately manicured hand on the kid's shoulder.

"You come with me, mahn," he said softly.

The kid got up. Clarence made an ushering gesture with his hand, and the kid started off to the back, Clarence shadowing. They'd be heading to the basement.

The Prof watched them go. Then he turned his milk chocolate eyes on me. I waited to hear what he'd pulled out of the kid, but he wasn't having any.

"Tell me what you know, nice and slow," the little man said.

"Already told you."

"Not about the boy, about his momma. You really go back with her?"

"Yeah. I guess. Maybe. There was a girl. Cherry. A long time ago. In London. Just before I went over to Biafra."

"She didn't have a kid then?"

"I don't know. Wouldn't be this kid, anyway…he's in high school, right?"

"Yeah. Just finished in fact. He's got a weak rap, but it's not no trap. The fear is real, bro."

"Lots of people scared."

"His nightmares could be gold, partner. Could be cream in those dreams. Tell me the rest."

"She was a waitress, or whatever they call those girls work in the clubs."

"Runway dancer?"

"No. It wasn't a nightclub, one of those Playboy–type restaurant things. Everybody dressed up, fancy…but Vegas–glitz, not real class, you know what I mean? All matching little outfits for the girls…not topless, but just about…little black things, laced up the back, fishnet stockings, spikes, look–but–don't–touch, you got it?"

"That fluff–stuff won't play today."

I nodded my head in agreement, thinking of Peter, that poor sorry bastard, saving up his lunch money for weeks to buy a few minutes of delusion.

"Yeah. I was in this cheap hotel, staying low, waiting. We had to fly out of Lisbon, something about the Portuguese government backing the rebels…I never did understand it all. Anyway, I knew the man who was supposed to come for me…the same guy I'd met over here, right? But two guys knock on the door, call me by name, ask if they can come in. I figure, it's a new passport or something, but they were outsiders. They knew all about the Biafra thing, but that wasn't their play. What they had, what they said they had, was a whole bunch of diamonds. Handfuls, they said. Right out of the mines in South Africa. They gave me a whole lot of stuff about some mercs who wanted to pipeline it back to the States, how I could hook up with them on the island before we jumped in."

"What island?"

"São Tomé. Little tiny island, just off the coast of Nigeria. Biafra was landlocked by then, it was…you sure you want to hear this?"

"Play it out till it shouts, son."

"All right. They asked me to have a meet. At this club. Where Cherry worked, only I didn't know her then. I went every afternoon, for about ten days. One guy was always there, this guy Rex."

"Rex Grass, the kid said."

"Grass, that's just the way Limeys say 'rat,' Prof," I said, glad for once to be telling my teacher something he didn't know. "That wasn't the name he gave me."

"Motherfuckers talk some strange shit, don't they?"

"I guess. We had this corner table, like regulars. It was always this Rex, but one day there was a couple of Chinese guys, from Macao. Another day it was an Indian…like from India. Rex was the middleman, putting it all together."

"The guys who sent you over, you didn't tell them anything about this?"

"There wasn't any way to tell them, even if I wanted to. They gave me the cash in the U.S., the passport, told me they'd make contact at the hotel. That was it."

"Ice, huh?"

"That's what they said. I was just listening. I was a kid myself, right? But I was trying to do it right."

"So…?"

"So this Cherry, she was the regular girl on that table. It wasn't the kind of joint where they'd stuff tips into her bra, but her butt was always bruised from the pinches. I never tipped her myself— I wasn't picking up the tab. I get back to my place one time and I find a slip of paper in my jacket pocket. Just her name and a phone number. I called her, and we spent some time together."

"She was a player too?"

"I don't know…now. I sure didn't think so then. She was a bit older than me. I thought she just wanted some fun. That's all we did. She never asked me a word about business, didn't ask what I was doing over there, nothing. I asked her once, why she worked there. She said she was gonna meet a rich man, get married. It was a good place to meet a rich man, I remember her saying that."

"Look like she scoped the dope."

"Yeah. The last time I was in the joint, she gave me the high sign. I went to the Men's Room and she was there. Inside. I thought she wanted to get it on, but she wasn't after sex. She told me she saw this Rex the night before. Meeting a government man. I asked her how she knew. She told me I wasn't the only boyfriend she'd ever had. 'Don't come back, love,' is what she said. And I never did."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I went back to the hotel, packed my stuff and got out. Called a number back in the States, left word where I was. I just waited on the recruiters. When they came to the new hotel, I told them I got nervous…spotted a federale in the place where they'd put me up. They took it okay— said I was smart to be spooky— made me describe this Rex. They didn't get mad about me looking to score for myself…like they expected it. Couple of days later, I went over to Cherry's house. The landlady said she moved out. I was there maybe another week, then I shipped out."

"Never saw her again?"

"Never."

"So what finally happened?"

"They bounced me around. London to Geneva to Lisbon, then to Angola, then to the island. I found the plane easy enough. Then I went over. After a while I came back. Never saw any of them again. It didn't come up until those South Africans came to me with that end–user certificate scam…the phony gunrunners, remember?"

"Yes, my brother," the Prof said, serious now. That was when Flood came into my life.

She won't be back either.

"I wouldn't know her…this Cherry. if she walked in the door. It was a long time ago."

"Want to ride the rocket?" the Prof asked, leaning forward. "Here's what the kid told me— get down to the sound."

The Prof reached over, glommed another of my smokes. Took a minute to fire it up to his satisfaction, like it was a five–dollar cigar, working with a convict's sense of time, killing it the way it was trying to kill him.

"They all rotten–rich, where this kid lives. Got all the things, you know what I'm saying? They all do everything the same way— there ain't but one kinda vines to buy, one kinda way to wear them, one kinda car to drive, right? It's all groups. Some of them ride horses, some ride Mercedes. Their folks are all someplace else. With their activities," he sneered. "They got crews, but they got no loyalty, see? Savage little bastards. Our boy, he was a tanker— the same nitrous they slip you in a dentist's office. Other ones, they played with Jello–shots. Some tranq'ed it through. Whatever makes your head dead, Fred."

"So what's he scared of? There's no more draft…and his kind don't go to jail."

"You ever watch TV? Ever see those ads…your kid's fucking up big–time, maybe he needs some of our fancy psychotherapy? A few weeks in our little hospital, you get yourself a brand–new kid. No more drugs, no more booze, no more bad temper. That's this Crystal Cove joint he was talking about."

"He's afraid they'll send him there?"

"Maybe. They sent his pals, a whole bunch of them. And they all come back. Talk about how great it was. They don't seem no better to him— they go right back to whatever lightning they was riding before they went in. But they're different."

"How?"

"The kid don't know. Here's what he says: half a dozen kids…kids he knows, kids he ran with…they checked out on the do–it–yourself plan. Stepped over. First two went out from an exhaust pipe. One drowned herself. Couple more overdosed on downers. And the last one, he ate a gun."

"They do that…"

"None of them left a note, bro."

"So?"

"He won't say why, but he thinks they got done. And what he's scared of, it's gonna happen to him."

"So the move is…"

"He can't run, son. Something's going down in that town, and he thinks it's coming for him, Jim."

"He wants…what?"

"A bodyguard, way he says it. Make sure he don't have himself an accident. But that plan don't scan, man. Got to be something else…"

"Where's the money?"

The Prof's voice dropped. He was talking without moving his lips, out of the side of his mouth. In the jailhouse, you talk two ways: loud when you're selling tickets, quiet when you're plotting. I leaned forward, tuned in.

"You be fucking surrounded by money, schoolboy. Up where the kid lives, the whole scene is green."

"Yeah, but…"

"You don't like the bet, you can always jet," the Prof rapped. "Take the case, Ace."

It didn't take me long to pack. Michelle dogged my steps, harassing me with questions. All I had was an address— told the kid I'd be there by nighttime.

"I don't know how long this is gonna take," I told her. "You can stay here, long as you want."

"About a New York minute is as long as I want, baby. This place is creepy enough with you here— I'm not staying one single night alone."

"Whatever you…"

"Yes, I know. I'll find a sweet little crib someplace, don't worry about me. Soon as you have a safe number, get it to the Mole."

"Okay."

"Now remember what I told you to watch for?"

"Yeah, yeah. What they wear, how they wear it, what they wear it with…"

"Don't be such a sarcastic bastard. How am I going to help you if I don't know the territory?"

"I said okay, Michelle. Soon as I know, you'll know, all right?"

"Shut up. And pack this too," she snapped, tossing a package at me.

It was a silk jacket, midnight blue. Soft as down, almost weightless. A pair of pleated pants of the same material, a slightly lighter blue.

"It's beautiful, Michelle."

"You got that right, dummy. That jacket's a genuine Marco Giallo. You can wear it with a pair of jeans, over a T–shirt, you still make a statement. Put on a nice shirt and a tie, you can walk in anywhere. Understand?"

"Yes. Thanks, honey."

"It gets crumpled, you just turn on the shower, all hot water, fill the bathroom with steam, hang it up for a couple of hours, it'll be good as new.

"Okay."

"Take the alligator boots too. Just wear them all the time, like a trademark. They'll never know you don't belong if you stand apart…got it?"

"Yeah."

"And don't do anything stupid."

"I got it, Michelle."

"I love you, baby," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

After she left, I packed the things she bought for me. And threw in a gray summer–weight business suit and some other stuff, just in case I had to work a straighter crowd.

I crossed the Triboro through the Bronx, took 95 North to the Connecticut Pike, rolling east, driving just past the speed limit, staying with the Exact Change lanes. The Plymouth's tach never saw three grand, its monster motor bubbling, so far within itself it was almost asleep.

Just off the side of the road, the carcass of a dead dog. Couldn't cross the highway, but he made it to the other side.

I threw one of my Judy Henske tapes into the cassette slot just past the bridge— I was already across the state line by the time I heard it stop to switch sides. I hadn't heard a note. If her flame–throwing angel's voice couldn't get through to me…

Stay focused, I told myself. Stay inside. Think about the money.

I kept with the Pike to Exit 18, turned north, following the kid's directions. Soon it got real empty, even for the suburbs. Big pieces of land, wood fences that wouldn't keep anyone out, street signs on high posts with names that were supposed to make you think of colonial America and horses.

The roads got narrow. Curvy blacktop. Like moonshine country without the hills.

The house was set back only a short distance from the road. I drove just past it, like the kid said, turned back into a crescent driveway and parked. I could see a big garage through the rearview mirror, on the other end of the driveway. I popped the trunk, grabbed my duffel bag and walked through the quiet night around to the back door.

The lights were on. I rang the bell. The door jumped open— the kid must have been waiting.

I stepped past him into a huge kitchen. It had a nook with a round table set into a bay window, a restaurant–size stainless steel double–door refrigerator, a matching triple sink, more built–ins than I could count.

"Anybody else around?" I asked him, walking through the kitchen, past a dining room dominated by a long, rectangular table, going down a couple of steps into the living room.

"No. Just me. I've been waiting…"

"Yeah. Okay. I'm here now. Like I said. Just relax."

"You want a drink or something?"

I shook my head no. Kid probably thought I swilled rye by the quart. Next thing he'd ask me if I was packing a rod.

I sat down on a long, cream–colored couch, facing a panoramic window that looked out toward the road. I looked around. The Prof was right— the joint stunk of money. I half closed my eyes, thinking about being alone in the place for a few hours. Jewelry, cash, gold coins, bearer bonds, who knew? Sure, I'd be a suspect, but so what?— I was born a suspect.

A phone rang, a soft, insistent trill. The kid reached over behind him without looking, came out with a white cordless. He pulled out the antenna, said "Hello" in a shaky voice. Like he was waiting on bad news. Expecting it.

As soon as he heard who it was, his face switched from fear to petulance. He held the phone to his ear for a minute, listening. Occasionally, he tried to get a word in edgewise, but the caller wasn't having any.

"It's late…"

The kid cocked his head, listening.

"I have company and— " he said.

More listening, shaking his head.

"No, you can't come here. Not tonight. Just find some other fucking place to party, okay?"

He put the phone behind him, still watching me.

"My…friends. They know nobody's going to be home for a while, so…"

"They gonna listen to you?"

His face flashed white, like it never occurred to him that his pals wouldn't stay away.

"Yeah. Sure! I mean there's other places, right?"

"I don't know."

"Well, there are." Pouty little creep.

"Whatever you say, kid," I assured him. "Is there a garage or something…where I can park my car?"

"Sure. Out by the stables. Come on, I'll show you."

As we walked around, I got a better sense of the place. Behind the house was a big slab of land, rising up to a flat plateau. "Three and a half acres," the kid told me, like I had any idea of what an acre was. "That used to be the stable," he said, pointing to a two–story thing that looked like a barn. "We use it for a garage now."

He opened the door and I backed my car in between a beige Lexus sedan and a red Mazda Miata roadster. The Plymouth looked like a rhino at a tea dance.

"Yours?" I asked him, pointing at the Mazda.

"Yeah. Graduation present. It's last year's," throwing it off.

He closed the wood doors to the garage. No lock. I saw a flight of steps around the side of the building.

"What's this?"

"It's to the caretaker's apartment. Above the stables."

"Caretaker?"

"For the stables. When we had horses. There's nobody there now."

I looked up at the dark windows. "You got electricity up there?"

"Sure. It's real nice, actually. Mom says we're gonna rent it out, one of these days."

I lit a cigarette, thinking how peaceful it was out there, when I heard the thump of rap music on the move. Gravel crunched in the driveway. It was a white Suzuki Samurai, a topless little jeep, loaded with people. The driver stomped on the brakes, cutting a Brodie in the dirt. A big blond kid vaulted over the side just as a dark BMW sedan pulled in behind.

"Oh fucking shit !" the kid half moaned next to me.

The blond kid muscle–walked over to where we were standing, a brawny, cocky guy, moving with a linebacker's menacing grace.

"Hey, Randy! Heard you were lonely, so I brought you some company."

"You can't— " the kid started to say.

The blond cut him off with a chop of his hand. "Hey! I got it. No problemo, pal. We're just gonna use the upstairs, okay? We're not going near the house, don't get yourself all excited."

"Not here," I said, stepping forward.

"Who the fuck are you?" the blond kid asked, head swiveling on a thick neck, giving me a stare that might have frightened a quarterback.

"The caretaker," I told him. "Mrs. Cambridge hired me to look after the place while she's away. I'm living there…" jerking my thumb at the upstairs apartment.

"Oh yeah? Then we'll just— "

"Leave."

The blond kid stepped closer, expanding his chest. He was wearing a loose T–shirt over surfer baggies, barefoot. "Look, man, you don't…"

I caught his eyes, smelled the beer. Thought about my steel–toed boots and his bare legs, wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket. Reminded myself to get off first if he dropped a shoulder…and not to hit him in the head. Feeling how good it would be to hurt him— letting him feel what I felt.

"Nice babysitter your mommy hired for you, Randy," he sneered. "Some old dude asshole rent–a–cop."

Somebody laughed, behind him.

He eye–tested me for about five seconds— as a bully, he was a rank amateur. "See you around," he finally said, turning his back on me, climbing into the jeep.

The little white car tore up the driveway on the way out, the silent BMW in its wake.

The kid wasn't overcome with gratitude. "Now you've fucking done it," he said, nasty–voiced.

"What's the big deal?" I asked him.

"They'll be back. Nobody says no to Brew…he's an animal."

"Brew?"

"Brewster Winthrop. He's like the…leader around here."

"The leader of what?"

"Of…us, I guess. I dunno."

"What's he do?"

"Do?"

"Yeah. Besides his little drive–bys. Does he work, go to school, what?"

"He's in college. Or he was, anyway. Now he's home."

"Don't worry about it."

"That's easy for you to say."

"Look, kid, it isn't all that important, all right? It bothers you so much, give him a call, tell him to come back and trash the place to the ground. I'll go over to the other house and get some sleep."

"I can't do that. My mother would…"

"Yeah. Okay. Just let it rest."

I lit a smoke, feeling the knots in the back of my neck relax.

"You weren't scared of him?" the kid asked.

"No," I told him.

He gave me a funny look— I let it slide.

We walked back over to the house. "Maybe I should sleep over the garage tonight," I said. "In case your pals make a comeback."

"No! I mean…I thought you were gonna stay…"

"You can sleep over there too, all right?"

"I don't…I mean, it'll be okay. There's an intercom, anyway."

"Intercom?"

"I'll show you," he said over his shoulder, flicking on the stereo in the living room. Soft string music flowed, so faintly I could barely hear it. He walked up the stairs, me right behind. The second floor was bigger than it looked from the outside, four bedrooms, two of them master–size. I followed him to the end of the house. "This is hers," he told me, tilting his head in that direction.

The room was huge, with high ceilings, one of the walls almost all glass. A side door opened into a bathroom: stall shower, separate tub with Jacuzzi jets, a phone set into a niche in the wall within easy reach. A double sink with an elaborate makeup mirror surrounded by tiny lights. All pink marble with a faint white vein running through it. The floor was the same motif in glistening tile.

"Here," he said, opening a walk–in closet full of enough clothes to stock a small store. Just past the door was a control panel, a small round speaker set into the top, a double row of buttons beneath it, each button numbered. He pushed one of the buttons. The string music from the stereo flowed out of the speaker.

"See?" he said. "She has the whole place wired."

"Every room."

"Yes." Something in his face, couldn't tell what in the reflected light.

"Is this the only control panel?"

"Yeah."

"So if I stay over there, how will you…"

"I'll sleep in here tonight," he said, his face down.

I shouldered my duffel, headed back across the yard alone. Climbed the wood stairs along the side of the garage. The door to the apartment had a glass pane next to a dime–store lock. A clear message to burglars about what was inside— either nothing worth stealing…or Rottweiler who hadn't been fed in a while.

I used the key the kid gave me, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. It was nicer than I expected, the living room furnished with substantial, expensive–looking pieces that had aged out of chic. Even the living room carpet was deep and decent, a muted blue with a thick pad underneath. Against one wall was a stereo–tape–CD combo with bookshelf speakers. The kitchen was small, but all the appliances looked serviceable. The bathroom was small too, a plastic curtain turned the tub into a shower on demand. I crossed over to the bedroom, which was dominated by a heavy, carved wood frame for the double bed and a matching dresser with a mirror.

I kept looking. The refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water, but the kitchen cabinets had a good supply of canned goods. Pots and pans too. The pilot light was working on the stove. The hall closet had towels and sheets. No security system that I could see. I spent another fifteen minutes searching the living room for the microphone that would connect to the house intercom. No luck. I finally found it in the bedroom, a thin wire with a bulb tip running under the base of the window frame. The window looked out over the back area— the three and a half acres the kid had been bragging about. It slid open easily when I shoved. Maybe twenty feet to the ground. Okay.

I poured myself a glass of cold water, lit a smoke and sat on the couch. A white telephone sat on an end table. Probably recycled from the main house too. I checked the number— it was different from the one over there. I picked it up: dial tone.

Okay.

I was up at first light the next morning. Made myself some prison–tasting orange juice from powder I found in a kitchen cabinet, walked around inside a little bit, getting a daytime feel for the place.

I shaved and took a shower. When I got out of prison the last time, I took a bath every chance I got— something you couldn't get inside the walls. After a while, the pleasure wore off. After a while, a lot of pleasures do.

Whoever lived there before me left some stuff behind. An old leather jacket on a coat stand in the living room, just past the door. A stack of magazines: Penthouse, American Rifleman, Road & Track. Maybe they had expensive tastes. In one of the dresser drawers, I found a green and black plaid flannel shirt, a couple of wool pullovers. And a black leather riding crop.

I left the drawer the way it was. Unpacked my own stuff. Hung the jacket Michelle gave me in the bathroom, letting the steam run to refresh it.

I went downstairs, opened the garage doors, started the Plymouth. I pulled out quietly, then I cruised in increasing circles, smelling the wind, making notes inside my head. I found some of the things I'd need: a bank of pay phones in the parking lot of a mini–mall, a deli with a coffee shop up front that was open at that hour, an underpass to the highway where I could pull the car in, make it disappear.

It was a little past ten by the time I put the Plymouth back in the garage.

The kid was still asleep when I went through the back door to the main house. I found him in his mother's bedroom, face down, covers to his waist. I left him there, went looking around.

The basement was like an old–fashioned storm cellar, not the finished rec room I'd expected. Just an oil burner in one corner, some sagging wood shelves gray from dust, a collection of rusty old garden tools, some suitcases with stickers on them, a steamer trunk.

I prowled through the house, looking for whatever. Didn't find it.

He came downstairs a little before noon, wearing a red terry–cloth bathrobe, hair wet from the shower. I was in one of the leather chairs in the living room, having a smoke, thinking.

"Anything happen last night?" I asked him.

"No. Not really."

"What?"

"Phone calls. Hang ups, that's all. Just somebody playing with my head."

"They do that a lot around here?"

"I…guess so. I don't know."

"When does your mother get back?"

"Around Labor Day. That's when she always comes back. When school starts."

"School for you?"

"Yeah, I guess. College. If I go."

"Yeah. Well, look, I can't stay that long. Just sitting around here, understand?"

"You said…"

"I said I'd come up here, and I did. Hang out with you a while, and I will. But I don't know where to go with all this. You're not doing any work."

"Work?"

"Yeah, kid, work. You said you were scared of something— I still don't know what that is."

"Neither do I…exactly."

"Your friends died, right?"

"Yes."

"And you said you thought it could happen to you, right?"

"Yes."

"And that's it? That's all you fucking know?"

"I…"

"Look, either you know more than you're telling, or you don't know enough. Either get off it, or get on it. Otherwise, I get on out of here, you're gonna be the same as before I came, see?"

"Yeah." Sulky now. Sullen. I left him that way.

Darkness drops softer in the suburbs— I couldn't feel it coming the way I do in the city. I changed my clothes, walked over to the main house. The kid was sprawled on the floor in front of the big–screen TV in the living room, smoking a joint, flicking the remote rapid–fire, getting off on the images.

I sat down on the couch, pulled the remote out of his hands— it was making me dizzy. The screen image stabilized. CNN. Some twerp was talking. He had an Opie face, but his eyes were weaselly little beads. I hit the volume toggle, listening to the twerp squeak about family values. Lousy little Senator's Son. I had his family, I'd be all for family values too— wasn't for his family, he'd be kissing ass to be assistant manager at McDonald's.

The kid giggled. It wasn't a political statement— he was halfway stoned, blissing.

"Let's go for a ride," I told him. "You can show me the sights."

We walked out to the garage. He started to climb into the Miata. I shook my head. The keys were in the Lexus. I got behind the wheel, fired it up. He got in the passenger side, cranked the seat way back so he was almost reclining.

I backed out, pointed the car's nose toward the street, hit the gas and pulled away. The beige car handled like graphite— quiet and slick.

"Which way?" I asked him.

"To where?"

"Wherever you all hang out."

He made some vague gesture with his left hand. I turned left at the corner, tracking. The kid turned on the stereo. Too loud. I found the knob, dropped it down. I kept driving, following his hand waves every time there was a corner–choice.

The town wasn't much— a long, wide street with little shops. Service stops for the locals, atmospheric joints for the summer people. The street had no pulse.

When we hit the water, I turned right, following a winding road. Seafood restaurants, couple of one–story tavern–types, some smaller office buildings.

A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

"What's in there?" I asked him. We were rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

"The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like."

"You ever go there?"

"Sometimes. It's not really down."

"Where do you hang out, then?"

"Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time."

In the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top— the kind you use to mist houseplants— and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Just kill a kid once in a while.

I got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.

I'd seen his kind before— a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.

There was a strange car in the driveway. A black Acura NSX, gleaming in the sun, standing like it had been there awhile— I hadn't heard it pull in. I opened the back door. A woman was in the kitchen, playing with the coffeemaker, her back to me. She was maybe thirty, thirty–five, hard to tell. Medium height, with short black hair cut in a blunt wedge, wearing a white tennis outfit. She didn't turn around, just glanced at me over one shoulder.

"Want some?"

"Some what?"

She made a little snorting noise. "Coffee. That's all I cook."

"No thanks," I told her, opening the refrigerator, tapping the plastic water bottle into a glass. I sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the water. She finished what she was doing, turned to face me, leaning against the counter.

"I'm Fancy," she said.

"You sure are.

"That's my name. I already know yours.

I looked a question over at her.

"Burke, right?"

"Yes."

"You're the caretaker, aren't you? Yes. You look like you could take care of things."

I didn't answer, watching her face. Her eyes were light gray, heavy with mascara and eyeliner, set wide apart with a slight Oriental fold at the corners. Her nose was small, too perfect to be factory–stock. Her chin was a tiny point, emphasized by the broad, square shape of her face. Her mouth was small, the lips almost too thick, slashed with a dark carmine that ran against the light bronze of her skin. A lamp, I figured— this one would know all about skin cancer.

"I was going to wake Randy up, get him to play some tennis with me. Work some of this off," she said, slapping a plump thigh hard enough to leave a welt, a sharp crack in the quiet morning.

"Seems a shame," I told her.

"Playing tennis?"

"Losing any of that."

She flashed a smile. "You like fat women?"

"I like curves."

"Ummm," she said, deep in her throat. "Your mother ever tell you you were cute?"

"No." As pure a truth as I'd ever tell a stranger.

She walked over to the table and sat down, holding her coffee mug in both hands. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist. No rings on her fingers— the nails were long, carefully crafted, the same color as her lipstick. I took out a pack of cigarettes, raised my eyebrows.

"You have nice manners," she said.

"It's not my house."

She nodded, reaching over to push an ashtray in front of me. I fired up a smoke, took a drag. She took the cigarette from my hand, held it to her lips, sucked in so deeply that her breasts threatened the white pullover. When she exhaled, the smoke only came out one nostril. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, turned it toward me so I could see the lipstick smear on the filter.

"Your turn," she said.

I took another drag.

"How does it taste?"

"Hard to tell from such a little piece."

She made that sound in her throat again. Leaned forward. "Let's see if…" just as the kid stumbled through the door.

"Z'up?" he greeted us both.

"I thought we were going to play," the woman said.

"Maybe later," he mumbled, helping himself to coffee.

"Then I'll come back," she said, getting up. As she walked toward the door, I could see the harsh red mark where her hand had marked her thigh.

"She's a bit old for you, isn't she?" I asked the kid.

"Kind of young for you, though," he grinned back.

I tipped my water glass toward him in acknowledgment.

"She's really my mother's friend," he said.

"Kind of drops in when your mother's not around, keeps an eye on you…like that?"

"She keeps an eye on everything, the bitch."

"You don't like having her around?"

"Not really."

"So…"

"She's gonna do what she wants anyway."

"Okay. You got that list we talked about?"

"Not written down, exactly But I could tell you stuff about them if you want."

"Who cleans the house while your mother's gone?"

"Juanita. She comes in three days a week."

"Un huh. And who cooks?"

"I can always call take–out…there's a lot of different restaurants."

"You got a summer job?"

He gave me one of those "Are you crazy?" looks kids his age specialize in.

"So what you do is dress yourself, make a few phone calls, watch TV…"

"Get high…"the kid supplied.

"And wait for the summer to be over?"

"You got it."

"Make the list, kid. I'm not your fucking secretary, understand? You want this done, you got to do your piece."

"Okay, okay. It's no big deal. I just thought…if you wanted to get started right away, it'd be easier."

"Just make your list," I told him. "Do some work."

I went back over to the garage. The NSX was gone— deep ruts in the bluestone where it had peeled out. I dialed Mama's joint.

"Gardens," she answered.

"It's me."

"That woman call again. Two times."

Belinda. Nothing to do there. "Anything else?"

"No strangers."

"Okay. Tell the Prof it's quiet up here. Did Michelle call in with a new number yet?"

"No."

"Okay, take this one down I'll be here for a while."

"Good. Okay. Be careful."

"I am."

I sat there for a while, working it through. Nothing. The kid was a field mouse, that's all. Spooked by the headlights. His list would be useless— cold ground doesn't hold tracks.

The Prof was right about one thing— the whole town was lousy with money. I couldn't see an easy way into any of it. Sooner or later, the kid would need to go out, do something. If I could get him to go alone, I'd have time to look through the house.

I walked back into the bedroom. A stiff white card sat on the pillow, a few words in careful calligraphy on its face.

Call me.

After dark.

F.

There was a number in the lower right corner.

Back at the big house, the kid worked on his list. I watched TV. Every half hour or so the kid would come into the living room, bitching and whining about how it would be easier for him to concentrate in front of the TV— he always did his homework that way. I ignored him each time and he finally stopped.

He made a couple of phone calls. I didn't pay attention. A knock at the back door. The kid got up, came back with a couple of meatball heros, handed me one. I got myself a glass of cold water, sat down to eat. The bread was doughy, with no real crust. The sauce was thin and weak. The meat tasted like aged basset hound. In the city, the only people who'd visit that restaurant would be holdup men.

The kid didn't seem to notice, munching away, washing it down with a couple of Cokes.

It was late afternoon by the time the list was ready. He had the names for all six checkouts, phone numbers for three, a street address only for one.

"It was all in the papers, the other stuff," he said, handing it over, not meeting my eye.

"You didn't really know these kids, did you?"

"Not close, you know. But I knew them."

"Yeah. You tell anyone why I'm here?"

"No. I told them you were the caretaker, like you said."

"Your mother had caretakers before?"

"Once. Once she did. Last year.

"What happened to him?"

The kid shrugged his shoulders. People come, people go. Cleaning women, pool boys, groundskeepers, caretakers…all the same to him.

That's what you get in a town where their idea of fighting racism is giving the maid a raise.

"Whose idea was it…to call me in?"

"Mine, I guess."

"Your mother didn't say anything?"

"She always says the same thing. Every time she leaves. If I get into trouble, I should call you. It just never happened before."

"Okay. I'll take this, get started tonight."

"Started?"

"To look around, that's all. I'll only be gone a few hours."

"Can I…"

"It'd be better if you didn't come along…"

Troy and Jennifer. Lana. Margo. Brandon. Scott.

Just names. Nothing in the kid's list to make them into people. Maybe he was right— the papers wouldn't cover this up— it wouldn't affect property values like a killer shark haunting the beaches. Tomorrow, I'd see if the local rag had a morgue.

I picked up the phone, punched in the number for the restaurant. It wouldn't matter if it appeared on their long–distance bill— the kid already knew it.

It rang three times. Then "Gardens."

"It's me."

"That woman call again. Say for you to leave an address next time."

"Address?"

"She say, you not talk to her, then she write you a letter, okay?"

"Yeah. Give her the Jersey box, okay, Mama?"

"Sure."

"Anything else?"

"The Prof… see if you have message for him."

"Just tell him nothing yet, okay?"

"Sure. You finish soon?" "I don't know. Maybe." "Maybe not so good, there." "Maybe not."

"Okay."

I hung up the phone. Belinda, still calling. Even if she could keep Mama on the line long enough to run a trace, she'd only get the number in Brooklyn. We ran a series of bounces to the restaurant, changed them all the time. The Jersey P.O. box wouldn't help her either. It's a dead–drop— I've never been there. Every couple of weeks, one of Mama's delivery guys cleans it out, leaves everything at one of the noodle factories off Broome Street. Max stops by at random, picks up the load. He brings the mail back to his temple— I look at it whenever I have a chance. It's not fast, but it's safe. The lady cop wants to write me a letter, I'll get it. And the best she'll get is an answer.

I sat and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Not even thinking, just waiting for dark.

I watched the bands of light shift across the back fields. When the last thin strip fell into the ground, I closed my eyes.

It was just past ten when I came around. It was country–dark outside then. Rich and quiet–feeling, no neon–knives to dice it into pools of shadow.

I tapped the keys on the phone, holding the stiff cardboard in my hand. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

It sounded like her…but not quite. As if she was a little juiced.

"Could I speak with Fancy please?"

A muffled giggle. Then…"Sure. Hold on…"

"It's been dark for a while," she said, coming on the line.

"So?"

"I said to call after dark."

"Oh…that was an order, then?"

"Sure. Don't you like orders?"

"No."

"You'd like mine."

"Not so far I don't."

"Don't be such an adolescent. You're too old for boy–games, aren't you?"

"What do you want?"

"Ouch! I don't like cold things."

I lit a cigarette, not saying anything. Closed my eyes. It was no contest— she didn't know about waiting.

"You want to start over?" she whispered.

"Tell me what you want."

It was her turn to sit quiet. I could hear a faint undertone, like a humming…couldn't tell if it was her or the line. I ground out my cigarette. Heard her take a breath. Then…

"You're no caretaker. And I know why you're here."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Want me to tell you?"

"Sure."

"Maybe I will. Tonight. Late. You know where Rector's is?"

"No."

"It's a club. Private club. Get the address from Randy."

"Okay."

"In the back, the parking lot makes a kind of bulb…like in a thermometer? Pull in there and wait for me."

"When?"

"I'll be coming out around two."

"Around two?"

"Yes, around two. You wait for me, understand?"

"I'll be there at two."

"Look, you…"

I hung up the phone.

I went back over to the big house. Music came from upstairs…loud…but I didn't see any sign of the kid. I found a Yellow Pages near the phone in the kitchen. No listing for any joint called Rector's. I tried 411— nothing.

I made my way upstairs. The kid was blissed out across his bed, staring at the ceiling. The marijuana stench was heavy. Sticks of incense on his bureau, unburned— no reason for him to mask the smell with nobody around, I guessed. No point asking him any questions.

I went back over to the apartment. Showered, shaved, put on the outfit Michelle told me would open all these lush doors. In the garage, I helped myself to the Lexus.

I was in town just after midnight. Passed a few restaurants, scoping it out. Didn't feel right, so I turned toward the highway. Found the Blue Bottle. Pulled in. I didn't get a second glance making my way to the entrance— maybe Michelle was right.

A blonde girl in a sequined halter top was taking money at the door, a bouncer hovering over her right shoulder in case someone's ID didn't check out. He was strictly Amateur Hour: big, sharp–cut muscles bulging out of an orange silk T–shirt, but his hair was too long, too easy to grab in a fight. And his hands looked like he only used them to pat on his cologne.

I gave the woman the ten bucks she asked for, moved past her toward the dance floor. As I passed by the bouncer, I tilted my head in a

"Come over here" gesture. He moved with a bodybuilder's strut, rolling his shoulders with his hands clasped behind his back. When he got close, I turned my shoulder so he came into a space just for us.

"I was supposed to meet some friends. Not here. At another joint. And I lost the address. Thought maybe you could help me out."

"What's the place?" he asked me, a practiced hardguy edge to his voice.

"Rector's."

He shot me a look. "I'm not sure I know where that is."

"Sure you do," I told him, opening my hand quickly, letting him see folded green.

He glanced over his shoulder, turned his attention back to me. "That's a private club, pal. I can't get you in there."

"Don't worry about it. That's covered. Just give me the directions, okay?"

He leaned close. "Follow the water to forty–one, take it north a couple of miles. You'll see the sign for Calm's Corners. Just turn in there, follow the road. It's a white house, big driveway out front. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," I said, shaking his hand, passing the cash.

I found the sign for Calm's Corners, whatever the hell that was. Turned in, followed a two–lane blacktop ribbon. The house was there, like the bouncer said. Good–sized house, three stories. The driveway was one of those half–moons. From where I sat, I could see a couple of men in tuxedos standing at the front of the house, between two thick columns. Valet parking— that wouldn't work.

I drove on, looking for an opening. It took me three slow passes before I saw it— a side road that merged with the back parking lot. I nosed the Lexus in cautiously, but nobody was paying attention. The very back of the lot was just like Fancy had said. And empty. I backed the Lexus into the spot she said, checked my watch. 1:19.

I got out of the car, looked around. The parking lot had no fence— it ran right up against a forest in the back, following the tree line.

I returned to the car, dropped the driver's side window, watched. I saw cars being parked maybe fifty yards away. The guys in the tuxedos did it mostly, but once in a while somebody would do it themselves. Traffic all coming in…nobody leaving. No pattern to it: mostly male–female couples, but there were some singles too, and some same–sex combos.

The night was clear, but I couldn't hear anything. Either they ran a real quiet joint or it was soundproofed.

I waited there until twenty past two. No sign of Fancy. I drove the Lexus out the front way. Nobody paid me a glance.

I stashed the Lexus next to my Plymouth. The red Miata was gone. I went upstairs, changed my clothes. Almost four in the morning, a good time to have a quiet, leisurely look around the big house. The kid probably wouldn't come back until well past daylight. Whatever had sent him into a panic didn't seem to have much staying power.

I had just opened the back kitchen door when a pair of high beams flashed against the garage. I slipped away from the house as Fancy's black NSX spun into the driveway, scattering stones as she stood on the brakes, skidding to a stop, the headlights aimed across the back yard. The lights went out, I saw her jump out of the car and slam the door, a long black coat trailing behind her as she marched up the stairs to the apartment.

I moved out of the shadows behind her, crossing to the bottom of the stairs just as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed, moving quiet.

I stood outside the door. Heard the sound of glass breaking inside. I stepped in, breathing shallow. The long black coat was thrown over the back of the sofa. The TV screen was cracked, pieces of a heavy glass ashtray scattered all around. From the bedroom, sounds of someone rooting through the drawers. Harsh, heavy breathing.

I went down the hall. Fancy's back was to me. She was poured into a black leather mini–dress over dark stockings, standing there in bright blue spike heels, wrecking the place.

"You having a good time?" I asked her.

She whirled without a word, the black riding crop in her hand, slashing. I spun away, let her momentum carry her past me when she missed, slammed my shoulder into her back and took her down to the carpet. She squirmed, snarling something I couldn't make out. I locked my arm around hers, pinning it close, letting my weight hold her.

Finally… "Let me up !"

"Let go of the stick first," I told her.

Her fist unclenched, the riding crop slipped from her fingers. I shifted my weight from her hips, still keeping her shoulders pinned. Her dress was around her waist. I saw a flash of dark nylon over bronze skin. There was only a slash of black silk between the cheeks of her butt, some kind of thong.

"Nice, huh?" she whispered over her shoulder, calm now.

I rolled away from her, letting go my hold. She got to her feet, tugging down the dress, breathing hard.

"What's all this about?" I asked her.

"What?"

"Breaking in here, busting up the place, tearing through my things."

"I didn't break in here— I have a key."

"Who gave you…? Ah, never mind. What about the other stuff?"

"I was angry. You stood me up. People don't do that."

"I was there. At two, like you said. You never showed."

"Why didn't you wait?"

"For what?"

"People do what I tell them," she said, bending over and picking up the riding crop. She tossed it on the bed, turned to me. "They love to do what I tell them. You think you're something? You're nothing, Mr. Caretaker. I know your secrets."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it? Okay? I know why you're here. I know what you want."

"Sure."

"Don't be slick— you don't have the looks for it. I could save you a lot of time, point you straight. That's not your secret— that's mine. You want it?"

"Maybe."

"People wait for me, I told you. You can wait too. You know how it works— you want something, you have to pay, yes?"

"How much?"

"A lot. Not money. I don't need money. You want to pay, you have to play. Play with me, get it?"

"No."

She walked over to the bureau, rummaged around, like she knew what would be in there. Came up with a fat white hurricane candle. She held it out to me.

"Light this," she said, her voice rough–edged, insistent.

I cracked a wooden match, held it to the wick. Her hand was steady. When the candle flickered into life, she went back to the bureau, held it in one hand over her head as she swept everything onto the floor with the other. She planted the candle, stepped back, watched the flame in the mirror over the bureau, adjusted it until she was satisfied.

"Go turn out the lights," she said, still giving orders. "Do it now.

I stepped back, hit the switch, still watching her.

The black dress had a wide zipper all the way down the front, anchored with a silver pull–ring the size of a half–dollar between her breasts. It made a metal–singing sound as she pulled it down. She shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell away. Then she stood facing me, hands on hips. Her breasts were bare. A humming sound came off her, not from her mouth. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband to the thong, pulled it slowly over her hips. When she had it worked down to just above her knees, she wiggled her legs and it dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of the little piece of black silk, hooked the toe of a blue spike heel into the pile and kicked the thong over in my direction. I felt it brush against my feet but I never dropped my eyes from her face.

She turned her back to me. Put one knee on the bed, looked over her shoulder. Climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, on her hands and knees, facing away from me.

"You want to play now?" she whispered.

I took out a cigarette. Walked over to the candle, got a light. I took a deep drag, put the cigarette on the dresser top. Her butt looked like a piece of white marble, the dark stockings setting it off like a centerpiece. The spikes of her heels were pointed back at me.

I took off my clothes, watching, breathing through my nose, something telling me I needed to keep a control card in my deck.

I hung my clothes over the back of a straight chair. Stepped to her. I put one hand on her hip, touched her deep with the other. She was wet. I entered her slowly. She snapped her hips to the side, throwing me out.

"Kiss first," she said, not turning around.

I put my hands on her shoulders to pull her around. She locked her arms rigid, resisting.

"Kiss my ass," she ordered. "Kiss it good."

I stepped back. "Not this year," I told her. Calm, not arguing.

"Make you mad?" she challenged. "Here!" handing me the riding crop, still not turning around.

I tossed it onto the floor, still watching her. The marble glistened in the candlelight.

I went back over to the bureau. Took another drag from my cigarette. She didn't move.

A piece of time passed. I walked back to her, put one hand on each of her cheeks, stroked with my thumbs.

"No!" she snapped. "Kiss it or whip it, that's all there you get. I don't do vanilla sex."

I stepped back again. Finished the smoke. Ground it out on the dresser top.

"Well?" she demanded, her voice thick.

"I don't like the choices," I told her.

She looked over her shoulder, still on her hands and knees. "It looks like you do," she whispered.

"That's my body," I said. "Not me.

She dropped her face to the sheet, arched her back. Her dark sex bloomed in the candlelight, framed in marble. "Last chance," she whispered. Sugar threats.

I shook my head. It was as though she could see it without looking. She backed toward me, backed all the way off the bed. Stood up. Walked over, put the dress on like it was a coat, bent at the waist and zipped it up. Snuffed out the candle with two fingers and stalked out to the front room.

I followed her. She was pulling on the long coat. I grabbed her from behind. She ground her hips into my crotch. I slipped my hands into the side pockets of the coat. Pulled out a bunch of keys, stepped back. The keys were all anchored to a piece of wood in the shape of a tiny cane. I rifled through the keys, picked out the one to the apartment, pulled it off the ring. She turned to face me. I handed her the rest of the keys. She held the keys so the tiny cane dangled.

"You know what this is?"

"No."

"It's birch. Get the idea?"

"Yeah."

"You think so? Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. When you're ready."

She walked out, leaving the door open. I stood in the doorway, watching her walk to her car. It started up, moved off, no headlights.

I walked back through the wreckage to the back room, turning on the lights. Her black silk thong was on the floor of the bedroom. I picked it up.

It smelled like handcuffs.

I got dressed, putting rich–bitch games out of my mind, centering on the job. I crossed the yard back to the big house. A burglar's dream— I had a key, and the cops wouldn't stop even if they saw lights on. I slipped on a pair of surgeon's gloves— all I'd need to slice this piece of cake.

It had to be her room. Whatever she was now, Cherry was a working–class girl— she'd need to keep the good stuff close. I worked the teakwood chest of drawers first, moving from the bottom up the way I'd been taught. It saves time— that way you don't have to close one drawer before you move on to the next. Nothing. I pulled out each drawer completely, checked for something taped underneath. A blank. I couldn't find an inset panel anywhere. Tapped the wood frame— it rang solid.

I went over the carpet section by section. It was seamless, a double–thick pad underneath. The nightstand by the bed supported an ice blue telephone in some free–form futuristic shape and a black clock with green hands, no numbers. The hands pointed to 4:45. In the base of the clock was a window with a digital readout— 7:45. I let it roll around in my head, kept working.

Inside the nightstand I got lucky. A thick stack of bills, all hundreds, neatly banded. I quick–counted it— ten large. The bills looked Treasury–fresh, but the serial numbers were random. Toward the back of the little drawer, a black leather address book. I tossed it on the bed, kept looking.

I took the mattress off the bed. Nobody home. The box spring was next. Another blank. I checked the headboard for a compartment, using my pencil flash to spot a seam. It was made from the same teak as the dresser, and just as solid.

Only one picture on the wall. A sepia–toned photograph of a woman, her back to the camera. She was dressed in a dark Victorian suit, some kind of velvet it looked like, with a long skirt and long sleeves. Her hands were clasped in front of her, head slightly bowed. I took it off the wall, hoping for a safe. The paint was undisturbed— whoever cleaned the joint removed the picture every time they dusted.

Nothing left but the closet. I did the footwear first. She had everything from thigh–high boots to running shoes, but they were all empty. Then I went through the clothes, piece by piece. Found a string of pearls in one coat pocket, a pair of used theater tickets in another. Tissues, a blue chiffon scarf, a lipstick–size spray atomizer. I pointed it away from me, pressed the tiny button. Some kind of citrus perfume.

Against the back wall, I found a black silk cape with an attached hood. The lining was red. In a side pocket, a gray business card. Normal size, but twice the weight. In steel blue copperplate script: "Rector's." And a phone number. I put it on the bed next to the address book.

There was no lock on the bedroom door. I walked quickly through the rest of the floor. No locks anywhere. It wasn't doors that covered that house's secrets.

Back in Cherry's bedroom, I opened the address book. Nearly every page was filled with distinctively shaded block letters. The ink was a dark blue— looked like a fountain pen. I found the culprit in the nightstand drawer, a fat black Mont Blanc.

None of the names meant anything to me at first. I took it page by page. Nothing under "Burke." "Fancy" was under "F," but the phone number wasn't the same as she'd written on her After Dark card. Not quite the same.

Page by page. I came to a strange listing. "MERC" is all it said. I looked at the number. Looked at it again. It was the pay phone that

rings in Mama's restaurant, written backwards. A man for hire, that's what I must have seemed like to her back in England a lifetime ago. Some people grow, some just age.

I turned back to the page with Fancy's number. Read it backwards. It matched her card.

Was the code that simple? I found a listing for Rector's. Compared it to the card. It didn't match, backwards or forwards.

I went over to the control panel in her closet. Pushed buttons at random. String music came from the speaker again. Not the longhair stuff this time— Santo and Johnny's "Sleepwalk"— '50s steel guitar spooling softly strange in that lush room.

I laid down on her bed, staring at the ceiling, surprised not to find a mirror. Glanced over at the clock again. 5:19 on the dial, 8:19 on the digital. Three hours' difference.

Where the hell would that be?

I reached for the phone. Dialed the number on the card I'd found in the cape. A woman's voice answered, pleasant but loaded with the promise of something harder: "Rector's."

I hung up. Dialed the number under that name in her address book. A recorded message: "Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Check the number and…"

I hung up on that one too. It's the message Ma Bell sends when the exchange isn't local.

I checked the book again. No area code. Maybe she didn't use them at all. But…no, she had a lot of them— Chicago, L.A., Houston— even some foreign ones.

I closed my eyes. What's your secret, bitch? I asked her.

When I opened my eyes, the clock said 5:51. A long time to be out. I got up, put everything back the way it was. The closet speaker was playing something slithery…something I didn't recognize.

I went back to the bed, picked up the book, started to punch the number she had listed for Rector's into the control panel. Four buttons into the sequence I heard a sliding noise. I looked in its direction. A panel was opening in the seamless pink marble of the bathroom tile over the tub.

I went over, took a close look, not touching anything. I've been trained by the best— if you don't figure out how to close the wound, the autopsy will be too easy. I pushed the buttons again, in the same order. I heard the faint sound of an electrical motor, but the panel stayed open.

Okay. I tried it in reverse, last digit first. The panel slid back, closing with a barely audible click. From where I stood, I couldn't see where it had opened. You don't get craftsmanship like that from a local handyman— it had to be the work of the original architect.

Even up close, I couldn't find the seam. The white veins in the pink marble pulled my eyes into a swirling pattern, the recessed lighting bouncing off the slick surface blurred my eyes. Like the random stripes of a herd of zebra, making the lions dizzy, distracting the hunters from the target.

A four–digit code. Ten thousand chances to hit it by luck— no chance at all. I punched the Open Sesame again, one slow button at a time. The panel was about six inches wide. Inside was painted a flat black, a matte finish that would eat light, no reflection.

I pulled a thick white towel from a standing brass rack, laid it down in the tub in case something spilled. I started to reach my gloved hand inside the compartment when I remembered this was too elaborate a setup for a rich woman to hide her pearls. And remembered where Cherry came from, what she'd know.

I walked downstairs, looking around. What I really wanted was a pair of needlenose pliers, but the kitchen didn't have anything like a tool kit. Finally, I settled on a pair of long barbecue tongs, heavy steel with a rosewood handle.

Back upstairs, I used my pencil flash to check out the inside of the compartment. I could see some plastic cassettes, a padded jewelry box, and what looked like a black drawstring pouch. I wasn't worried about a burglar alarm— if I was right, the cops were the last thing Cherry would want if somebody got this far. I probed the air space inside the compartment with the tongs, testing.

Nothing happened.

I extended the tongs toward the pouch again, as delicate as plucking a butterfly off a flower. I closed the tongs slowly, standing well back. I felt the tips touch something and there was a sharp clang! It almost knocked the tongs from my hand. I pulled them back, used the pencil flash. A curved metal wand hung just over the pouch, still vibrating, three separate hooked tips pinpointing the light. An L–shaped lever dangled from the far corner of the compartment. I pushed it back toward the wall with the tongs. Watched as the wand retreated. Whatever it was, it could be reset.

The tips of the wand looked surgical. I could guess what she had painted on them— curare lasts a hell of a long time, but it only takes a few seconds to do its job. I shoved the lever back to disable the wand. Then I worked the stuff out of the compartment like I was defusing a bomb, working front to back. My hands were calm, but my knees were locked against the trembling. I dropped each piece lightly on the heavy towel in the same position it was inside the compartment.

Three VHS videocassettes. Blackmail maybe?

Seven audiotapes, premium–grade metal, ninety minutes each. The blackmail scenario looked better than ever.

A round disk I didn't recognize.

A pair of three–and–a–half–inch computer diskettes, Teflon coated, one red, one blue.

A mini–cassette backup computer tape.

Business records, maybe? Of somebody else's business? Had to be some pretty hot data to be this well protected. Industrial espionage?

No matter what all the stuff was, there was no way I could tell just by looking.

But then I found the black velvet pouch.

I gently pulled the drawstring, tipped the pouch upside down. Fire inside: red, white, green. Gems. Big ones, all faceted. And some smooth black stones.

I glanced over at the clock. 6:39. Enough.

I took one of each of the gems, one of each of the cassettes, both diskettes. Put everything else back in reverse order. If you took a quick look inside, it would look pretty close to normal. I pushed the lever home, watched the poison wand disappear, heard it snap into place. Then I went back to the control panel, pushed the buttons, and made the compartment disappear.

I carefully wrapped the gems in a piece of dark blue felt I carry with me for emergencies. The loot disappeared into the pockets of my jacket. The towel went back on the rack. I pulled off the surgeon's gloves and headed downstairs.

It only took me a few minutes to lock the stuff in the false bottom of the Plymouth's truck, right next to the fuel cell. I never went back to the upstairs apartment.

I was getting a traffic report from the all–news station by 7:08, heading for home base.

As soon as I crossed the bridge into Manhattan, I found a pay phone and started to work. Left messages for Michelle and the Prof. Called Mama, told her I'd be on my way before nightfall.

By eight, I was in my office, sacked out on the couch.

It was almost three in the afternoon as I worked the Plymouth through the maze of Chinatown's back streets. Clarence's immaculate BRG Rover was parked in the alley behind Mama's.

They were in my booth. The Prof had three playing cards in front of him, folded lengthwise, face down, showing Clarence the finer points of three–card monte. Mama was at her cash register. The joint had the usual number of customers— none.

I sat down in my booth, ignoring the questions in the Prof's eyes. Mama strolled over just as I was pulling the blue felt from my pocket. She nodded, snapped something in Cantonese to one of the hovering waiters, and sat down.

The blue felt sat between us on the table— Mama made no move to touch it. In a couple of minutes, the waiter came back. He cleared the table, wiped it down, spread a brilliant white bolt of heavy cloth over the top. Then he placed a black metal cube near Mama's left hand, spread a red silk square next to her right. Mama bowed her head, fingertips together, waiting. The waiter opened the top of the black metal cube, telescoped a long stem with a tiny quartz halogen light at the tip. He pressed a button on the side of the cube and a circle of pure light showed on the tabletop. On the red silk square, he carefully assembled a jeweler's loupe and several different–size tweezers. From one of his apron pockets, he took a miniature scale with an electronic dial. He placed it at the far corner of the table and stepped back.

Mama raised her head, opened her eyes. Nodded an okay at me. I unwrapped the gems. Mama plucked the diamond first, placed it on the table in front of her. Then she screwed the loupe into her right eye, picked up the gem with a pair of tweezers and took a look.

Nobody spoke.

Mama turned the gem back and forth with the tweezers, her fingers precision machinery.

"You remember what I teach you about diamonds? Five C?"

"Sure," I told her, remembering the lesson from so many years ago, when I came back from Africa and told Mama about new smuggling opportunities. Four C was the world standard: color, clarity, cut and carat. The last C was Mama's own— cash.

Mama nodded acknowledgment as she worked. After a couple of minutes, she put the rock down. Her smile was brighter than the light.

"Very fine stone."

"It's for real?" I asked her.

"Oh yes. Blue–white, brilliant cut. Maybe VVS, VS for sure. Three carats, pretty close."

"How much?"

"A hundred thousand, quick." Meaning it was worth a quarter million.

"What about the others?"

Mama didn't reply. She reluctantly put the diamond on a corner of the cloth, reached for the green. She did the same routine, switched to the red. Finally, she took up the smooth black stone, rubbing it between her fingers. After a few minutes, she switched off the light, looked across at me.

"All perfect stones. Ruby is pigeon blood, probably from Burma. Emerald is Colombian for sure. Very big stones to be so perfect."

"What's this?" I asked, touching the smooth black stone with a fingertip.

"Girasol," Mama said. "Black opal. From Australia."

"There's more," I told her. "This is just a sample."

"Passport," Mama said. I knew what she meant. There's no harder currency than fine gems. A universal language— you could turn these into cash anywhere from Bermuda to Bangkok.

"I told you, bro, I know what I know. We tap that vein, we feel no pain."

"It's not that easy, Prof. She had something else too." I showed him the diskettes. "You know what these are?"

"Sure, schoolboy. That's the cake— the rocks are the take."

"That's the way I see it too. We Hoover the place, she knows it was me. And she's got enough juice to buy trouble."

"But if we know what she knows…"

"Yeah."

"Let's ride, Clyde."

We picked up Michelle on the corner of Twenty–ninth and First. She climbed into the back of the Rover like it was a limo, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, settled back into the leather and lit a smoke.

"What's on?"

"I'm not sure yet. The Prof was right— the joint is rotten with money. I took some samples…gems. Mama says they're true blue. She's got seven figures stashed in the house."

"Oh honey, you know just what to say to make a girl crazy."

"It's trickier than that, Michelle." I showed her the disks.

"Blackmail?"

"That's my guess. I'm not sure. There's some tapes too. But either I put everything back or we're stuck with hit and run, see? We need a way to take a look."

"My man can do it," Michelle said, confident.

Terry let us into the junkyard, greeting the Prof and Clarence with elaborate courtesy as Michelle looked on proud.

"Damn, boy, you getting big !" the Prof told him.

The kid flushed. "I told you, Mom," he said, holding his back real straight. "How tall am I gonna be?" he asked the Prof.

Clarence stepped forward, took both the boy's hands in his, turned them over, looked at the backs.

"You be taller than me before you a grown man," he said quietly, the Island lilt clear in his rich voice.

"For real?" Terry asked, joy all over his face.

Clarence nodded gravely.

The Mole was nowhere in sight when we pulled up to the clearing. Simba was lying down in front of the underground bunker, calm and watchful.

"You want me to get him?" Terry asked.

"We'll need to be in his lab for what we got to do," I told the kid. "Just go downstairs, ask him if it's okay, all right?"

"Sure," the kid replied, pushing Simba to one side like the killer beast was a stuffed animal.

I lit a cigarette in the South Bronx air, feeling safe like I always do around the Mole's base. Simba watched without interest.

The kid stuck his head out of the bunker. "He says to come down."

I went first, Michelle right behind. Clarence came last, walking backwards, one hand on his pistol…he doesn't feel the same way I do about the junkyard.

The Mole was at his workbench. Michelle kissed him. His pasty skin turned a mottled red, his lank hair falling over his forehead. Michelle slapped at his upper arm in pretended disgust at the Mole's lack of romance.

I put the computer disks on the workbench. The Mole looked at them and shrugged.

"Can you read them?" I asked.

He shrugged again. Picked one up, plugged it into a slot on his computer as he simultaneously kicked it into life. The screen flickered, settled down into a paper–white blank.

The Mole tapped some keys, watched the screen. We found places to sit, left him alone to work. Terry showed Michelle some experiment they were working on— something about heavy water, whatever that is. The Prof settled back into a jailhouse wait–state. Clarence's bright eyes flicked over the bunker, taking in the strange machinery, a glazed look on his smooth young face. He'd been raised on Carib legends, but he never imagined voodoo like this.

The Mole turned his head slightly. I bent to listen— the Mole never talks loud.

"It's passworded," he said, pointing at the screen where it said [Locked] in bold black letters.

"Can you get in?"

"Eventually. Password could be anything. I can run a random program, try every combination."

"How long would that take?"

He shrugged again. "I don't have a big enough machine here. Could take a couple of weeks, even longer."

"Damn! Can you copy the disk so I can replace it while you run through the combos?"

"No."

"Great." I stood for a minute, trying to think it through. People get lazy with stuff they have to remember, use their birthdays for safe combinations, like that. Maybe she…?

"Try Cherry," I told him.

His stubby fingers flew over the keys. The machine beeped. "No," the Mole said.

"Try Rector's."

"Spell?"

I spelled it for him, with and without the apostrophe.

"No," he said.

I took a few more shots, all blanks. "I'll start it on random," the Mole said.

I nodded glumly. Then I thought of the safe. "Could it be numbers?" I asked him.

"What?"

"The password, could it be numbers instead of letters?"

"Yes."

I gave him the combination to the safe. Watched his fingers as he tapped it in.

"Yes," the Mole said as the screen flashed and words popped out on its surface like invisible ink when you hold the paper over a flame.

The Mole copied the blue and red diskettes, gave me back the originals. "The rest is storage media," he said, holding the round disk and the tiny cassette in his hand. "Probably the others didn't get added yet. Take them back too— what I have will be enough to see what they do."

I nodded agreement. "You have a VCR here?" I asked him.

He gave me a sour look, craned his neck in the direction of a small–screen TV in the corner.

"I told you it would come in handy, Dad," the kid said, a look of gleeful triumph on his face. He took the videotape from my hand, stuffed it into the slot expertly, hit some buttons.

The tape was black and white, streaky at the edges.

"Adjust the tracking," the Mole told him.

"I know, I know," the kid said, absorbed, playing with a tiny dial.

The camera opened on a pristine white bedroom. White walls, white sheets…even the bedposts were white. The camera zoomed in on one of them. A black leather strap dangled, waiting.

"Go upstairs, Terry," Michelle said, her voice calm.

"Ah, Mom…"

"Now!" she snapped. The kid turned his eyes from the screen, testing. Michelle stared him down, not saying a word. He gave her a baleful look over one shoulder as he climbed back to the outside air.

The only sound was the hum of the tape. A man entered the white bedroom, dressed in a conservative business suit. He sat down on the bed, hands on his knees, facing the way he came in. A woman walked in, her back to the camera. She was wearing a black–and–white–striped jacket with a peplum flare over a dark pencil skirt. Couldn't see her feet in the picture.

"Infrared camera," the Mole said. "High resolution. They wouldn't need lights."

A match flared as the Prof lit a smoke.

The woman removed the peplum jacket, tossed it away. A scoop–necked white blouse was underneath. The man watched as she unbuttoned the blouse to display a black push–up bra. She said something to him. He looked down.

The bra unhooked from the front. The woman dropped it to her side. The man looked up. The woman stepped to him, slapped his face hard with a roundhouse swing. She said something to him again. He dropped his eyes.

The woman turned her back to him, reached behind her to unzip the pencil skirt. As she bent forward to tug it over her hips, the man

slyly looked up. The woman arched her back, looking full into the camera.

Fancy.

As she stood slightly to one side, the camera came in on the man's face, full and clear.

I didn't know him, but he'd recognize himself quick enough when they showed him the tape.

Fancy turned to the man, now wearing only a pair of black panties over a garter belt and dark hose. She stopped, walked off camera.

Came back holding a riding crop in one hand.

The man stood up and stripped, quickly. He lay face down on the bed as Fancy secured his hands with the restraining straps to the head–posts.

She worked him over with the riding crop. It went on for a while. Then she stopped, stood hands on hips, saying something to him.

The man turned his head. Fancy hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties, slipped them down over her legs. She walked to the side of the bed, slapped the man's upturned face, bunched up the panties and stuck them in his mouth.

Then she went back to work.

The man finished lying on his belly, his back all lacerated, hips jerking in harsh spasms. The camera zoomed in and out erratically, sometimes focusing on a place where nothing was happening. When Fancy finally unhooked him, he rolled off the bed, the gleaming evidence of his orgasm displayed in the classic Times Square tradition— freaks hate it when you fake it.

The last shot was of the man sitting on the bed, looking into the camera with a dazed look on his sweaty face.

"There's more?" Michelle asked.

"A lot more," I told her.

"Audio too?"

"Yeah."

"This is some sophisticated operation, baby. That's a fixed camera with a remote— a setup like that, you could run it without an operator, so long as the action lasts long enough."

"I know. I met the woman."

"She want you to play too?"

"Yeah."

"It figures. This is the latest thing," Michelle said. "Super–safe sex. No penetration. In fact, no skin–on–skin, you get right down to it. You find a girl who works pro doing this, she probably likes it herself. Most of them, they just found a way to make it pay."

"That's what we need too…a way to make it pay," I told her. The Prof nodded agreement. Clarence watched us. The Mole was busy doing something at his workbench— he hadn't even watched the tape.

I packed everything up, walked topside with the Prof and Clarence, leaving Michelle downstairs. Terry wasn't around.

"What do you think?" I asked the man who taught me so much when I was a kid.

"I think they make a date, play it straight. Even a sap will turn off the tap, you push too hard. You can't keep going back to the well."

"You think they turn over the whole deal, no copies?"

"For that kind of cash? Sure. They must have a real solid rep."

"Like people know they pull this stuff?"

"Remember a few years ago…when that maniac was carving up gays down by the pier?"

"Sure," I told him. A serial killer, heavy into mutilation, stalking the sex–for–sale streets down by the river. The body count was getting up there, the headlines were screaming, and the homosexual community was in panic. A couple of them came to me, said there was good money in it if I could come up with the killer. They didn't have much faith in the cops.

"Remember that guy Robbie?" the Prof asked. "Remember how he ran it down."

I lit a smoke, bringing it back. Robbie owned a small art shop in the area— he was one of the first guys I spoke to when I started the job.

"Nobody's cruising anymore, right?" I'd asked him.

"Oh please !" he snorted. "That's not going to change. A maniac might scare the hustlers, but not those looking for love. Besides, you know someone like that's out there, it adds a little jolt, understand?"

"You think people into that let's–meet–and–beat stuff know somebody's playing with cameras, Prof?"

"Could be, schoolboy. Long as nobody actually got burned, it'd probably just be a turn–on for them. They know they got to pay for their play anyway, what's the difference?"

"It's a sweet racket. They get paid at both ends."

"Listen, homeboy, whatever that kid's mother is, she ain't stupid. We need some proof, and we need some truth."

"I'm going back there tonight. I'll replace all the stuff."

The Prof stepped close, put his hand on my shoulder. "Burke, listen good— if you got the right climate, the weather don't matter, see?"

"No. What's it mean?"

"Take a look, but be ready to book. If you can't walk light, stay outta sight."

"Look, Prof…."

"I mean it, bro. I'm not liking a damn bit of this."

It was around midnight when I pulled into the garage. The red Miata still wasn't there. I couldn't tell if the kid had come and gone, or hadn't come back at all.

The apartment over the garage looked the way I left it.

I walked back over to the main house. It was empty. The hair I'd plucked from my head and anchored with a tiny dot of spit was still in place across the marble seam of the safe. I put everything back.

I had just walked into the apartment over the garage when the phone rang. I picked it up, said "What?" and waited.

I heard some breathing, then the line went dead. I closed my eyes, drifted off.

Later that night, I heard a car pull in. My watch said 3:15. I heard a door slam, walked over to the glass panel in the door. The kid was moving across the lawn, not too steady.

I gave him five minutes, then I went across. The back door was standing open. The kid was sitting at the kitchen table with the lights off, staring at the far wall.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"I called," he said. "I kept calling. You weren't here. I didn't want to come back until I knew."

"That was you on the phone before?"

The kid nodded. "I was going to go up to your place, but I didn't want to wake you up."

"What's going on?"

"Diandra's dead. It happened…I guess a couple of days ago. We just found out."

"Who's Diandra?"

"Diandra Blankenship. She jumped. Off the Old Mill Bridge. Onto the rocks."

"How do you know?"

"They were all talking about it. At the party. We were going to do a couple of tanks, just chill, listen to some tunes. But nobody could really get into it."

"You knew her?"

"Yeah. A little. She was a year behind me in school."

"Didn't the cops come around?"

"Not to the party. They talked to some of the kids. Myron said Brew said they talked to him. She didn't leave a note or anything."

"Get some sleep," I told him.

"Are you going to…"

"I'm going to be right here. Downstairs on the couch. All right?"

He nodded, getting to his feet, moving like he was carrying too much weight.

I didn't know enough. That's where the real risk is— that's why the hardest currency in the world is information. I knew people who had killed themselves— suicide isn't a rare thing in jail. I knew some who did it on the installment plan too— there's hustlers who turn street tricks, use the money to buy dope to make themselves forget. I remember asking one about it once. I was looking for a runaway— he was looking for some cash, so we made a deal.

"Spell 'needle,'" he told me, like it was a secret code.

I played it straight. "N–e–e–d— "

"Stop right there," he said, looking through my face.

I got it then.

But it didn't add up. Rich kids get bored enough, they might do damn near anything, but you don't snuff yourself because there's nothing else to do that day.

And there were too many of them doing it.

Maybe an hour passed. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, watched the occasional car flit past the front window. I took the pencil flash, found my way upstairs. The kid was asleep, face down on his own bed, still dressed.

A light rain started to fall. I lay on my back on the living room couch listening to it tap against the windows.

A burring noise, soft, like an expensive phone. I picked up the nearest receiver…dial tone. The sound kept repeating, so faint it barely registered. I got up, closed my eyes so my ears would work better. Maybe it was some fancy alarm clock. The wall phone in the kitchen had two lines. I switched between them…dial tones on both. The sound kept coming. I stood dead–still, trying to sonar it out. A narrow closet was built into the archway between the kitchen and the living room…there! I opened the door— the sound was louder. I went through the stuff in the closet and found it. In the side pocket of a black leather coat— a cellular phone, as thin as a paperback book. I pulled up the antenna, flipped it open.

"What?" I said into the speaker.

"Where's Charm?" A man's voice, suspicious.

"You got the wrong number, pal," I told him, growling like I'd been interrupted.

He hung up. I put the phone back where I got it, sat down and lit a smoke. Before I was finished with it, I heard the phone again.

I let it ring until it stopped.

Charm? Another player…or just another name Cherry used?

Two more hours, three more cigarettes, the phone in the closet stayed quiet. Maybe it was a wrong number for real.

I was up with the first light, wondering what day it was. Hard to tell out there— people who don't work a regular nine–to–five don't have a good sense of weekends. I looked out the front window. At the head of the driveway there were two mailboxes. I walked out there. Turned out one of the mailboxes was for the local newspaper. It was empty. The regular mailbox only had some bills…no personal letters. I brought everything inside, left it on the kitchen table.

I wanted a shower, but I checked on the kid first. He was in the same position. I moved close, some little flicker warning me he might be gone. But he was okay, breathing deep, his mouth hanging open, slack.

The garage door was standing open, the cars untouched. The keys were in the kid's Miata— maybe he was expecting valet parking.

I walked through the apartment, watching close this time. Nobody had been there.

I showered and shaved, thinking about kids killing themselves. About the kid I'd killed.

I was at the kitchen table by the time the kid came downstairs. His face was blotchy from sleep, eyes wary from his dreams.

"You stayed here last night?" he asked.

"On the couch, in the living room."

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean for you to— "

"That's okay. You want some coffee or something?"

"I'll get it," he said, turning his face away from me.

He put a couple of Pop–Tarts in the toaster, hit the switch on the coffeemaker, took a long pull at a wax carton of orange juice. I found a box of rye crackers, poured myself a big glass of water from the bottle in the refrigerator.

"What's those?" he asked me, nodding his head in the direction of the pills I had taken out of my pocket.

"Vitamin C, beta–carotene, vitamin E."

"You take them every day?"

"Sure."

"How come?"

"An old girlfriend of mine, she's a doctor. Told me if I was gonna smoke, this is what I needed to do."

"Be better to quit smoking," he said, with all the superiority of someone who fucks up his life twelve ways from Sunday but doesn't share your bad habits.

I didn't say anything, just crunched my crackers, popped the pills, chased them down with the water. The kid joined me at the table, started on his meal without much enthusiasm.

"You expect the cops?" I asked him.

"No, they didn't come around before, why should I?"

"I don't know. I don't know how things work around here. It's just that if they do, you may need to explain me…what I'm doing here, see?"

"Sure. I'll say you're the caretaker. It won't be any big deal."

"It could be if they run my sheet."

"Huh?"

"I've got a record, kid."

"Oh. I mean…I kind of figured that."

"Did you?"

"Well, from what my mother said…"

I looked a question at him, waiting.

"She didn't say you were a criminal or anything. Just that you could…take care of things. I know in her business, she had to deal with some pretty heavy people, so…"

"Her business?"

"When she was young. Before she had me. In England, where she lived."

"What business was that?"

"You know," he gave me a quizzical look. "She was a gem dealer. Traveled all over the world. That's when she met you, right? When you worked as a bodyguard?"

"Right," I told him.

"Were you…close with my mother?"

"It was a long time ago, kid."

"I know, but…"

"What? You want to know if we were lovers?" Softening it for him if that's what he needed.

"Lovers? Like romance? No. I want to know did you have sex with her?" he asked, looking at me head–on for the first time that day.

"That's your mother's privacy you're talking about," I said.

"Privacy? My mother? You have to be kidding. I was just curious, that's all. She never has sex with men."

"She must have…at least once."

"Yeah, with a turkey baster," he laughed, a feathery undercurrent to his voice. "Artificial insemination. My mother's gay. She told me, a long time ago. She said she wanted a baby, but she didn't want a man. That's why I was wondering…if she ever did."

"I get it," I told him, not answering his question. "Your father, was he…?"

"No. It was an anonymous donor, she told me. She was married once, but it was for money. The guy was gay too— he wanted her for a beard. I guess the joke was on him, huh? I don't know who my father is.

"You mean your biological father?"

"That's what I mean— I don't know whose genes I have in me."

"Neither do I," I told him.

"You were adopted?"

"No."

"Then how …?"

"I was raised by the State. In an institution."

"Like a foster home?"

"Like a jail."

"Oh." He got up, busied himself with loading the dishwasher for a minute. "You ever wonder about it? Who your father was?" he asked over his shoulder.

"No."

"I do," he said, coming back to the table. "All my mother could tell me was that he had a very high IQ. It was a special sperm bank. Very expensive. She had it done in Switzerland."

"You already got all you're going to get from him," I told the kid.

"What do you mean?"

"The color of your eyes, your hair, maybe your height, I don't know. Physical characteristics. And your basic intelligence. Some hard–wired personality traits, stuff like that."

"What's 'hard–wired'?"

"You know how some folks have a basically happy temperament, some are more stubborn than others…like that. Nothing major."

"You mean that?"

"It's true. You can pass along DNA, but not behavior, understand? Blue eyes, blond hair…sure. But if a rapist and a murderer got together and made a baby, and if that baby got raised by good citizens, the kid would be one too, see? You get what you raise, not what you breed."

"But with horses, they always breed the champions. To get better horses."

"Those aren't better horses, kid. They're horses better at doing the stuff people want them to do, see? If you put those blueblood, inbred nags out on a prairie, they'd be the first ones the wolves would take down."

He sat there for a couple of minutes, playing something around in his head, more alert and focused than I'd ever seen him. "In school, we had that. Genetics. I don't remember much about it. Hell, I don't remember much about any of it."

"You passed all your courses?" I asked him. Shifting gears, setting up to blindside him.

"Sure," he said, with a "Doesn't everybody?" look.

"What are you going to college for?"

"I don't know. My mother says if I learn anything, it will be good. You can always use what you learn, that's what she said."

"But she doesn't care what?"

"I don't think so. She never said."

"What does your mother do now?"

"I'm not exactly sure," the kid said. "Something with international finance— that's why she travels so much."

"She travels alone?"

"I…guess so. She never said."

The kid was relaxed, talking. Softened around the edges from all the guidance–counselor questions. I lit a smoke, blew a stream at the ceiling. "Who's Charm?" I asked.

"She's Fancy's sister. Her twin sister, actually, but they don't look alike. She…" He gave me a puzzled look. "How do you know about her? Was she here?"

"No. There was a phone call for her. Last night. On this," I said, getting up and bringing the cellular phone back from the closet.

"That's one of Mother's phones," he said, recognizing it.

"One of them?"

"Yeah, she has a whole bunch. She gives them to people who work for her on jobs. So she can reach out for them anytime she wants. They have special batteries and all."

"Does Charm work for your mother?"

"Charm? No. What would she do for her?"

"I don't know. What about Fancy?"

"Her either. I mean, they don't really work, either of them. Charm rides, and Fancy has her plants."

"Rides?"

"Horses. Like in shows. She jumps them too. I think she was supposed to be in the Olympics, but she hurt herself last year."

I opened the cellular phone— there was no number on it. "Do you know the number for this phone?" I asked him.

"Let me see it."

I handed it over. He turned it so he could see the back. "Yeah, this is hers, for sure. See?"

On the back was the number 4, stenciled on in white paint. "She left a list somewhere around here," he said. "Let me think for a minute."

He got up, went into the living room. I could hear him opening drawers in the antique desk, rummaging around. He came back with a piece of paper in his hand, gave it to me. It was a list. Next to number 4 there was a local phone number. "Let's try it," I told the kid, handing the phone to him. I walked over to the wall phone, punched in the number from the list. The cellular phone buzzed. The kid opened it up, said "Hello." I could hear him through the receiver.

"Bingo," I told him. "Do you know where she keeps any of the others ?"

"Well, I guess some people have them with them. But maybe there's another one or two around. How come?"

"Well, if we each had one, we could keep in touch while we're working."

"Working?"

"Yeah, Randy, working. You and me."

The kid flashed me a shy smile, as if he liked the idea.

While the kid was getting dressed, I walked out to the mailboxes again. This time, the newspaper was there. I carried it back inside to the kitchen table. Some local rag, a real good–news special. The local Little Theatre was doing Guys and Dolls, there was a big dressage event— whatever that was— coming next weekend. Somebody's kid won a scholarship. Another was spending the summer in Europe on a museum tour. Mr. and Mrs. Whoever announced the engagement of their daughter to Somebody's Son. A section of some road was going to be regraded. A bunch of ads for car restorers and restaurants— no personals. Most of the paper was about real estate, some of it with pictures. Not a word about suicide.

The kid came downstairs, wearing jeans and an oversized Rugby shirt. He was holding another one of the cellular phones in his hand.

"I found this upstairs. It's number seven— we can check the list."

"Okay," I told him. "Now here's the deal. The phone rings, you answer it. If it's me, fine. Anyone else, just tell them it's a wrong number. You get an immediate callback, just let it ring. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Okay. Now you said the other suicides were in the paper, right? This paper?" I asked, holding up the one I'd taken from the mailbox.

"No," he laughed. "Fat chance. The Bridgeport papers, I meant."

"They deliver here?"

"No, but we can buy one in town. They sell all the papers there."

We took the Lexus— it was as anonymous there as my Plymouth was in the city. It drove so silky I couldn't tell how smooth the roads were.

"What happened after the first time?" I asked him. "When the first kids died, didn't the town put something together? Counseling, whatever?"

"Yeah, down at the high school. They got everyone together. And they had counselors come in from someplace. You could talk to them if you wanted."

"Did you do that?"

"No, I was out of school by then. I know they had a big meeting, the parents. With a psychologist. He, like, answered their questions and all."

"A psychologist from the school?"

"No, from Crystal Cove. They have a lot of experience with that stuff."

"You go to that one?"

"No, I told you, it was really for the parents."

"Did your mother go?"

"I guess so. She told me it happens a lot, suicide. She said the important thing was, if I had anything I ever wanted to tell her, I could do it. Not to keep secrets, they eat at you."

"You think those kids had secrets?"

"Everybody has secrets," he said.

The paper we bought in town had the girl's name. Her parents names too. They played it like tragedy, not crime. Apparently they held back the news a couple of days…maybe the cops didn't want it released? The paper interviewed this Dr. Jubal Barrymore, from Crystal Cove. Gave a phone number for him, in case anyone wanted to know more about the subject of teen suicide.

"Was this the guy?" I asked the kid, pointing at the doctor's name in the paper.

"I don't remember," he shrugged. But his face was guilty.

"Is the library open in the summer?" I asked the kid.

"Library?"

"The town library…I want to see if they have back issues of this paper on file."

"I guess so," he replied.

At least he knew where to find it. We parked and went inside. It was fuller than I expected, mostly women jockeying for position in front of the shelves that held the Seven Day books. The librarian was a woman in her late forties, with graying hair and a prominent nose. She got up as we approached her desk, standing over me by a good four inches.

"Do you keep back issues of the Bulletin on file?" I asked her politely.

"We have eighteen months only. We rotate the stock. There's no microfiche. But we do have the Times all the way back," she added hopefully.

"It's the Bulletin we need," I told her.

"Is there something you're looking for in particular?" she asked.

"It's a research project," I told her. "Real estate."

"Oh I see." She led us over to the reference room, showed us a few dozen issues suspended on wooden racks. "The rest are in the back. Do you know which dates?"

"We need to go back about seven months," I told her.

"Well, that would be a pretty heavy stack," she said doubtfully.

"I'll carry them out," the kid said.

She flashed him a smile as I nodded approval. They went into the back room as I sat down and started to work.

The kid was a help. He knew the names, cruised through the back issues looking for the suicide stories. It took less than two hours and we had everything the papers had printed. With the parents' names, it was easy enough to get the addresses from the bank of local phone books the library had.

"Did you find what you wanted?" the librarian asked.

"Pretty much," I told her.

"You can just leave the papers on the table," she said. "I'll have one of the— "

"I'll put them back," the kid said, earning another smile.

Driving back, I heard the chirp of a phone. I pulled the cellular out of my pocket. Nothing. The phone sounded again. The kid laughed, reached over and popped the console open, pulling out a car phone.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver. I couldn't hear the person on the other end.

"It's Randy."

…

"I just felt like driving her car," he said, an edge to his voice. "What's it to you?"

…

"He's around somewhere," the kid said, glancing over at me. "I don't know. How come you— ?"

…

"Okay, I'll tell him. So long."

He replaced the car phone, looked over at me.

"That was Fancy," he said. "She wanted to know if you were still working…being the caretaker."

"How come you didn't tell her I was right here?"

"I don't know. I just thought…"

"You thought right," I said.

The kid nodded gravely, a slight flush on his face. Embarrassed that he'd done something right. "She said to tell you to call her."