False Allegations

FALSE ALLEGATIONS

"I have to do it the same way every time," the woman said, her voice full and steady even though she was deep into her workout on a stationary bike. She was wearing a set of dull–gray sweats with matching head and wrist bands of the same material, her face glistening under a healthy sheen of sweat.

"How long does it last?" I asked her.

"The whole performance is about fifteen minutes," she said. "I don't know how much of it he watches."

"And you're sure he—?"

"Yes! He's nailed to it. A bloody junkie he is, I tell you—he doesn't get his fix, he'll go mad." The woman stopped pedaling. She climbed off the bike, pulling the gray sweatshirt over her head in one smooth motion, leaving her torso bare. She was as relaxed about it as someone who did it for a living. "Let me take a shower," she said, "I'll only be a minute."

I leaned back in the red leather recliner, turning it slightly so I could see down the hall where she had disappeared. I slitted my eyes, breathing shallow through my nose, slowing my clock, dialing my mind to wait–state—I know what "Give me a minute" means in girl–speak.

Like most things I think I know about women, I was wrong again. In less than five minutes, I caught a blur out of the corner of my eye—she was padding up the beige–carpeted corridor toward the living room, not making a sound. When she spotted me in the chair, she flashed a smile.

The only thing she was wearing was lipstick. She had a fluffy pink towel in one hand, patting herself absently with it as she made a full circuit of the living room, her eyes flicking from the bookshelves to the complicated–looking stereo to a solid rectangular platform no higher than a coffee table but much bigger. The platform was covered in light–blue leather, about the size of a pool table, seamless and smooth. It stood in a niche a couple of feet back from a huge window, which was completely covered by a panel of brass mini–blinds.

"That's where I have to do it," she said, pointing to the platform.

"How could he—?"

"They're adjustable," she cut in. "With this…," showing me something that looked like a TV remote.

I held out my hand for it, but she pulled it away. "I'm not allowed to open the blinds until he calls," she said. "It wouldn't do for you to push the wrong button."

I let that one pass.

"Sometimes he wants the blinds open," she said. "Sometimes he wants them all the way up. If he wants it at night, I have these…. Look!" She hit a button on the remote and a trio of baby spots popped into life on the ceiling, each beam trained at a different part of the blue leather platform.

"What makes you think he—?"

A telephone trilled in another room. She held up a hand for silence, head cocked to listen.

Another ring.

Another.

Nothing more. I counted to ten in my head. She pushed both palms at me in a "Stay there!" gesture, then she turned and ran out of the room.

She was back in a flash, wearing a red camisole with matching tap pants and spike heels, a white makeup case in one hand. She quickly crossed over to the blue leather platform and sat down, facing me. She put the makeup case on the floor, popped the locks, and opened the top. A quick eye–sweep satisfied her that she had what she needed. She pressed a finger to her lips, telling me to be quiet. Then she reached for the remote control and hit one of the buttons.

The mini–blinds slowly opened, angling down—you would have to be on a higher floor to see inside. The baby spots flashed into hot, focused light.

She did the whole performance without once leaving the blue leather platform, almost fifteen minutes to the second, just like she said. Once you got past the high–tech, it was standard–issue Tijuana Teaser, right down to the disappearing sausage act—she put it inside her, worked it back and forth, her face an ice–mask imitation of a woman scaling a steep orgasmic curve. Soon as she faked letting go, she pulled out the sausage, then licked it a few times before she bit off a piece and swallowed. The curtain closed on her lying facedown, spent and exhausted from the performance, her body zebra–striped from the mini–blinds, long chestnut hair crackling with pale sparks from the artificial light.

"I know what I have to do by the number of rings," she said later, a tall iced glass of orange juice in her hand. She'd taken another shower, wrapped herself in a white terry–cloth robe. The mini–blinds were closed.

"How can you tell if—?"

"It's his line, the phone," she anticipated my question. "Only his. He's the only one who ever calls on it. I'm not allowed to use it to make calls either."

"What if you…?"

"There's another phone. Two lines, separate from his. If I'm talking on one of those and I hear his phone, I have to hang up right away."

"But when you go out…"

"I can't just go out, can I?" she snapped.

"I don't know how it works," I said mildly.

She ran both hands through her thick chestnut mane, combing it back off her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I get so cooped up here sometimes I feel like biting my own head off. You can't imagine how…trapped it makes you feel."

"That's okay," I said softly, not telling her that I wouldn't need an imagination. I grew up trapped—and not in some luxo–pad. "Tell me how it works," I urged her, still soft.

"Seventy–two hours," she said. "Three days, that's the key. Once I…finish, I don't have to do it again for seventy–two hours. It could be more—he could wait a long time to call me—he was out of the country once for almost a month—but it's never less, understand?"

"Sure."

"He used me," she said, her voice flat and hard. "He lied. He's a liar. Now he has to pay for it."

"What did he lie about?" I asked, moving my right hand in a sweep–gesture to cover the whole setup.

"Who needs to lie to a whore? Isn't that what you mean?" she faced me, bitter–voiced. "Sure, he pays for…this. But it's his, not mine. His name is on the lease. Everything's in his name, even the bloody electricity."

"He lied about that?"

"No," she said, her voice a hard sneer against my muted sarcasm. "What he lied about was love."

"Okay if I smoke?" I asked her.

She looked up in surprise. "Why would you ask? You see the damn ashtray right there, don't you?"

"You don't smoke, right?"

"No, I don't."

"So if he was over here, he could smell smoke…He'd know you had company."

Her laugh was a sad, dry thing. "Fat chance. He never comes here. Never."

"So how do you…?"

"It's an electronic affair, luv," she said. "Very Nineties, isn't it? I've got a PC in one of the bedrooms in the back. He pays my bills over a modem—anytime I want to see my balance, I can just call it up on the screen. Anything else you want to know?"

"Yeah," I said. "What kind of name is Bondi?"

A quick smile played around her lips. "It's from Bondi Beach. Right near Sydney. In Australia, where I'm from. My mom always said I was conceived on that beach, so she gave me that name. She was a young girl then, working square, before she went on the bash. All she could tell me about my dad is that he was a soldier. On leave he was. He left my mom something, all right."

"Tell me about the lie," I said. "The lie about love."

"Oh smoke your cigarette, then," she replied, a faint trace of the smile still playing on her lips. "I'll even get you a beer if you want, how's that?"

"I'm okay," I said, settling back in the chair again. "Tell me."

She got up, came over to where I was sitting. "That one's built for two," she said. "Move over." I slid as far as I could to the left. She plopped down next to me…a tight squeeze. I pulled my right arm out from between us. She nestled into my chest. I draped my arm over her shoulders. She reached across her body with her left hand, grabbed my right hand and pulled it down, the way you'd pull a blanket over your shoulders. "Give us a puff, then," she said, "I haven't smoked in years, but I remember how good it used to taste."

I held out the cigarette. She moved her mouth into it, took a quick, short hit. She exhaled powerfully, making a satisfied sound, closed her eyes, snuggled even closer.

A few minutes passed quiet like that. I was going to remind her of the question again when she started talking in a young girl's voice, the one they use for secret–telling.

"I was a dancer when he met me. Before that, I was a party girl. You understand what that is?"

"Yeah. You don't give your friendship to just anyone…but when you do, it costs a bit to maintain it."

"Un huh. That's about right. Anyway, he met me in a club. Where I was dancing. He was a real gentleman. Left me his card, asked if he could call me sometime. We had a few dates. Very, very, nice. Fine restaurants, a limo, flowers. You know how it goes. We got…close. But there was never any sex. I figured, maybe he was afraid of scaring me off. But, one night, he told me. Told me that he loved me.

"I thought he wanted me for a beard. You know, that he was gay and he needed some cover when he went out. But that wasn't it. He's…impotent, I guess. But not completely. I didn't really follow it all that well, but, what he's got, he can get aroused but he can't…" Her voice trailed off, as though she was expecting me to cut in.

I didn't. Another couple of minutes went by like that. She squirmed against me, as if she was seeking a more comfortable position. I moved as best I could in the squeezed spot, trying to help.

"He said he had a fantasy. A fantasy about me. That I would get so excited just thinking about him that I'd…well, what you just saw…before. Do that. He said he loved me. He knew how much I was…earning. At the club where I danced. He said he didn't want to insult me, but…he could pay me just as much. A salary, like. And if I would…do that, what you saw…for him, whenever he wanted, then he would get stronger. You know what I mean. And, maybe, someday, we could be together. Like for real, together."

"I still don't see the lie," I told her.

"I haven't seen him since. Not once. It's all…like I said. Just that. He never even calls me on the phone. Not to speak to, anyway. I was…sad about it, I guess, but then a girlfriend of mine…from the old club…she heard about it. And she told me."

"Told you what?"

"He lets other people see it," she said, a catch in her voice. "He lets them bloody watch. That's why I let you…before. I never would have let anybody see it. But…you know what he does? He invites friends over to his apartment. Like to play cards or whatever. And then he calls me. And I put on a show. Not for him. Not for love. For anyone who's in his apartment. He doesn't tell them he knows me—he just tells them there's this really randy girl who lives in the building across the way. A real bitch–in–heat slut, he tells them. Gets so flaming hot she does it to herself."

I thought she was going to cry then, but she nipped a jagged chunk of air and kept it down until she was calm.

"Tell me what you want," I said.

"I'll be right back," she said, sliding the freshly loaded condom off me in one smooth move. I heard noises from the bathroom but I kept my eyes closed.

I felt the bed react as she climbed back on. "Want another drag?" I asked, not opening my eyes.

"No," she said, "one's my limit."

"You're sure about the money?"

"Dead sure, honey," she said. "And it's cake too, I promise you—I've got it all worked out. I don't know if he even lives there, but he has to be there when I…do it. Soon as he calls, I can call you. It'd only take a second—he'd never know. I've got the key to the apartment—you could walk right in. Right in the middle of me…doing it. He'd never know what hit him."

"He might not be alone, right? You said—"

"I know the doorman. Bert, his name is. He's an Aussie too. I met him when I was still doing…you know. Anyway, I take care of Bert. He can always count on me for something, even though I never go to that place anymore. You know, the place where I danced? I tested him. Bert, that is. Twice now. I use this," she said, crawling over my chest to reach into a nightstand next to the bed. She held up a cellular phone. "See? It's perfect. I told Bert I wanted to surprise Morton—that's his name, Morton. So I ask Bert, when Mr. Morton comes in, would he give me a call? When he comes in alone, I say to Bert, giving him a wink, you know? And Bert did it. Twice. I gave him a hundred the next day. Both times. A hundred dollars, a wink, a little bit of hip…that's all it cost."

"So you want…?"

"He doesn't know I have this," she said, holding up the cellular phone again. "Bert can call me while he's still in the elevator. So we know he's alone. Then, when he calls me, when he wants his damn performance…that's when I call you. He's got a safe in there. In the living room. Behind a painting—can you imagine? He showed it to me once, early on."

"You know the combination?"

"No, of course not. He wouldn't trust me with something like that. But you can…make him tell you, can't you? It wouldn't take that long, believe me. He's such a weak man.…"

"Fifty–fifty split?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said. "I'm going to have to leave as soon as it's done anyway. It won't take me an hour to pack—it's not like I ever needed a lot of clothes for him, right? He could never prove it was me, but…"

"So how do you collect your half?"

"You can mail it to me. At my girlfriend's place in the Village. He doesn't know about her. When we get the money, Sybil and me, we're going to take off. Rent a car, load up everything we can stuff into suitcases, drive right to the airport. It's a quick flight to L.A., then a nice jump over the water to home."

"What if the safe's empty?"

"I guarantee it won't be, honey. Believe me, this is a rich flower, just begging to be plucked, I tell you true. What do you say, then?"

"Let's do it," I said.

She threw me a mega–watt smile, turned her back, wiggled her butt gently as she rooted through the nightstand drawer for another condom.

"She's got the key, huh?" Michelle's voice, her creamy–silk trademark, the voice that made her a ton of green on the phone–sex circuit. She was perched on the edge of my desk, just past where I had my feet propped up on the battered surface. I was tilted so far back that all I could see was her flashy legs if I looked straight ahead.

"Sure does," I told her.

"And she wants you to go in when the guy's home?"

"Yeah."

"So you can make him open the safe?" she asked, a barely suppressed giggle in her voice.

"Un huh."

"And she's going to split the take with you fifty–fifty—?"

"Right again," I interrupted.

"And trust you to mail her share to her?" she asked, losing the fight to keep the laughter down.

"Yes."

"Oh baby, I don't mean to sound nasty, but…could she really think you were all that stupid?"

"No, I don't scan it that way. She's had a lot of experience. With men. Listening to them, sizing them up. That's the way she made her living, not just dancing. Her story's so bogus…it's like an open invitation to double–cross her."

"What…not give her an even split?" Michelle sneered.

"The best suckers are half–smart," I said. "I think that's the way she has me played. Let's say I believe some of her story—what do I do then?"

"Use the key when the voyeur isn't home," Michelle replied. "Duh–uh!"

"Yeah. Go in with my own safe man, pop the thing, and walk away with the cash. Only…"

"Only they'll have you on tape doing it. Or they'll walk in when you're red–handed. Or there's a dead body in the bedroom. Or…whatever."

"Sure," I said quietly. I interlaced my fingers behind my head, closing my eyes.

I went so quiet I could hear Michelle breathing, hear the faint rasp of her nylons when she shifted her position slightly.

Time passed. "You aren't any different," I said. "Even Pansy didn't notice anything."

"That mutant mutt of yours wouldn't notice Godzilla so long as the lizard left her Alpo alone," Michelle mock–snarled. "She's not exactly Rin Tin Tin."

I flicked my eyes open, shifted them to the left where Pansy reclined on the couch. Pansy's a Neapolitan mastiff. Long past the svelte hundred and thirty pounds she'd been when she was young, she tips the scales nearer to one sixty now. Sure, nobody'd confuse her with a genius—but Pansy would die for me as casually as she'd scarf down a quart of honey–vanilla ice cream, her personal favorite. And whatever she bites, God forgets.

"Don't mind her," I told Pansy. "Michelle gets cranky when she hasn't been shopping for a few days…you know how she is."

"I'll tell you what I won't be shopping for any more, baby," she said. "I'm done with all that."

"It really…worked?"

"Oh don't be so squeamish!" Michelle snapped. "Yes, it 'worked,' okay? Funny, all my young life, I thought it would be Denmark for me. And it turns out to be Colorado instead."

Michelle was a transsexual—a woman trapped in a man's body, she always called it. She wasn't the freak in her family—her scumbag bio–father filled that slot. So she ran. Ran down. First to the streets, then lower, always dropping deeper, fire–walking until she plateaued on pain. Once she got there, she did whatever it took to stay. It was dangerous as a subway tunnel full of psychopaths down there. And Michelle was scared all the time. But she was too high–instinct to touch any of the temporary tranqs—she saw what happened to the kids who go numb to escape the pain. So she spent every night surviving and every day crying.

I'd known her forever. She was my sister and I loved her, but I'd been hearing about the sex–change operation so long I'd stopped listening. Michelle would take it just so far…then some excuse would come up. She had to detox from the black market estrogen she'd been using. Or the doctors had to remove the cheesy implants from her chest first. Or the electrolysis destroyed the outer epidermis of her face so they couldn't risk surgery. Always something.

But this last time, she got it done. I went down into the Zero chasing ghosts—Michelle went over the wall. When we both got back, I was me, and she was herself. For me, it was a return. For Michelle, it was the first time.

The real difference was: Michelle liked what she was.

"I'm walking it backwards," I told her, getting down to business. "But I can't see who's calling the shots."

"I got it from Harry," Michelle said. "He's never burned us."

"Harry the painter?"

"No, Harry the CPA. You know, one of my old customers from…before."

"Yeah. He profiles, right?"

"Yes, he will front a bit, baby—lots of men do that, yes? So he wants to tell the girls he knows a guy who knows a guy who…like that. So what? Harry's a sweetheart, Burke. He goes out, buys a monster stereo, pays retail, okay? Then he gives it to a girl, she says 'thanks.' So Harry asks me—I mean, when it comes to l'amour, what poor fool would not ask the Queen of Hearts?—why does he get treated so mean? Well, honey, I told him the truth. You give a spoiled little bitch an expensive present, she'll just trail that mink on the floor, you understand? But you give her something nice, and you tell her you got it dirt cheap, baby…'cause you know guys, guys in the know, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I told her, telling the truth. She had the voice of the wiseguy wannabe down perfect. Michelle has a four–octave range—anything you want, from sandpaper to velvet. She has the purest heart of anyone I know, but she was born to steal. That proved she was my sister better than any DNA test could.

"Oh, believe it, sugar," she told me. "You give a girl a diamond, she'll be nice, but she'll have to fake it. You give her the same rock, tell her it was part of a jewelry heist, she gets her panties wet before she can get her dress off. Harry, he met this 'Bondi' in a strip bar. There's Harry, flashing his pinky ring, playing Moe Green, you know? So she tells him, she needs something done. And Harry tells her, sure, he can handle that. Let him talk to a few of the boys…

"Now, as we both know, I'm the only 'boys' he knows," Michelle smirked. "But that's okay—we played his tips before. And we did okay, didn't we?"

"Sure, but—"

"So you went to see her," Michelle interrupted, "and it came up zircons. But you can't be the target, honey. I mean, no way this Bondi bitch knows about you. Especially about you and me—how many people know that?"

"She lied, Michelle. There's a game in this somewhere, and—"

"I know," she put in. "The way I see it, maybe she does hate this guy—the guy in the building across from her. I mean, I'd hate him if he was doing that to me. Or maybe she's gonna Pearl Harbor you both. Who knows? It's a pass, period."

"Right."

"You're not even curious?" she asked, dropping her voice a notch.

"About what?"

"Who's got you on their list?"

"That list is too fucking long," I told her, closing my eyes again.

I wasn't lying to Michelle. Chasing down clues is fine for books, but that doesn't work in real life. Down here, they solve the mysteries with autopsies.

I don't have a problem with curiosity. I learned everything about why people did things when I was just a little kid—they do things because they want to do them, because they like doing them. Some of those things hurt, a deep hurt you keep with you way after the scars fade. And the more I got hurt, the less curious I got.

I kept that hurt down, deep as I could bury it. But like the toxic waste it was, it bubbled to the surface once in a while.

People died then.

I could think of a dozen reasons why Bondi could have wanted me to go into that man's apartment, and every one gave me another reason not to do it. I could sell the job to a pro heister, but I never worked as a finger. There's too many ways to get cheated on your piece of the pie, too many ways your name comes up if the thief goes down.

"Don't take the call if you can't take the fall," the Prof always says. Prof stands for Professor and it stands for Prophet—you had to listen close each time to tell which role he was playing. That was a long time ago, standing on the prison yard, me listening, using the time instead of trying to kill it. Like the Prof said.

Could be I wasn't the target at all—accidents happen. Homicide happens too. Last time a woman thought I was the right man for the job, I almost got myself dead. Belinda. Belinda the cop. So patient, so careful, she almost got it done. Got herself done instead. That happens too—you grab the wrong end of the knife, you get cut.

I'm real careful about things like that. I walk the cautious convict's string–straight walk, trying to be a blot in the darkness. I learned it in the juvenile joints, always keep my back against something solid. It wasn't until I got to prison that I learned people could be solid too. Then I spent a lot of years learning which ones.

I always take my half out of the middle. Looking up from ground zero, the tops of the city buildings lean so close together they almost seem to touch—a nice canopy to lurk under if you stay down. But if you stick your head up, the canopy can turn into a crossfire real quick.

For the next few days, I worked at keeping my head down—minding my own business even if someone else was too. Frankie was going in a ten–rounder down at Atlantic City, but I couldn't make myself interested. We still had a piece of his action, but we didn't expect to see any coin for years, even if Ristone's plans worked out and he could finesse the kid into a title fight. Besides, it was another setup, Frankie fighting some tomato can off the canvasback circuit, padding his record, waiting his turn. Before we sold his contract, the Prof had been bringing Frankie along the right way: each fight a little harder than the last one, learning as he moved up, getting ring–wise. The Prof knew Frankie couldn't keep winning just by being tougher than the next guy—the prisons are full of tough guys.

But now Frankie was off that track, running parallel to a bunch of other young guys, all with their eyes on the same prize. They wouldn't get together until much further down the line. Frankie would make it happen then…if Ristone didn't decide there was more cash to be made from tossing him in the tank.

We knew what the deal was when we took it, and nobody was bitching. But Frankie wasn't proud of it anymore. The money was coming, but the jolt was gone. We promised him we'd be ringside when he got his shot—until then, we only saw him when he dropped by Mama's. Even though we didn't hold his contract anymore, he was still with us. He'd earned his way in the same way we all did. In the same places too.

So I was working at letting it go, but nobody was around to do it with. I headed over to Mama's. The white dragon tapestry was in the window—all clear. I docked my old Plymouth in the alley behind the restaurant, just underneath the pristine square of white paint that held Max's chop in black calligraphy—newly painted, the lines not as precise as usual. Flower's hand. Max's baby, a little girl now, growing up. But it said the same: Stay Away. And even the empty–eyed Chinatown gunslingers didn't cross that border.

The flat–faced steel door opened before I could rap. I didn't recognize the thickset young Chinese who let me in, but he knew me. One of Mama's new boys. I could see from the way he held the meat cleaver in his left hand that he was a real expert. And no cook.

I walked through the kitchen and took my booth in the back. Mama started toward me from her post by the cash register at the front at the same time a guy in a waiter's jacket moved out of the kitchen carrying a tureen of hot–and–sour soup. They arrived together. Mama ladled me a small bowl, prepared one for herself and sat down across from me.

"So?"

"I'm just hanging out, Mama. Nothing going on."

"Not working?"

Not stealing, she meant. "No," I told her. "I thought maybe Max'd be around and I'd give him a chance to get some of his money back."

"Max working," she said, a faint trace of disapproval in her soft voice. "No time to play cards."

Max is a courier. Gems, microchips, a tightly rolled rice–paper message…anything you don't want to put in the mail. Small packages only—Max had to have his hands free. And his feet. If he took your money, your stuff was as good as delivered. His life was the bond, and he posted it every time he carried a package. Everybody down here knows his word is sacred, even though he can't speak.

And that's not why they call him Max the Silent.

"He'll be back soon?" I asked.

I got an eloquent shrug in response. That and another helping of soup.

"Any calls?" I asked her.

"No calls. Very quiet. You not going to work?"

"Not for a while," I shook my head. I was kind of between professions. When I was younger, I was a cowboy, never thinking beyond cash registers and guns. I shot a man when I was just a kid. Because he scared me. I never lost that last part, but I got smarter as I got older. Probably because I didn't get dead first.

And because I met the Prof in prison and got schooled. I'll never forget the first time I saw him, watching from a distance as he faced a black man half his age and twice his size. I don't remember what the dispute was about, but I know the big guy was holding a shank and calling the Prof's name. The Prof stood his ground, capturing the other man's eyes, cutting right to it:

"Kill me? Kill me? You can't kill me, boy—I've been dead forever. Get wise to the lies—I'm a ghoul, fool. A spellbound hell–hound. I was here before you. I am a Black Man. I was here first. First on this earth. You can put me in the ground, but I'll always be around.

"You so dumb you be a slave to the grave, boy. The Man turn the key, you still won't be free.

"Here's a true clue, boy. Some news you can use. Me, I'm the Man. I'm the only one can shorten your sentence. How much you doing, boy? How much time you got? Oh, got it all, huh? Got took by the book. Doing life. Want me to shorten that? Come on with it, then!"

And as the Prof held the crowd at bay with the hellfire of his preaching, I saw a pair of the homicidal children he was constantly fathering behind the Walls move in from the wings, eyes on the big man, hands concealed under loose jackets. By the time the big man figured it out, he was where he said he was going to send the Prof.

Nobody saw anything.

When the investigation was done, they blamed it on the serial killer who haunts every max joint in America: Person or Persons Unknown.

I never took my eyes off the perimeter again. When I hit the bricks after that stretch, I shifted into hijacking. Stole a load of heroin from the mob and tried to sell it back to them. Got dimed instead, and ended up in a subway tunnel holding the cops at bay with a pulled–pin grenade in my hand, waiting for Max and the Prof and the Mole to make it out the other end.

Back to prison. I knew how to jail by then. I had a name. I had people on the outside. And I never called another man's name. Not out loud.

Prison wasn't so bad that time. Bad enough that I wasn't going back, though. I put away the guns then. No burglaries either. Dope's too risky. I came from the same place as the hookers did, so I didn't want to be a pimp. Never minded doing some work on one, though, and I had a little business built up doing that until I shot one of them and he lived. I wasn't trying to wound him, and I guess he knew it, so he ran straight to the Law. A mobbed–up guy got me a pass on that one, and I paid him back by looking into something for him.

Turned out I was good at it: nosing around, working the edges of the angles, finding things out, keeping my mouth shut.

Then I discovered the freaks. Not "discovered," I guess—they were the ones who raised me. Them and the fucking State. I hate them both. All of us do. Children of the Secret, that's who we are. If we ever voted as a bloc, we'd elect the whole stinking Congress.

And if you ever put our hate together, this earth would shudder and spasm until it shattered like a spun–glass teardrop under a sledgehammer.

Baby–rapers. "Pedophiles" they call themselves now. Like it was a religion. They fuck their own children and call it love. Stalk other people's children too. Fondle them, sodomize them, torture them. For fun. Freaks love their fun. Sometimes they take pictures of it. They hang around the playgrounds and the daycare centers. Get jobs in schools and orphanages. Volunteer as coaches or counselors. They lurk on the Internet. Marry women with children. Trade their Polaroid trophies like they were baseball cards. Fly to Thailand and rent children. They kidnap babies and raise them to be them. They make snuff films to order. Send kiddie porn over modems—you download to your laser printer and there's the sample. They bribe politicians. Lobby for changes in the law. They leave broken bleeding souls everywhere they walk. And when they get caught, they say they're sick and demand treatment.

I love that last part, treatment. They take some sex–snatcher and raise his self–esteem, teach him how to talk soft and walk careful. So when he gets out, he has the social skills to slide up real close to his victims before he strikes. Like putting a silencer on a rattlesnake's tail.

But the freaks are always easy. Real easy. I sell them promises. And it's not just their money I collect.

Oh, I do other stings too. I work as a mercenary recruiter, do S&M and B&D intros, traffic in credit cards, move counterfeit—only bearer bonds and certificates, never cash. And I sell guns.

And if I get paid, I find things out. Sometimes, I find kids. Mostly, I find what's left of them.

So I guess I'm an investigator. But I don't have a license. I don't have an address. I don't even have a name. I gave all that up, whatever it was. I live in a loft building, on a small piece of the top floor that doesn't appear on the building charts. The landlord knows I'm there. I know things about him too. I don't pay rent.

I don't have a phone, just a line connected to the trust–fund hippies who don't know they have an upstairs neighbor. I can make calls—real early in the morning while they're still sleeping off last night's soft dope and stupid music—but nobody can call me there. Anyone who wants me, there's a number to call. It rings over in Brooklyn, gets bounced a couple of times until it ends up at the last pay phone in the bank of three on the back wall next to Mama's kitchen. She takes messages.

Mama gets my mail too. Over at one of her joints in Jersey. A driver picks it up every couple of weeks, drops it at the warehouse where Max lives with his woman Immaculata and their little girl. He has his dojo upstairs, but he doesn't teach anymore.

Unless you're stupid enough to try him in the street. And nobody ever comes back for a second lesson.

I own a small junk yard in the Bronx, but I'm not on the papers. The guy who's listed as the owner, he pays me a salary, like I work there. Pays Juan Rodriguez, actually. That's me, the name I use. Juan pays taxes, all that stuff. Even has a Social Security number. IRS wants to know how I survive, I got a story for them.

I live small. I have no real expenses. I can go a long time between scores. And I have. But I never put away enough to retire.

Mama came from the same place as the Prof. Different parts of the world, maybe, but the same place. That's why she raised her eyebrows when I said I wasn't working. Arguing with her was like waiting for Congress to vote itself a pay cut, so I told her I was going to check out some stuff and took off.

I found a pay phone in the street. The air had a sharp edge of cold coming on, but the sun was strong and I didn't mind standing out there for a while. I ran through the loops, looking for the Prof. Came up empty. What the hell, I decided to roll down to Boot's, see if he had any new Judy Henske tapes.

"Boot" is short for bootlegger. That's what he does, mostly from live performances, but he also steals from archives, vacuums off the radio, whatever. I heard he found a way to slip a recorder into the Library of Congress—I don't know if that part's true.

He runs a shop in the basement of a narrow building in the West Village, a couple of blocks off Houston. Boot deals only in cassette tapes: no 45s, no CDs, no 8–tracks. Whatever you want, he'll find it and put it on tape, but that's the whole deal. You can order a mix from him too, but he won't label it or break it down. Only way to crack the code is bring it back to him and play it on one of his machines. Then he'll tell you whatever you want to know. That's how I found a sweet, controlled harp version of "Trouble in Mind" by Big Walter Horton. And a different, much rougher take on Paul Butterfield's trademark "Born in Chicago." Not a studio edition, you could tell Mike Bloomfield wasn't there that night. Boot doesn't do Top 40, and he thinks rap should be against the law. But he's got the biggest collection of blues and doo–wop on the planet, so he pulls a wide crowd—anytime you visit his joint, you can find Army Surplus side–by–side with Armani.

There's no headphones—everything sounds like it was coming out of a radio speaker in the fifties.

I hit the long shot. The Prof was there, standing on a milk crate, treating a half–dozen guys and one Swedish–looking girl in floor–to–ceiling black to one of his lectures, holding forth like he used to do on the prison yard. He acknowledged me with a quick, sharp movement of his head. I got the message—he was having fun, not working.

"Hey Boot!" he yelled. "Here's Schoolboy. You know what my man wants, right?"

"I got a new one," Boot said, looking out from under the green eyeshade he always wears. "Live. From Dupree's, in San Diego. Not even a month old."

"How many cuts?" I asked him.

"A full cylinder," he said. "Six beauties. Clear like you was right there too."

"Boot," the Prof put in, a teasing tone to his rich voice, "you get many calls for that Henske broad?"

"Yeah, we get lotsa calls," Boot said, jumping to my defense. "She got many fans, man, all over the world. They call her Magic Judy. That's why it's only a half for the tape."

"Half" was half a yard, fifty bucks. The usual tariff for one of Boot's tapes was a hundred—you got a discount if the artist was popular enough to justify him running off a decent number of copies. I handed over the money, declining the offer to listen to it first. I knew Boot's stuff was always perfect. Besides, I only listen to Judy when I'm alone—what we've got, it's just between me and her.

"Do you have a No Smoking section?" a guy in a denim shirt asked, frowning at the Prof lighting up.

"Yeah," Boot told him. "It's right out front. Under the lamppost."

I stayed there a couple of hours, just listening. To the music and to the Prof getting it on with anyone who wanted to try him. Nice to be in a place where you could play the dozens without it ending up in blood.

A young guy with a Jewish Afro and granny glasses got into it about who was the strongest bass in all doo–wop. "Herman?" the Prof mocked. "Man, Herman didn't have no bottom. Herman's bass was Mosley's falsetto, chump!"

The music took over. The Mystics blending on "You're Driving Me Crazy," Son Seals wailing his pain about the loss of his spot–labor job, the Coasters with Doc Pomus' immortal "Young Blood," a crew calling themselves the Magic Touch doing all a capella stuff from the fifties, a nice soft blend. Charley Musselwhite's "Early in the Morning," Ronnie Hawkins and the Nighthawks with "Mary Lou," Koko B. Taylor, Marcia Ball, Elmore James, Janis, Big Mama…

Boot didn't just hold yesterday's treasures, he carried tomorrow's crop too. A back–country hard–edged band with a lead singer who knew all about pain pounded over the speakers. "That's Paw," a busty young woman in a white T–shirt with "DON'T! BUY! THAI!" blazed across the front in red letters said to me. "Mark Hennessy's singing. Don't you think he's amazing? That's where I got this shirt—at one of his concerts."

I nodded my head in agreement with whatever the hell she was saying, watching her chest hyper–pneumatize the "DON'T! BUY! THAI!" message every time she took a breath. Somebody called her name and she turned in that direction. On the back of her T–shirt, in the same red letters, it said "ASK ME WHY!" I was planning to do just that when a ska–blues singer I didn't recognize came on, singing about someone named Ghost, a Badger Game man tracking a woman he called Shella. "Who's that?" I asked Boot.

"Kid named Bazza," Boot said. Works with a crew called the Portland Robins. "I pirated it off Miss Roberta's show in Seattle. Pretty fine, huh?"

"Sure is," I said, handing over some cash—the only way you vote in Boot's country.

"If he's any good, he'll be on the charts," a black guy in a khaki jumpsuit and a blue cut–down fez said. "Sooner or later, cream comes to the top."

The guy with the Jewish Afro lunged forward, but the Prof arm–barred him, saying, "Let me have this one, brother," like they'd both been challenged to a bar–fight. "Boot!" the little man commanded in a tone a maestro would use to his orchestra, "put on Number One."

Boot was too reverent to interrupt the Fascinators' version of "Chapel Bells." He waited until the last chord vibrated, then hit some switches and threw the place into silence. He rifled through his shelves, found the tape the Prof wanted, and slammed it into a slot.

"Give me some silence now, people," the Prof commanded.

A high–tension guitar opened it—just a few perfect, fluid notes. A soft, throbbing sax line came up underneath, a tenor with a baritone counterpoint. Then Little Richard walked on. But he wasn't playing this time—no shrieking and shouting: he stood on the Vegas–gospel borderland, a deep blues taproot anchoring him to the ground. Richard used the girl singers' background vocals like a trampoline, peacocking his way through his whole catalog: a pure–sweet lusty tenor, climbing the scale at will, comfortable inside himself only because he had no limits. The recipe was a rich gumbo: chain gang chants, church hallelujah, the gunfighter bars where nothing lasts long. He capped the upper–octave waves with his stylized hiccups, surrounding a talking centerpiece of blood poetry woven around sax riffs and that masterful muted guitar, driving off the black girls' storefront–choir voices, lifted by the organ. Sad enough to make you cry. Beautiful enough to do the same thing.

Ah, maybe the lunatic was right—maybe Elvis did steal it all from him.

The last sounds faded to the stone silence of abject worship. Nobody in that room had ever heard better.

"Now who was that, Solly?" the Prof asked the guy with the Jewish Afro, setting up his pitch.

"Little Richard," the guy answered, like he was in school. "I Don't Know What You Got."

"He was alive in Sixty–five, Lord!" the Prof intoned. "Open the door. Tell me more. Who's that on guitar."

"Jimi Hendrix," the young guy said. "Sixteen years old. Before he—"

"It was a big hit?" the Prof asked, setting up his speech.

"No, not really. Made the Top Twenty on the Rhythm and Blues chart, but…"

The Prof turned to his audience. "You all just heard it. The best song ever done. And never made it to Number One. Even if you escape with your life, the shark always leaves his mark. Case fucking closed."

We all bowed our heads, even the black guy in the fez.

"Where's Clarence?" I asked the Prof. We were standing on the curb outside of Boot's joint—the Prof high–fiving a goodbye to Solly, me waiting patiently so I could talk to him alone.

"He'll be along," the Prof said. "What's on your mind, 'home?"

"Weird stuff. A girl. Client, I was told. She made a pitch, but I don't—"

"Danger stranger?" the Prof interrupted.

"That's just it," I said. "I don't know. And I don't know if it's worth a look to find out."

"Run it," the little man said, lighting a smoke.

The Prof listened close the way he always does. The way he taught me to. It only took a few minutes.

"Schoolboy, you know how some fighters, they just wave the right hand at you? Like they loading up, gonna drop the hammer? And all the time it's the left hook that's coming, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Some of them, the real good ones, it's the right hand that's coming. They one step ahead of where you think they gonna be, understand? Sugar Ray—I mean the real Sugar Ray now—he could do that, double–fake quicker'n a snake. Bite you twice as deep too."

"So you mean…"

"Yeah. Whoever's in it—and no way it's just the broad—they got to be smarter than they showing. They got to figure you gonna come looking for answers."

"Only place I can go is back to this Bondi girl."

"The ho' don't know, bro. And a trick can't play it slick."

"Then who?"

"This accountant, right? Michelle's pal?"

"He doesn't know anything about me, Prof."

"You believe that, you might just be as big a chump as that broad's playing you for. You scan the plan, you know he's the man. It don't play no other way."

Michelle was a vision as she walked purposefully past the stanchion with the tasteful lettering saying: ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED. The uniformed guy sitting behind a counter had been watching a propped–up little TV, but he snapped to attention when he heard the click of Michelle's spike heels across the black–and–white tiles. And one look at Michelle was all that he needed—he was skewered. Michelle doesn't do that swing–the–whole–thing, pelvis–out model's walk—she moves like the sorceress she is, with that muted tick–tock that tells you the motor's heavy on horsepower but not every key fits the ignition. I was a step behind, standing just to her right, but far as the uniformed guy was concerned, I wasn't in the lobby at all.

"Can I help you?" he asked her hopefully, his eyes wobbling between Michelle's perfect face and her slashed–silk pink blouse with its little white Peter Pan collar.

"I know you can, honey," she purred at him, red–lacquered talons splayed on the countertop, big azure eyes holding his. Just in case he decided to look anywhere else, she took a deep breath, let it out in a faint shudder.

"Uh…I mean, you wanna see somebody?"

"That's right, handsome. Can you just ring twenty–one G for me?"

"Sure! I mean, who should I say—?"

"My name's Michelle, baby. What's yours?"

"Manny."

"Manny? I know that's not it. That's a nickname, isn't it? What's your real name?"

"Emanuel. It's a family name, like. But I don't—"

"Oh you should," Michelle assured him. "It's a very strong name. Suits you much better than 'Manny,' don't you think?"

"Well…Yeah, I guess I do. But the tenants here, they like—"

"Emanuel is a man's name," Michelle cooed at him. "Maybe you should just save it for grown–ups."

"I…"

"Can you push that button for me, honey? Tell him I'm on my way up?"

"Sure!"

Michelle twirled slowly, then started for the elevator. Old Emanuel's jaw dropped—up to then, he thought he'd been staring at the best part.

We got on the elevator together. But if a cop came around later, Emanuel would swear that it was only Michelle. And he'd be telling the truth.

Michelle disdained the discrete little black button set into the door jamb of 21G, rapping lightly with her knuckles instead. The guy who opened the door was in his late forties, taller than me, with a pale, jowly face and a droopy mustache. His too–black hair was done up in an elaborate comb–over. His eyes had that intense look you see in guys who should be wearing glasses.

"Michelle! I wasn't—"

"Ah, Harry, it isn't like that," Michelle said softly. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Yeah. I mean, sure. Why don't you…"

Michelle slipped past, gently bumping him with a rounded hip, moving him just enough for me to step in. He opened his mouth to say something. I showed him the pistol, asked, "You here by yourself, Harry?"

His face froze. Michelle closed the door behind her, twisting the dead bolt home with a harsh snap.

"What is this?" he asked, face going a shade paler.

"Why don't we all sit down?" I suggested, pointing the pistol at a white leather living room set: sofa, love seat, easy chair with ottoman.

Harry backed toward the easy chair, his eyes everyplace but the pistol. I nodded. He dropped into the chair. I took the love seat. Michelle perched on the arm of the sofa, crossing her spectacular legs. "You want a drink?" she asked Harry.

"Yeah. I'll—"

"Let me do it, honey" she interrupted, getting to her feet and moving off. I didn't watch her go. Neither did Harry.

She was back in a couple of minutes, carrying a little round tray. "Scotch rocks," she announced to Harry, bending forward like a stewardess. "Your usual, right?"

"Thanks," he mumbled, reaching to take the heavy tumbler.

"Vodka and tonic," Michelle said to me. I took the glass, tipped it to my lips. My kind of drink—vodka and tonic, hold the vodka.

Michelle had mixed herself a Green Hornet—gin and crème de menthe—in a highball glass. She held it in her hands, contented herself with licking the moisture off the outside of the rim. Harry watched, forgetting the pistol.

"How well do you know this Bondi girl?" I asked him, breaking the spell.

"I don't. I mean, I just met—"

"And she told you she had a problem? Needed somebody to do something for her?"

"Yeah."

"And you thought, maybe Michelle might know somebody who could get the job done…whatever it was, right?"

"Right."

I reached inside my jacket, took out a tube silencer, held the semi–auto in one hand while I screwed the silencer in with the other.

"Hey!" Harry yelped. "I didn't—"

"Yeah you did," I assured him. "You're lying. I'm not mad at you, Harry, but business is business. I got no time to shove bamboo slivers under your fingernails. No taste for it, either. Whoever's idea it was to come to Michelle, it wasn't yours. You can tell me, and it's over. You tell me and I'm out of here. You don't, this thing goes pop. And then I go and talk to the broad. Your choice."

"That's enough!" he said."

"Whatever you say."

"No! I don't mean it that way. I'm gonna tell you. He said I could tell you…just to see what you'd do first, that's all."

"And…?"

"And you fucking did it, okay? You don't need the piece." He took a deep hit from his Scotch rocks, leaned back. "I'm a gambler," he said. "You'd think I'd know better, what with what I do for a living and all, right? I mean, I know numbers. If there's one thing I know, it's numbers. But you keep feeding the kitty, she gets used to a steady diet. You stop feeding her, she growls—you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah. You're a hard–core gambler, and—"

"Hard–core? Man, I'm a degenerate gambler, a sucker's sucker. I win, I tell myself I'm playing with the track's money. You think I don't know that's bullshit? I mean, you win the money, it's your money. But it ain't your money unless you go home with it. And me, I never go home with it. I got in deep. And then I went deeper."

"Okay, what then? The sharks?"

"Of course the sharks?" he sneered. Not at me, at himself. "What else? And with the vig, I was getting buried alive. So I did some other stuff…helped a couple of clients work bust–out, ran a little laundry, did some structuring—you know what that is?"

"Yeah." Structuring: breaking big cash transactions into bite–size chunks of less than ten grand to slip past the IRS currency reporting laws. Michelle had him pegged—wannabes always love the language.

"I was chasing," Harry said. "You know what that means—no way I was gonna get out of it. I was going on the arm from one shy to pay another. Then I got this foolproof scheme," he laughed acidly. "A fucking horse, what else? An undefeated monster, going into the Meadowlands Pace. Million–dollar purse—no way anyone's gonna tank that one. So I decide, I'm gonna bridge–jump, all right? I empty the tax escrow account. All my clients' money on this horse. Not to win; to show. It'll pay two twenty minimum on a deuce, maybe even two forty, two fifty. Ten, twenty, even twenty–five percent return in less than two minutes—how could you beat that? I figure I'm golden."

He took another deep drink. "That's why they call it bridge–jumping, I guess. The fucking nag breaks stride. They pull him to the outside, get him under control. And then he flies, but he doesn't make it. Misses third by a goddamned neck. And then it's my neck. I'm done.

"I'm afraid to go out. Just sit here, waiting for them to come. But I get a phone call instead. From the guy who holds my markers. He tells me, maybe I can square it. I ask him, who does he want me to kill? He just tells me, just go to this place, see this guy. Me, I figure I'm dead anyway, so I go.

"And I meet this guy. He tells me, all I gotta do is call Michelle, tell her that there's a good score, give her this Bondi's number.

"'That's all?'" I ask him. He says, one more thing. A man's gonna come around, sooner or later. He's gonna ask some questions. I figure you're that guy. Anyway, he says, this guys comes around asking questions, you just give him this…"

He reached into his shirt pocket, came out with what looked like a business card. I walked over to him, still holding the pistol, took the card from his hand. It was slightly oversized, with deep–chiseled copperplate engraving on blue–gray vellum. Just the word

KITE

and a phone number. No area code.

"That's all I know," Harry said. "And it's the truth. Look, I just did what I had to do. You didn't get hurt, right? No hard feelings?"

I looked over at Michelle. She nodded agreement.

I sat there without moving until Harry's eyes finally came around to me. I pointed the pistol at the bridge of his nose. "You don't get a next time," I told him, holding the pose for a silent count of three before I slipped the pistol back into my jacket.

"Whoever he is, he went to a lot of trouble. Spent a lot of cash too," I said. Sitting in my booth at Mama's with my family, looking for a battle plan.

"Harry was telling the truth," Michelle said. "I know him a long time. He doesn't have what it takes to look at a gun and lie. Especially when a man who looks like you is holding it."

"That Bondi broad is strictly gash–for–cash," the Prof put in. "And there's the apartment, that whole setup. Plus he bought up all that fool's markers. And it wasn't to middle you either—he knew you was gonna go see this Harry boy."

"And even before that," I said, "he knew where I was going to be, right? Once I got inside that Bondi's apartment, there was a hundred ways for her to get a signal out. I had no cover—nothing close. He wanted to take me out, nothing to it."

Max nodded, reading my lips and following my hand signals as good as listening. He wouldn't have said anything if he could. Figuring things out wasn't his thing—he needed a target to do his work.

"We got three pieces," I went on. "We got Harry, we got Bondi, and we got this guy's card."

"Harry's dry," Michelle said. "He's Tap City. You could make him talk some more, but he's got nothing more to say. I'm sure of it."

"Nobody die on telephone," Mama said. Meaning why not just call this Kite, whoever he is, see what he wants?

"Bondi's probably in the wind already," I said. "Harry must've called the man, told him he gave me the word."

"Whatever the man wants, it ain't about no chump–change score. Before you book, let's all take a look," the Prof answered, putting it on hold.

Four days later, the cellular phone in my jacket purred. I flipped it open, said "What?" and waited.

"It's all like it was," the Prof's voice came. "The spot's still hot…and the geek's still on the peek." The connection went dead.

Bondi was still living in that high–rise with the blue leather performance–platform. And the watcher was still across the street, a few floors up, ready to look down on what he paid for.

So far, we'd already been through her apartment. Clarence kept watch until she went out, stayed with her until she got a good distance away, and used the cell to signal the team. Michelle drew the doorman outside to look at her pretty little blue BMW coupe—and her prettier little white dress. Maybe the nice man knew who owned the fat Mercedes that had put all those scrape–marks on the BMW's front fender when he pulled out without looking? The nice man didn't know, but he spent a few minutes looking around anyway. More than enough for the Mole to slip into the basement wearing his NYNEX uniform. And for the Prof to get past the apartment locks and go to work, while Max stood by the door just in case.

Me, I made a couple of phone calls. One to a reporter named Hauser, the other to a cop named Morales.

Morales owed me one and he came through. He found Bondi's girlfriend. Sybil. And she lived in the Village, just like Bondi told me. If this was a scam, there was a ton of truth in it. The mark of a pro.

Just past midnight the next Tuesday, we got together at Mama's. The joint wasn't closed, but Mama rarely got late customers—she worked at keeping the place looking about as inviting as a TB ward.

"Ante up," I told the crew.

"The Mole says there's three separate phone lines," Michelle said, "I gave you the numbers before. Probably one for her, one for the modem, and the one the watcher uses."

"Good guess," I answered her. "Morales pulled the records. One of the numbers hasn't made a single outgoing call in the past three months. On the other line, she calls this girlfriend of hers, Sybil, every day. Sometimes a few times."

"This Sybil a ho too?" the Prof asked.

"Dancer," I said. "Works the Playpen in Long Island City. Same place Bondi used to work, Morales said."

"They got sheets?" the Prof wanted to know.

"No. Not a single fall between them. Only reason Morales had her name, some freak jumped her in the parking lot a couple of years ago, tried to carve her a new face."

"Trick thought he got picked, right?"

"Right," I said. Happens all the time in those joints. Lap–dancers, they're not as honest as whores. They make their money off repeaters, let the suckers think they got something going between them besides the cash. A relationship, right? Sooner or later, some psycho goes for it, decides he's not a customer, he's the boyfriend. And they hold the wedding in a body bag.

"She get hurt bad?" Clarence asked.

"Nah. Just banged up. She was just sitting on her car, smoking a joint, waiting for Bondi to finish her shift. Bondi rolled up just when the guy made his move. They fought him to a standstill. Made so much noise somebody finally called the cops."

"There is a bouncer in those clubs, isn't there, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know. "To protect the girls, yes?"

Michelle's musical laugh was wrapped around a thick vein of contempt. "They're not there to protect the girls, sweetie," she told the young West Indian gunman who had taken the Prof for his father one ugly night—the night I had cleaned out a house of beasts with a gun while the Prof and Clarence waited outside for anyone who tried to leave. "They're there to protect the pimp…the guy who owns the joint. You have a problem, you take it outside, that's the end of it."

Clarence shook his head in disgust. He wasn't from the same place as the rest of us. Raised by a mother he still adored from across death's chasm, he couldn't understand how any man could fail to protect a woman. Any woman. Even when he went to work for a Brooklyn gunrunner named Jacques, he did it to get the money to bring his mother some of the peace she never had working three jobs to provide for her only son. A savage–hearted young man, cobra–quick with his pistol, Clarence would take a life before he would disrespect a woman. He was one of us, part of our family, but he was the only one of us who wasn't raised by beasts. He could know what we knew, but he could never feel it as deep. Michelle reached over and patted his hand. "Stay sweet, honey," she said sadly.

"Hauser came up empty," I said. "Whoever this Kite guy is, nobody ever heard of him. Nothing on NEXIS, nothing in the street."

"Not Hauser's street," the Prof said.

"You got something?"

"Not yet. But this guy's been walking too heavy not to leave footprints. He can slide, he can glide, but he can't hide."

"Her credit's just like she said," Michelle added. "I had Abe run a TRW for me. American Express and Visa, paid every month, right on the dot. Got a few locals too—she runs a tab with the dry cleaner, beauty parlor, couple of restaurants that deliver, like that."

"Abe look at the banks for you too?"

"Of course, darling," Michelle smiled. "Six large a month. Deposited every month. Like clockwork. The watcher never misses."

"She move it out?"

"No. She's got one of those 'private banking' deals. He probably set it up for her. T–Bills, a couple of mutual funds, jumbo CD. Nothing risky. I think she knows this isn't going on forever—it scans like she's building a stash, maybe going back to Australia, like she told you…"

"How'd you make out?" I asked the Prof. There was nobody better at vacuuming a joint than the little man. I remember sitting on the floor of his cell Upstate with the other young thieves while he conducted his seminars. Find it, take it, and get gone quick. But the Master Class—the one where he taught how to phantom your way all through a house without leaving a trace of your passage—that was reserved for family.

"Bitch got enough underwear to open her own boutique," he said.

"What kind?" Michelle interrupted.

"What kind? How I know what—"

"The labels, Prof," Michelle said. "Was it Victoria's or Frederick's?"

"I didn't look at no labels, okay?"

The Prof's disclaimer was about as effective as the War on Drugs—when it came to the subject of lingerie, Michelle was not to be denied. "What colors? Pastel or harsh? Lots of bright–red and black…or pink and blue? Did it have lots of straps? Was it what you'd wear under a dress or only by itself? Did you see—?"

"Girl, I didn't see nothin', okay? I wasn't looking for no souvenirs, all right?"

"What else?" I asked, trying to take him off the hook.

"Cash money," he said, looking over at me gratefully. "Less than two large. Careless, not in a stash. Bunch of letters, wrapped in a ribbon. All from Australia, all from Amanda…some girlfriend, I guess. Gossip stuff: Sara married Sean, Isabelle just had a baby, you know. Joint was clean, like she had a maid come in every day. Beds made, dishes done. Bunch of pills in the medicine cabinet, but all over–the–counter stuff except for some Valium. Prescription too—had her name right on the bottle. Money stuff: Bank statements, checkbook. Fur coat. White fur."

"What kind of fur?" Michelle asked.

"Fucking polar bear, all I know about it," the Prof snapped at her. Turning to me, he continued: "Back of one of the drawers, a vial of crystal. Just the one vial—looked like someone gave it to her and she just threw it in there. Jewel box had a couple of sparklers, looked real to me. But I ain't Mama…" he shrugged.

Mama nodded, acknowledging the respect for her expertise, but she didn't say anything.

"Passport. Don't know if the picture's her, but it's got that name all right. Bondi. Big fat leather address book. Filofax, whatever the hell that is. Pretty full, too. Looked straight–up, nothing in code. Pussy doctor, dentist, hairdresser. Lots of addresses in Australia. Number at the club where this Sybil works."

"You see the name Kite anywhere?"

"Not a trace, Ace."

"Bottom line?"

"It's a hotel, bro, not her home. She may play there, but she ain't gonna stay there…and she knows it. Had some real nice luggage. Alligator, the real thing. Old–fashioned kind—none of those little wheels on it. I figure she could fill them suitcases, empty out the joint, be in the wind in a few hours."

"You think it's worth me talking to her?"

"She's a ho, bro. She sees the gelt, her heart'll melt," the Prof offered.

Michelle took a deep drag on her long black cigarette. When she took it from her mouth, her cherry lipstick was all over the snow–white filter tip. "What you do for a living doesn't make you a whore," she said softly. "Sure, there's women so cold you'd need a CPA to find their G–spot. And maybe that's her, I don't know." She took another drag. "But there's another 'maybe,' Burke. Maybe she told you the truth. Maybe she was in love."

The little round brunette's hair was cut shorter than the watchers like it in the wet–dream joints, but she'd spent enough on the implants to keep them paying attention. Her breasts were right at the tolerance limit for her frame, so stuffed she had cleavage even topless. They tumbled free as she tossed her black bikini bra into the audience; bounced deeply as she reached behind her to the fireman's pole; finally stabilized as she steadied herself. She ground the pole between her buttocks and humped hard to the music, her fingers patting herself between the legs, eyes closed. That last part was a smart move—the audience was ugly.

She worked for the money, crawling along the runway, rewarding every bill stuck into the black garters around her chubby thighs with a lick of her lips or a shake from her elevated butt. The crowd was small, but they gave her a big hand along with the cash. The PA system interrupted the music loud enough to say her name was Desirée.

"Hi, handsome," she said to me a few minutes later at my table in the back of the club, bending forward so her pendulous breasts were inches from my face.

"You're a great dancer," I said, stuffing a twenty into each of her garters.

"Ummm," she purred at me without looking at the bills—like her thighs could read. "Would you like me to dance some more? Just for you?"

"Yeah, I'd like that," I told her, laying two more twenties on top of the little table.

Then she was on my lap, facing away, straddling my cock like she had the fireman's pole, humping just as hard. I kept my hands on her waist, away from those flopping breasts, whispered into her ear: "You're a really good dancer, Sybil."

I felt her stiffen against me, heard the harsh intake of breath. "Tell Bondi I'd like to see her again," I whispered. "Tell her Burke wants to buy her lunch. I'll call her, okay?"

She deflated on my lap like someone stuck a pin in one of those rubber sex–dolls. "I don't—"

"Just tell her," I said, shifting my weight. She stood up. Walked away without looking back, heading right for the shaved–head bouncer standing with his arms crossed over in the far corner. She was so shook she even forgot the wiggle.

"Hullo?" She answered the phone on the first ring the next morning, more a question than a greeting.

"It's me," I said, my voice shaded just past neutral toward friendly. In case she wasn't the only one listening. "I thought, if you weren't busy, maybe we could have dinner or something."

"Something?"

"If you'd rather do something else, I mean. A movie, maybe a—"

"Could we go to a club?" she asked in a little girl's voice. A little girl expecting to be disappointed, but taking a shot anyway.

"A nightclub?"

"No, one of those comedy clubs," she said, switching to her normal voice. "I've always wanted to go, but I never did. You ever have something like that? Something you always wanted to do?"

"Yeah," I told her. "But I did some things I didn't want to do too. I guess maybe it balances out."

"I know what you mean. At least, I think I do—I don't know you that well."

"That's the part I'm trying to fix," I said.

"Why?"

"I like you," I told her. "I just like you. And I thought, if you knew me better, you might like me too."

"Maybe I know you better than you think," she said softly. "Would you rather just skip the date, come on up here instead?"

"No. I mean, I would like to come up there. But I thought I'd let you make up your mind first."

"That's sweet. You know, if I hadn't been expecting your call, it would have been a…surprise."

"I know. That's why I—"

"Is tonight too soon?" she interrupted.

"Just right," I replied. "Eight o'clock?"

"Do you mind if I…meet you someplace? I'm going to be out—getting my hair done. I don't want to break the appointment. How about Seventy–seventh and Central Park West, on the park side?"

"See you then," I said.

"Where'd you get this?" I asked Clarence. I was in the back of a black Jaguar Mark VII sedan—an old one, but it looked and smelled showroom.

"It's my mate's, mahn," Clarence said over his shoulder. "I let him hold my Rover for the night. Heathcliff knows I love my ride like he loves this one. We trust each other with our babies. No problem."

"It's a beauty," I said, patting the oxblood leather seat.

"It is a good one, mahn, that I know. Not as fine as mine, it is true, but very cherry anyway. I know the woman will like it. And mine, you know, it is really too small to play limousine. This one has real privacy," he said. "Try the button."

I pushed the button he pointed at and a thick pane of frosted glass slid up from behind the front seat. "Can you still hear me?" I asked him in a normal voice. When he didn't answer, I hit the button and asked the question again as the glass slid down.

"It depends on how loud you speak, mahn. Cliff would not want wires running through his pride and joy, now."

"That's okay—it's not about that tonight."

"But this is the woman, yes, my brother?" Clarence asked in his honey Island voice. "The one whose apartment my father—?"

"Yeah, it's her. But we haven't got her mapped yet. After tonight, we should know."

"Very good, sir," Clarence said, crossing Columbus Circle, a smile in his voice.

She was sitting on one of those drab green sidewalk benches, waiting. Back straight, legs crossed. Wearing a pair of blue jeans over red ankle–height boots with spike heels, topped by a plain white jersey top, a black leather motorcycle jacket over her lap. Her long chestnut hair was pulled into a ponytail—didn't look like a hairdresser's work.

The Jag glided to the curb. Clarence stepped out, his usual rainbow outfit replaced with a somber chauffeur's uniform, right down to the black cap. He walked over to where Bondi was sitting, said something to her. She got up, followed him to the car. Clarence held the door open for her.

"Hi!" she said, climbing in to sit next to me. "Wow! I didn't expect all this."

"Because we're just going to a club?"

"Because it's just me, honey. This must have set you back a bit."

"You like it?" I asked her.

"Oh, I love it!" she said, patting the upholstery. "It's so elegant."

"Then it's worth it," I told her.

Her smile flashed brighter than her rhinestone choker.

"You look very pretty," I told her.

"Red, white, and blue," she said, pointing at her shoes, then touching her chest and her thigh. "Our colors too, you know. The bloody Brits had them first, but we made the best of them."

Clarence piloted the Jag like it had a crate of Fabergé eggs in the trunk. But we weren't in a hurry, small talk smoothing the way. Once he hit the FDR heading south, I hit the button and the privacy shield slid up. I lit a smoke—I'd cleared it with Clarence in front—and leaned back against the soft cushions.

"Well, give us a puff too," Bondi said.

I handed the cigarette to her with my right hand but she took my wrist and looped it over her shoulders, moving against me. "Give us a snuggle first," she said, a merry tone in her voice.

I slipped my arm around her, held the cigarette so she could take a drag from my hand. Her perfume was light, just this side of the too–sweet edge. Spring flowers after a rain.

"I haven't had a date since—"

"Ssssh," I said softly. "This is now."

The club was on the East–West Village border, the ground floor of what had once been a small factory. Ten bucks at the door, two–drink minimum, open microphone. We sat through maybe a dozen numbers. Mostly women, mostly talking about relationships. One did a funny riff about working as a temp. Most of them bombed. The best was a girl who imitated an answering machine, doing the voice mail of a stalking victim: "It doesn't matter whether I'm home or not, I'm not answering my phone. If you're calling to promise never to do it again, press One—then go fuck yourself. If you're in therapy and have some insight into your own behavior, press Two—and then go fuck yourself. If this is a death threat, press your carotid artery…tight. And leave it there until I call you back." One guy went on and on about Bosnia. Mostly, they were weak, and the people in the audience ignored them, working on their self–images. But no hecklers—it wasn't that kind of a joint.

Bondi loved it, clapping loudly for each one, asking me "Isn't this great, then?" over and over. I watched the people watching the people, See–and–Be–Seen in full swing at every table. The only ones sitting alone were there for one of the performers—who joined them after their sets and watched their competition.

I looked at Bondi's face for the first time then, really seeing it. A crackle of red in her dark brown hair, a light bruise of freckles across the bridge of her flat little nose, her wide mouth turning down just a little at the ends, hazel eyes set wide and direct. It wasn't that the parts were so pretty, it was the mix. And when she smiled, it made you want to taste it.

It was past eleven when she wanted to go. I tapped a number into the cell phone, waited for her to finish her drink. When we stepped outside, the Jag was in place.

"You want to come up?" she asked on the drive back.

"Yes," I said. "I sure do."

"Honey, would you mind…I mean, I know it's tacky and all but…could you drop me off and put me in a cab? And just hang out for a half hour or so? Then I'll buzz you in, okay?"

"Sure."

"It's just that…there's no other entrance. And if he sees me come in with…"

"Nothing to it," I told her.

We found a cab stand in the Fifties, just off Fifth. I put her inside, gave the driver the address. She reached a hand behind my neck, pulled my face down. "Here's a down payment," she whispered against my mouth. "See you soon."

When she let me in, she was wearing a midthigh black spandex sheath and black spikes. Her hair was down and her makeup was fresh, red lipstick glistening in the reflected light from one of the baby spots. The rest of the living room was dark. "Sit down, honey," she said, pushing me toward the two–person chair.

"You want a smoke?" she asked, bringing over the glass ashtray without waiting for an answer.

She turned her back and walked over to a cabinet that held a stereo and a stack of CDs. The black sheath had a zipper all the way down the back, anchored at the top with a big brass pull–ring. Stripper's gown. The sheer stockings had thin black seams, a faint metallic glitter pattern in the mesh. She slipped in a CD. Heavy, pulsating music throbbed out of the speakers—all bass, baritone sax, and low–register piano—nothing I recognized. She played with the volume control until it was so muted I could feel it more than hear it.

She turned and walked back over to me. Stopped when she was still a few feet away. "Did Sybil dance for you?" she asked softly.

"She danced for the money," I told her.

"Was she good?"

"Good enough, I guess. Good as a lie can be."

"What do you mean?"

"You said it yourself—did she dance for me? That's the lie. She's not—in that club, anyway, she's not—a woman, she's a jukebox. You shove the money in, she wiggles and jiggles. The money runs out, the music stops."

"But the men all know—"

"I didn't say she was a crook, Bondi. A lie's what they're paying for. They're not getting cheated."

"Did you think she was pretty?"

"Pretty enough."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing spectacular."

"Her bloody boobs are spectacular, right?"

"Not in a place like that, they're not. You just dial the size you want, right?"

"What did you want?" she asked, bending forward like the answer was really important.

"Just to have her tell you I'd be calling. So you wouldn't spook."

"Why would I spook?"

"Because it wasn't about that…job you wanted."

"What was it all about, then?"

"What I told you. A date."

"You wanted to go to bed with me again?"

"Yes. But I wanted to…be with you too."

"Because you like me?" a film of sarcasm over her soft voice. "And you thought if I knew you better, I'd like you too?"

"That's right," I said, my voice soft but strong against her mockery.

She turned her back on me, standing quiet for a minute. "And that's not a lie?" she asked, looking over one shoulder. "What you just said?"

"No. That's not a lie at all, Bondi."

She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.

She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan's neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model's body with a stripper's curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.

It was a real dance—she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.

The first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.

I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn't under very deep.

A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. "You don't…start things much, do you, honey?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we've…done it, a few times, right? Tonight and…before. When you first came here. And I still don't know what you like."

"I told you—I like you."

"I don't mean that, luv. I want you to like what we do, too."

"I do."

"But what do you like best, honey? I've got…toys and stuff. For fun. Stay here."

She got off the bed and walked out of the room, swaying slightly. Not putting on a show—like she was getting her bearings. When she came back, she was wearing a white domino mask, a white leather riding crop in her hand.

"You want to try this?" she whispered, standing next to the bed. "The Brits say they invented it, but some of us Aussie birds like a little touch–up too…sometimes."

I reached over, took the riding crop from her hand. Tossed it over my body to the floor on the other side of the bed. "Take off the mask," I said, tugging her down beside me.

When she came around, her face was puffy. Slightly double–chinned, soft and round, with little jowls showing. Her lipstick was gone. Her eyes were slitted. She made a growling sound, like she didn't want me to wake her up. I took one of her tiny tight little nipples between my teeth, just holding it there. She locked her hands behind my head, holding it in place, made sweet noises.

Later, she cat–stretched from where she was lying on her back next to me in the big bed in her room. She leaned all the way forward and touched her toes, then turned herself over so she was on her stomach. "Give us a rub, will you?" she purred.

She leaned into the back rub so hard I could feel every vertebrae on her spine. Then she nestled into me, arms around my lower legs. I thought she was going to sleep, but she slithered toward the front of the bed, then hooked a smooth hard thigh over me and sat up, straddling me. "See? It pays to be nice to me," she giggled over her shoulder, bouncing into another dance.

Still later, her head on my chest. I thought she was asleep until she said, "I could have done that too, you know?"

"Done what?"

"The implants. Sybil makes more money than I did, just because of those things. They're way too big, you know. She's gonna have to have them cut out in a couple of years."

"You look perfect the way you are," I said. Thinking about Vyra, an old girlfriend of mine. Vyra with her thin, curveless body. And those enormous breasts that looked grafted on. The breasts were as real as Vyra's sadness about men only liking her for them. I wondered if Bondi would have liked no–implant, all–natural Vyra better than surgically enhanced Sybil. Somehow, I didn't think so.

"No I don't," she said, her voice hard and resigned. "Not for the club life. That's the first thing they look at, you know? 'Take off your top, girlie—let's have a look–see.' That's what they say. I can dance, you know. I mean, really dance."

"I know."

"But it doesn't matter, not a bit. They all want the giant boobs. The managers, I mean. Sometimes they strip us all down, like a bloody meat rack. And they'll tell you, right to your face: go get the work done. They all know doctors. Some of them, they'll even let you work it off, you know? Front the money for the implants."

"And grease a little on the price."

"Of course. All the dancers have to do it eventually…except the Oriental girls. They like them to be small, like little girls, even. I don't know what that's all about."

"Yeah you do."

"I guess I do. Maybe that's why Thailand's such hot stuff. Back home, they all take trips over there. I heard you can get real little girls in Bangkok."

"Little boys too."

"Ugh! I hate—"

"Me too," I said, stroking the back of her neck with two fingers."

She was quiet for a bit. Then: "Burke?"

"What?"

"You're right, you know. What you said. It is a lie. I hate lies. That's why I—"

"I know."

"You say that a lot, don't you, honey? 'I know.' But the way you say it, I almost believe you do."

"I'm careful when I say it, Bondi. And it's true when I do."

"Is Burke your first name? That's a Brit name, you know. Or maybe it's Irish…Is it your first name or your last?"

"It's both, actually."

"Oh God, I heard about stuff like that. Your mother must have had some sense of humor."

"Yeah, Mom loved her jokes all right," I said. Thinking about the indifferently typed letters on my birth certificate, the one I'd had to commit a crime to see. In the institution they sent me to when I was a kid. I'd used a screwdriver on the file cabinets in back of the social worker's office. Looking for my father's name—one of the older kids said it would be there. My father's name turned out to be UNK. My mother hadn't even bothered to give me a name. The fucking State had done that: Baby Boy Burke.

Maybe it was something in my voice—she stayed quiet for a while after that. I listened to her breathing. It smoothed out and settled down, but she never flirted with REM.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Can we tell each other the truth?"

"I can," I lied, holding her closer.

"It's true," she said softly. "He's there. Across the street. Watching. At least, I think he is."

"But…?"

"But it wasn't my girlfriend who told me. That he lets other people watch me, I mean."

"Who was it?"

"A woman. A big, hard woman. Not fat, really. Just…muscular. Pushy, too. Like a bloody man, she was."

"A lesbian, you mean?"

"No, silly. They're women too. This one wasn't like that. She came right to my door. Rang the bell. She said her name was Heather. Heather, huh! Some name for a creature like that, I tell you! She had orange eyes. Orange! Can you imagine? Contact lenses, for sure. They looked so…I don't know…aggressive. She…scared me, like."

"Did you ask her how she knew? About what was going on?"

"It didn't matter, honey. She knew. She told me all about it—what I…do for him. She must have seen it. Or he told her about it—that's just as bad."

"What else did she say?"

"She just said, if I wanted to…do something about it, she knew a guy who could get it done."

"Did she say my name?"

"Your name? No, baby. She told me about this guy Harry. I called him. Went to his office. He asked me what did I want to do about it. He was playing like maybe I wanted to get him done. My…boyfriend, I mean. Bash him up, maybe. Or even worse. I told him I didn't want that. I just wanted him to pay."

"Whose idea was it about the safe?"

"That was Harry's. He said he knew some guys who could handle it. That's what he said: 'handle it.' I should just wait, and he'd give me a call."

"And you didn't hear from him again?"

"Just from you, luv. That one time."

I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on keeping my voice gentle. "You knew it was a wrong number, Bondi. You thought some man was going to come around, you were going to tell him that story, he was gonna go in there, take care of business…and mail you your share?"

"No," she said quietly. "I never thought that. I thought something was gonna…happen. To him. I didn't much care what. I told you the truth about that part. I'm going home. And I'm not looking back."

"Tell me the rest," I said.

"She came back. This Heather, she came back here. She said a man would come around. A quiet, hard man. You. She didn't say your name, but she described you perfect. She said, if you didn't ask any questions, just keep my mouth shut."

"But if I did?"

She got off the bed again, walked out of the room. When she came back, she had a card in her hand. I knew what it was. I couldn't see the lock, but I could hear the tumblers falling into place.

"He's got to have a couple dozen grand in the setup," I told Mama, sitting in my booth in the restaurant. "He spent all that money, he's got to know where to find me. He knows the connect to Michelle, that's for sure. All this dancing around just to leave me his business card. What's the point?"

"You know my place on Mott Street?" she asked, like she hadn't heard me.

"Sure," I told her. Behind an orange steel door, a series of immaculate rooms, all furnished in duplicates: twin chairs, twin lamps, twin ashtrays. Inlaid mosaic tile tables, teak floors, pristine white walls dotted with framed hand–drawn haiku and old tapestries. Recessed lighting. Heavy dark plum floor–to–ceiling curtains blocking all outside light. Central air–conditioning whispering within cork–lined walls, vacuuming humidity away. A marble slab covered with black velvet, twin stalks of fiber–optic adjustable lights for examining jewelry.

"Showroom," Mama said. "Understand?"

"To show the goods?" I answered tentatively, not sure where she was going. Mama dealt in product. Transportable product. Diamonds, bearer bonds, engraved currency plates. Guns were too bulky, narcotics too shaky–flaky. When I first met her, I realized we were in the same business. Only Mama stayed at the high end.

"Goods not change," she said. "Emerald on velvet is same as emerald on wood, yes? Mott Street not to show the gems, to show the dealer. Face. Very important. Serious business, take serious, okay?"

"You think this Kite guy, he went through all this just to show me he was a serious player?"

"Sure," Mama said, shrugging her shoulders to show it was no big deal. "Good investment, maybe."

"I'm small–time, Mama. Nobody needs all that to try and sell me a job."

"Must be big job," is all she said.

Calling Kite was a no–risk—if there was a way to kill someone over the phone, nobody'd work for the Motor Vehicle Bureau. And I always use the phone like it's a party line anyway—with the cops on the other end. But the way this was coming down, even all that didn't make me feel safe enough.

So, just before daybreak, I drove up to Hunts Point. The City's supposedly been fixing the FDR for years, but under its lousy overhead lighting, it was even more of a killing ground for cars than usual—busted chunks of pavement cleverly camouflaged the cavernous potholes, broken glass glittered everywhere. Buying a new car in this cesspool of a city is like wearing a tuxedo to a gang fight.

The streets were still slick from a midnight rain, so I picked my way carefully over the Triborough. Rolling north on the Bruckner, I drove by an underpass and spotted a tow truck lurking, shielded from sight, its red taillights the glowing eyes of a carrion–eater, waiting for the next car to die.

I pushed the button for the all–news station. Big bulletin: Seventeen overdose deaths directly attributable to a new brand of heroin on the street called China Doll. That's the kind of crap they call a "public service announcement." Sure. Truth is, they're not scaring the junkies off with that kind of crap—they're running a promotion for the new stuff. Every dope fiend in town is going to want a piece of that fresh dynamite; if it's killing people, it's the real thing, not some cut–sugar lemonade.

The radio said the year–end survey showed subway crime was down. In all areas except homicide—the only crime that self–reports. I wonder why they call it "news."

There's an all–sports station too. They had an interview with the guy who owns the Yankees, Steinbrenner. He was saying how nobody wants to go to the Bronx to see the Yankees because the neighborhood around the stadium is too dangerous. Not suitable for families. Except for the ones who live there, I guess. Steinbrenner charges a hundred bucks for a pair of tickets and a couple of beers and he says the reason the attendance is so lousy is because of crime. Maybe he means highway robbery.

The rest of the AM dial was all halfass advice: money, love, real estate, food. And the usual hate talk. New York's all black and white now, a sharp blood–red line between the colors. The black radio stations still don't get it—when O.J. Simpson was acquitted, every Klansman in America cheered.

I switched over to FM, looking for some music, but BGO was playing jazz, not blues. And the CBS oldies station was playing disco.

I went back to the news: Some freak took real good care of his girlfriend. Paid for everything, including her implants. When she said she was leaving, he tried to repossess them. With a knife.

A drunk driver's car hit a child so hard they found his license plate inside the kid when they did the autopsy. Happened in Queens—the driver'll probably get probation. Doesn't matter—last guy to run for D.A. there did it on the Democratic, Republican, Liberal, and Conservative tickets. Even if sheep could talk, they'd never ask questions.

An idiot in an iridescent yellow Honda Accord sedan flew past me on the right, huge tires set so far outside the fender line they looked like pontoons. That's what the tires were about—looks. The car wouldn't handle worth a damn. Lot of guys make that mistake, and not just with cars.

I nosed the Plymouth against the razor–wire–interwoven chain–link fence and waited. The junkyard was quiet, like it always is. It's always alive too. The dog pack ambled up to the fence, only mildly interested but on full alert. Then Simba chested his way through the pack. A German shepherd's face on a bullmastiff's body, his single–coated fur a dull gold color, his ears too big for his head. He looked misbegotten, but his carriage was a king's. Not a bloodline king, a warrior king who had taken his throne by combat. He was old now. Slower, maybe, but stronger than ever, case–hardened from years of successful survival. Darwin's Dog. A white pit bull female with a black patch over one eye strode next to him, a step back and to the side. Not deferring, guarding the flank. A harlequin Dane watched from the left, standing alone. To the right, a half dozen of that special breed of lean, dirt–colored, slash–and–burn brothers to wolves and coyotes—the American Junkyard Dog.

Terry walked through the pack, good–naturedly bumping dogs out of his way with a knee when they blocked his progress. "It's Burke, Simba!" he called out to the boss dog, as he unlatched the gate so I could pull the Plymouth inside.

If Simba was impressed with the news of my arrival, he managed to keep it concealed, pinning me with his alligator eyes as I climbed out of the car, his posture telling the pack to hold its ground. I stood there while Terry moved the Plymouth between some junked cars. It merged with the other wrecks, looked right at home.

We walked all the way back to the clearing next to the Mole's bunker. "He's gone out," Terry said, answering my question before I asked.

I raised my eyebrows—the Mole left the junkyard about every three, four years.

"With Mom," he said. Meaning Michelle. She'd taken Terry out of a kiddie–sex freak show years ago. Adopted him by force. I was the force, Michelle was the love. She'd never said anything about wanting a kid all the years I knew her, but she took one look at Terry and gave birth.

He was a little one then, performing on command. Sold by his bio–parents, pimped by a smooth–talking psychopath right out on the Deuce. A fast–food service: fresh hot chicken to go, rentals only. I didn't know how old he was, not for sure. Birth certificates aren't required in our family. He looked about sixteen now. A slim, handsome teenager. He'd be taller than me when he got his full growth. That was the only genetics in him. The Mole taught him science, Michelle taught him art. With those two in him, it was a sure bet the kid would break atoms and break hearts. Someday, he'll walk around the finest college campus, and he'll have lots of friends. He'll look just like them too. Except for his eyes.

Michelle was done with her journey. It wouldn't be long before Terry started his. If that bothered the Mole, he kept it to himself. But Michelle was digging her talons in as deep as any mom who raised him from the cradle, knowing it was coming, holding tight against it anyway.

"I need the phone," I told the kid.

He just nodded his head, acknowledging the respect I paid him by asking.

I went down the carved–earth steps to the bunker, moving past the machinery, the microscopes, the computers until I got to the phone. It was a blue–box loop job—the signal went into the 800 circuit and came back up, ready to dial, impossible to trace. I didn't know how it worked, but I knew it did. I lit a cigarette, thinking. The Mole tried to explain the filtration system he had set up down there once. I never understood that one either, but it worked perfect. The Mole put it together so he wouldn't kill himself with the fumes from his experiments—the bunker always smelled like an operating theater.

I held Kite's business card in my hand. Noticed for the first time that it flickered in the light. I turned it slightly, looking close. Some kind of pattern punched into the vellum—blind embossing, they call it, kind of like braille. I traced it with my fingers. Something was under the engraving, but I couldn't bring it up. I tried one of the Mole's examining lamps for a couple of minutes before I saw it: a kid's kite, slightly puffed out against the lifting breeze, a long tail dangling.

The number was a Manhattan exchange. Easy to tell now—all the other boroughs are 718. I tapped it out on the keypad, listening to the long series of beeps as the signal went out and looped back around. Then it started to ring. Once, twice, three times, then…

"Good morning," a woman's rich, husky voice.

"I'd like to speak to Kite," I said, my own voice as neutral as a heart monitor.

"May I tell Mr. Kite who's calling?"

"Burke."

"Could you hold just a minute, please?"

She didn't wait for a response before switching the line to hold.

"Thank you for calling," a man said suddenly. His voice was thin but strong. Titanium wire.

"What do you want?" I asked him, done with the ceremony.

"To talk. Face to face. I have an offer to make. For your services. Your professional services. The offer is complicated. I wouldn't feel comfortable making it on the phone."

"I'm retired," I told him.

"Yes," he replied, like he knew what I meant and it made sense to him. "But not retired from listening, I'm sure. That's all I want, for you to listen. I know your time is valuable. And I'm prepared to compensate you for any inconvenience involved. But I did go to considerable trouble—"

"That wasn't neces—"

"Actually, I believe it was, Mr. Burke. And I'm prepared to go to much more trouble if I must. May I have the opportunity to explain?"

It was a perfect threat, skillfully delivered. He could find me if he had to…and he sure as hell knew where to look.

And he knew about Michelle.

"Sure," I said, like he was being too reasonable to refuse. "How do you want to do it?"

"Completely at your convenience, as I said. I can come to you, you can come here…whatever you say."

Telling me he knew where to find me? Mama's? The building where I live with Pansy? Max's dojo?

"I'll come to you," I told him.

"Would tomorrow be acceptable?" he asked. "Anytime after three…?"

"Four."

"Four it is. I appreciate this very much, Mr. Burke. I look forward to seeing you then."

He gave me the address and hung up.

For some reason I didn't quite understand but still trusted—maybe some tiny tug at the tip of the hyper–vigilance that comes standard with all Children of the Secret—I shaved real close the next morning. Then I combed some of that stupid gel Michelle got for me through my hair. Put on an undertaker–black worsted suit over a cobalt silk shirt with a plain black silk tie. I stepped into a pair of soft black alligator boots with steel toes and hollow heels. One heel held ten hundred–dollar bills wrapped around a handcuff speed key; the other a little round box like women keep lip gloss in. If you pulled the tab off the top and waited about five seconds, it would blow a door off its hinges. I fitted a smuggler's necklace around my neck under the shirt. Twenty–four one–ounce ingots of pure gold—you could pop them out one at a time, bribe your way free of damn near anything.

A complete set of ID went into my wallet. Not the Juan Rodriguez stuff I used for my license and registration—I wouldn't be taking the Plymouth. Arnold Haines was up to date on all his credit cards. He appeared on a few visiting lists in a couple of Upstate prisons, but, hell, a lot of legit businessmen were on those lists.

I never thought about taking a gun. But under the bead capping the tang to my belt buckle was an alloy needle tipped with a dab of paste the Mole gave me—a little present from one of his pals in the Mossad. And the gold coin I used for a money clip had a half–moon razor I could push out with a thumb without looking.

Pansy watched me suspiciously, somehow knowing she wasn't coming along. "When I come back, I'll bring you something special," I promised her. "No Chinese this time, okay?"

She made her snarfling noise, ice water eyes regarding me with all the mercy of a polygraph. "I promise, okay?" I said, patting her massive head, scratching behind her ears until she shifted to a purring sound, trusting me again.

I wish it was always that easy.

"Oh be careful with it, mahn. Please, now. This is not a damn lorry you are driving, all right?"

Max shifted the Rover into second gear as carefully as a surgeon removing a cataract—his huge hand looked like a scarred piece of old leather on the floor knob. His eyes flicked at me in the mirror, asking for sympathy for Clarence's mother–hen attitude. The West Indian hawk–eyed the Mongolian's every move, as nervous as I'd ever seen him.

"He insisted on driving, mahn," he told me. "And you know how delicate my ride is."

"So why'd you let him?" I asked.

"Ah, he is my brother," Clarence said. "And he wanted to so badly…"

For some reason I never quite got, Max loved to drive. He wasn't real good at it, especially in the city. It was like he expected cars to step aside for him the same way people did. He'd banged the Plymouth up more than once. But he was handling the Rover like it was a fragile child, keeping a nice cushion of air around him as we wove through the narrow streets of Chinatown. It was just past two in the afternoon—plenty of time to get to the midtown address Kite had given me.

"It'll be okay," I assured Clarence. "Max knows you love your car."

A truck blocked the cobblestoned street ahead of us. One–way street, traffic behind us. There was almost room enough to get past. Max inched the Rover forward. Clarence clasped his hands in prayer. A parked car on our right, the outside rearview mirror of the truck to our left. We were only about four inches short of slipping by, but that still left us wedged in—no place to go.

I signaled Max to stay put and climbed out of the back seat. Three guys were sitting on a loading platform, drinking something out of big white styrofoam cups.

"That your truck?" I asked them.

"Who wants to know?" the guy in the middle asked back, chin up, neck muscles starting to tighten.

"You're blocking the road, pal," I told him. "Just pull over a few inches and we can get by."

"In a minute," he said, dismissing me. The guy on his right nodded approval.

Asshole. I got back in the car, lit a cigarette. Max rapped the dashboard. I leaned forward, caught his eyes. Put my inside wrists together, clapped my hands, making a "yap yap" gesture. I tapped my watch, held up my hand, fingers spread. Meaning: another five minutes, they'll get tired of the game and move the truck—no big deal. Max started to get out of the car. I held my palm out like a traffic cop. No—it wasn't worth it.

"He wants to tell those guys to get a move on?" Clarence asked me.

"Yeah," I said. "But he wouldn't tell them nicely and I don't want trouble."

"I tell them, mahn," Clarence muttered, his hand snaking under his jacket.

"Chill," I told him. "They're just profiling. Give 'em a minute, they'll move the truck. Nothing to it."

Horns honked behind us. I smoked my cigarette. A red–faced fat slob knocked on my window. I hit the switch to let it down—his sweat–smell flooded in.

"What's the fucking problem?" the slob wanted to know. His face looked like an overripe muskmelon, about to burst from the heat.

"There's no room to get by. The truckers said they'd move out the way in a minute. We're just waiting."

"Well, I'm not," Fatso snarled, walking over to the guys on the loading dock.

He came back with the three truckers. All screaming at each other, lots of fingers being pointed. And nothing moving. Horns really blasting now—a lot of them, it sounded like. Someone was going to do something stupid, guaranteed.

Max hit the switch and his window came down. One dark, deep–veined hand extended out. He grabbed the mirror on the truck and twisted. There was a crack and the mirror came free in his hand. Max held the mirror in one hand high above the car. As soon as he was sure the truckers saw it, he flipped it over the top of the Rover in their direction, flicked the gear shift into first, let out the clutch and pulled away. Slow.

By the time we got over to Canal, Clarence had calmed down a bit.

We were heading up First Avenue, pointed toward Sutton Place, the address Kite had given me. "I'll ring every fifteen minutes or so," I told Clarence, holding up the cell phone. "Don't answer it. Don't do anything. A half hour goes by and it doesn't ring, call this number and ask to speak to me," I said, handing him Kite's card. "You don't get an answer, or they won't put me on the phone, come on up. Both of you."

"Got it, mahn."

"The Prof looked it over?" I asked him.

"My father says it is Old Money, mahn. Very exclusive. No funny stuff in that place, that is for sure."

"And he's in the penthouse?"

"Yes. It has a separate elevator, the last one in the row."

"Security?"

"My father did not go up, mahn. But even when they had to throw him out of the lobby—he had his shoeshine kit—they only had a couple of old men with uniforms. No professionals, not on the ground floor, anyway. If he has muscle, it will be inside his apartment, I am sure."

When we pulled up front, Clarence was out the door before I was, going over his beloved Rover with a chamois cloth, checking for scratches.

Max just sat there, waiting.

I told the deskman my name. He didn't bother to pick up the phone, just pointed at an elevator standing open at the end of a four–car row.

At the top of its ride, the elevator car opened inside a small foyer painted a robin's–egg blue. It was all clean–cut lines in the wood, stark and sharp–edged, without a scrap of furniture. On the far side of the foyer was a narrow opening covered top to bottom with wrought–iron grillwork—it looked like the door to an upscale prison cell. As I walked closer, a dark shape materialized behind the grille. A woman, thick–bodied but curvy, with the kind of pinched–in waist that you can't get from genetics. Another step and I could see she had jet–black hair, straight and thick, curving sharply just past a tiny, pointed chin to frame a fleshy face. Small red rosebud mouth. Heavy blusher on her baby–fat cheeks, eyebrows plucked down to pencil lines, curved to parallel the hairdo. The orange eyes Bondi told me about. There was a hard shine to her face, like a ceramic glaze. Her small eyes were as bright as a bird's, and about as warm. She was wearing a black dress of some shiny material, slashed deeply down her chest, thin black straps crisscrossing the cleavage.

"Mr. Burke," she said, the husky voice of the woman who had answered the phone.

I nodded. She turned a knob—I heard the heavy bolt giving way. She pulled the gate toward her, stepping back as she did. I crossed the threshold, closing the space between us.

"Come with me," she said, moving away in a smooth, flowing motion.

Her hips were wide and rounded, muscular bottom outthrust in the tight skirt. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked down a hall lined with framed certificates. I stayed a couple of paces behind, hands at my sides.

She turned a corner. When I followed, I found myself in a long narrow room. The wall to my right was pitch black, empty. A white formica table ran its full length, its top covered with machinery: three computer screens, only one of them alive with what looked like a color spreadsheet, fax machine, copier, a reel–to–reel recorder with four separate mikes, each with its own VU meter, a fat box with something that looked like a blood–pressure cuff attached to a standing tube. The wall to my left was pure dazzling white, as blank as its mate opposite except for a bright chrome picture frame maybe two feet square. The frame was empty, the white wall gleaming from within its borders.

Between the walls was a big fan–backed chair with a diagonal bisected design, white leather on one half, black on the other. Behind it, nothing but windows. Old–fashioned casement windows with small individually framed little squares of glass. Behind the glass, the East River.

Next to the chair, a little round café table with black legs, topped with a white marble disk. On the table, a miniature dumbbell, gleaming chrome. I'd seen one like that before. They use them to test for telekinetic power. A long time ago, I met this wild–haired, calm–eyed girl—a graduate student at NYU. She was in the wrong place, a storefront in Bushwick where somebody told her she'd find a psychic who could speak to the dead. The storefront was empty, another Brooklyn burnout. But the rat–packing teenagers who surrounded her thought it would still do just fine for the games they had in mind. They weren't real bright, those little beasts, but they knew what the sawed–off twelve–gauge I was holding would do to their futures, so they backed off quick enough. I stuffed her into the Plymouth and took her back where she belonged. Tanya was her name. She was doing her Ph.D. on psychic phenomena. After we got to know each other better, she got convinced I had this telekinetic power…and I spent hours trying to move one of those little dumbbells. She told me I could, if I would only care about it enough. I guess I never did.

"Mr. Burke." A man's voice, the titanium wire I'd heard before, snapping me out of the memories.

I turned slowly. He was moving toward me, coming from around the same corner I'd turned. Short, slim man. Elegantly dressed in a dove–gray suit with a faint red chalk stripe, a white shirt and a red tie with a black swirl pattern running wild against it. His hair was white. Not gone–from–gray white—no–color white. His face was the same no–color, a faint network of capillaries clearly visible beneath the skin. Pink–tinted glasses covered his eyes. He stepped closer, holding out his hand for me to shake. A white hand, the veins clear blue against the translucence.

An albino.

His grip was moderate—measured, like there was plenty left. His skin was dry; I felt a faint trace of powder. He smelled like lime.

"What sort of chair do you prefer?" he asked, inclining his head toward the fan–backed one sitting under the windows, telling me that one was his. "Straight–backed, armchair, director's…I thought you'd be more comfortable with your own preference."

"Doesn't matter to me."

"Please," he said quietly. "Indulge me. It's one of my pleasures to give people exactly what they want."

"An armchair, then."

The woman spun sharply and left the room. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, saying nothing. The woman came back in, carrying a butterscotch leather armchair in her hands as easily as if it was a portable typewriter. She held it level, using only her wrists, walking it over next to the fan–backed chair. She moved back and forth, still holding the chair aloft, until she was satisfied. Then she put it down gently.

"Please…," he said.

I took a seat just as he did. We were facing each other. I was looking over his shoulder at the bright windows. His face was in a shadow just past the light. I couldn't see the woman—she was somewhere in the room, somewhere behind my back.

Maybe two minutes passed. I kept my eyes on the lenses of his glasses, breathing shallow. If he thought waiting was going to make me nervous, he didn't know as much about me as he thought he did.

"You probably think I went to a great deal of trouble," he said, finally.

"Depends on what you wanted," I answered. "If it was just to impress a small–timer like me, you wasted your money."

A flickering just to my left. The white wall. Only now it was a painting. No, a photograph…a giant photograph of a child's kite, dark blue against a pale–blue sky, a long tail dangling, strips of different–colored ribbons tied on. The kite seemed to float on the wall, moving in a breeze I couldn't feel. A hologram? It was hypnotic, pulling me into it. I turned my eyes back to the man, focusing on the lenses of the pink glasses.

"What I wanted," he said, like he hadn't noticed me looking away, "was to prove to you that I am a fellow professional. A serious person, with serious business."

"What business is that?" I asked him, getting to it.

"I'm an investigator," he answered. "Like you. In fact, we investigate the same things."

"I'm not a PI," I said. "I may have looked into a few things for some people over the years. But that's not what I do. That's not me. You've got me confused—"

"No, Mr. Burke. I don't have you confused with anyone else. Confusion is not a problem for me. Not in any area. I had thought—what with all the trouble I went to—that perhaps we could dispense with the need for all the tiresome fencing about and just talk business. As professionals."

"Professionals get paid," I reminded him.

"Yes. And if you accept my offer to…participate in what I'm working on now, you will be paid, I assure you. You and I will have no financial problems, Mr. Burke—there is money in this for you. And more, perhaps."

"More?"

"Perhaps. What I need from you now is a quality you have already demonstrated amply. Some patience, that's all. I went to all this…trouble, as I continually refer to it, to set the stage. Not out of any sense of theatricality, but to make a point. I have an offer for you, but it will take some time to explain. If you'll grant me that time, you will be rewarded."

"How much time?"

"Say, an hour," he said, glancing at the wafer–thin watch with a moon–phase chronograph face he wore on his left wrist. "Perhaps ninety minutes. Right now. All you need do is listen…although you are free to interrupt, ask me any questions you wish."

"And the reward?"

"The reward is down the road, Mr. Burke. And like all rewards, it is not guaranteed. But professionals don't talk about rewards, do they? Professionals talk about compensation. Payment. Will you agree to, say, a thousand dollars. For listening. One hour. That's a better rate than any lawyer gets."

"I'm not a lawyer."

"I am. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah," I said, tapping one of the tiny buttons on the cell phone in my pocket to auto–dial the phone in the Rover. The audio had been disconnected—the little phone didn't make a sound—but Clarence would get the ring at his end.

I heard the tap of the woman's spike heels, felt her come up behind me on my right side. Smelled her thick orchid perfume, felt a heavy breast against the back of my shoulder. A small, chubby hand extended into my vision. Her manicure was perfect, the nails cut short and blunt, burst–orange lacquer matching her eyes. Her hand was holding what looked like fresh–minted bills. I took the bills, slipped them into my inside pocket. Her breast stayed against the back of my shoulder for an extra couple of seconds, then she moved back to her post, somewhere behind me.

"Would you like to smoke?" he asked, tilting his head to look at the woman.

"Smoke?" I asked, a puzzled look on my face.

"Oh. Excuse me. I thought you…"

I looked at him blankly. The faintest tremor rippled across his face. He was a man who relied on information. Needed it to be right—because he was going to use it.

He cleared his throat. "Very well. As I said, I am a lawyer. Law school was a great disappointment. A simple–minded exercise—not exactly an intellectual challenge. You know what excites law students—those budding little sociopaths? The great apocryphal stories: Like the man who paid his lawyer a fortune to create an unbreakable will…and was later hired by the same man's widow to break it. And the professors—those pitiful little failures with their practiced little affectations. The older ones bombard you with pomposities, the younger ones act oh–so cynical, so blasé. You know: 'A trial isn't a search for truth, it's a contest to determine a winner.' Well, it was then I decided: my career would be precisely that—a search for the truth."

I shifted position in the armchair just enough to show him I was listening, counting time in my head.

"But it was all a lie," he said, the titanium wire clear in his voice. "Ninety per cent of all cases are over as soon as the jury is picked. Juries today are over–amped on their own power. They're treated as celebrities—the garbage press waits with bated breath for their 'revelations,' as though the morons actually have something of value to contribute to our collective store of knowledge. Ah, the sacred 'impartial' jury…with each member trying to outpace the others in getting their story to the media first. It's all media now. Haven't you ever seen them walk out of the courtroom holding up their index fingers, doing their stupid 'We're Number One!' routine because they just awarded some mugger ten million dollars…some poor soul who was shot by the police trying to escape? It's disgusting."

I shrugged my shoulders. Me, I was never in front of a jury. Like most people who live in my part of the city, I had the opportunity plenty of times…but that was one chance I never took.

"Do you understand the concept of jury nullification? Where the jury just decides to ignore the evidence and substitute its own will?"

"What's to understand?"

"What's to understand, Mr. Burke, is how the concept has become so perverted. Classically, jury nullification applied when the law was the problem, not the facts. So a father shoots and kills two men who had raped his daughter. The jury hears all about how he had no right to defend his daughter after the attack took place, but it decides to disregard the law in favor of justice, and they find him not guilty, yes? Today, jurors nullify the facts. If they don't like the way the police investigated the case, if they don't like the way the prosecutor presented it, if they don't like the way one of the witnesses spoke on the stand…whatever…they simply refuse to convict.

"It's a disgrace. A foul, disgusting perversion," he spewed venomously. "It makes me sick to my stomach. Did you know there are actually 'Jury Clubs?' And that they lobby for what they're calling 'Juror's Rights' now? It's as though some demonic trickster had rewritten the Bible: '…and a pack of imbeciles shall lead us.'"

"That wouldn't be a major change," I said. "What with Congress and all."

"It's not a source of humor to me, Mr. Burke," he said quietly. "With Congress, there is at least some sense of reviewability, do you understand? But once a guilty man is set free by jury nullification, that's the end. The injustice is permanent."

"Yeah, okay. So, then you…?"

"First I tried matrimonial law," Kite said, brushing aside my interruption like I hadn't spoken. "I thought that would be a way to make a difference. So many divorces. So many children cast adrift. But the practice of matrimonial law requires you to be morally malleable when it comes to those same children. Everyone in the courthouse whines about the 'best interests of the child,' but if you ever put a child's interests ahead of your client's, that would be malpractice. Some people are perfectly willing to destroy their children's lives to gain a financial advantage in a divorce. Or to play out some personal, neurotic script. And when you're their lawyer, it's your job to help them do it. That's no problem for most lawyers. When I was in school, there was a lot of rhetoric about 'ethics.' I remember the stupid ethics exam I took. An idiot could have passed it…but I saw some students cheating on it anyway."

"There's other kinds of law," I said, playing the role like I gave a damn about this guy's moral dilemmas. A red stone set in a heavy silver ring sparkled on his right hand—I hadn't noticed it before. I'd never seen a ruby sparkle like that, pulling at my eyes…

"Of course," he said, interrupting my thoughts. "Have you ever watched one of those odious talk shows? That steady parade of damaged people: children molested by their fathers, rape victims, psychotic females who think they're in love with serial killers. You know what they have in common? Look closely at those shows—you'll always see their lawyers hovering near the camera. They sell their clients to obtain publicity…for themselves. Because the average dolt who suddenly needs to hire a lawyer only remembers he saw the lawyer on TV, or read his name in a newspaper. It doesn't matter if the lawyer lost every case. Actually, it doesn't matter if the lawyer ever tried the case. There are whore lawyers in this town whose names are household words simply because they 'cooperate' with the press. They do some chest–beating public display like the performing seals they are, then they go into court and plead their clients guilty. And the public laps it up."

I shrugged my shoulders again. Some wet–brain who wanted a divorce might hire a lawyer he saw on a talk show, but in my part of the world, we knew the kind of operator we needed when they dropped the indictment. Some wars are better fought by mercenaries.

"I switched to entertainment law," he continued. "That was about as intellectually stimulating as Saturday morning cartoons. So I invented a software screen for movie contract boilerplate. It picks out certain language, references the user to the case law in the field, alerts them to the mousetraps. I sell it privately. It saves lawyers a ton of hours."

"Which they still bill for, right?"

"I'm sure," he said dismissively. "The law is such a common, low–class profession. You've had some…experience with it yourself. Don't you agree?"

"I haven't had much experience with any high–class professions."

"Well said," he smiled thinly. "And, sometimes, if there is no path to follow, you create your own. That's what I did. My own search for truth. I started out as a debunker."

"Like the UFO stuff?"

"No. When it comes to alien activity, the real challenge is to prove that it actually exists, not that it doesn't. No, my interest is in a particular phenomenon. It's still in development. Provisionally, I am calling it the Fabrication for Secondary Gain Syndrome."

"Lying is a syndrome now?"

"Not lying, Mr. Burke. Lying without apparent motive. Oh there is a motive, that's true. But a motive only a specialist could detect. For example: a man who sets fires. Not for the insurance money, not because he's a pyromaniac…but so be can put them out and be a hero. Or a woman who writes threatening letters to herself…so she can stand up to the 'stalker,' understand?"

"Sure. I just don't see where you come in. You can't make a living at it, right?"

"If you mean financially, perhaps not. At least I didn't necessarily believe so at the time. I don't need money—the software brings in more than I could ever spend. And I have new versions in development all the time." He leaned forward in his chair, eyes behind the glasses right on me, dropping the lofty superior tone for tight–voiced intensity. "But eventually I found my way down a new path. To a branch of the syndrome with profound implications not just for individuals, but for our entire society."

He paused, waiting for me to respond. I stayed flat as a dead man's heartbeat. I recognized him now.

"Do you believe that self–righteous bilge that 'kids never lie about child sexual abuse?' Surely you understand that children are no different than anyone else—they can lie quite convincingly if there's something in it for them."

I played it in my head: kids lying when there was something in it for them. That was true—who knew it better than me? Remembering all the lies I told just to live to see another day of pain. I kept my face on audience–mode, not saying anything.

"Allegations of child sexual abuse," Kite intoned. "The nuclear weapon in divorce cases, the staple of talk shows, the darling of the tabloids. Absolutely pandemic. And when those allegations are false, a greater threat to the fabric of our culture than AIDS, cancer, and cocaine combined!"

I hit the button sequence on the cell phone in my pocket, still waiting.

Kite took a breath. "Do you have any…reaction to what I just said, Mr. Burke?"

"I heard it before," I said. "That backlash stuff has been around for years."

"It's worse than that now," he said, still leaning forward. In America today, what's going on is nothing less than the Salem witch hunts! Am I right or wrong?"

"You're wrong."

He snapped back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knees. "How so?" he asked, the superior tone back in place, a law professor dealing with a not–too–bright student.

"In Salem," I said softly, "there were no witches. And child sexual abuse isn't the nuclear weapon in divorce cases—lying is."

He went quiet, watching me. I felt the hologram shift form somewhere to my left, but I kept my eyes straight on him. A minute passed. "Yes," he said finally, the superior tone vanishing. "That's right. And that's the problem. That's why I asked you to come here." He stood up suddenly, turned his back to me, looking out the window. "Now we can talk. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?"

"A glass of water."

"Certainly," he said, still looking out the window. "Heather!"

I heard the tap of her heels as she walked out of the room.

She was back in a couple of minutes, holding a brass tray in one hand. On the tray, a glass tumbler, a bowl, and a pitcher, all in the same shade of pale blue. The bowl was full of ice cubes, the pitcher held what looked like water. She bent so sharply at the waist that she had to look up at me from under her eyelashes, showing me a flash of orange and some remarkable cleavage. "Ice?" she asked.

"Please."

She plucked three cubes from the bowl with her fingers, orange fingernails catching the light from the window. Then she carefully poured from the pitcher until the glass was full.

"Thank you," I said.

She took the full glass off the tray, held it to her mouth, tilted it back and drained it dry. "It's very good water," she said in that husky voice. "Good for you." Then she filled the glass again and handed it to me.

I took a sip just as Kite got to his feet, pulling a thin silver tube from his jacket pocket. He nodded at Heather. I heard the clack of a slide projector and a giant color photograph appeared on the flat black wall over the computer display. An infant, maybe a year old? Facing away from the camera, wearing a diaper. On the baby's back, two heavy lines parallel to his spine. And radiating from the spine, heavy dark marks—as though a giant had placed his thumbs on the baby's chest, wrapped his hands around the little body and squeezed.

The silver tube was a laser pointer. The hair–thin red line pointed out the marks, tracing their path down the baby's back. "What do you see, Mr. Burke?" Kite asked.

I told him.

He made a sound like a contemptuous snort. "What you are in fact seeing, Mr. Burke, is the result of an Oriental practice known as 'cupping.' It is called cheut sah, or, occasionally, cao gio. The practitioner, usually an elder, takes a coin—often coated with Tiger Balm—and scratches specific patterns in the skin. Notice how dramatic and symmetrical the marks are?" he said, using the laser pointer to emphasize his crisp words. "This is a time–honored treatment for infant illness. The opposite of child abuse. What you see is a centuries–old cultural practice, but the amateur—some caseworker, for example—would certainly conclude otherwise."

Kite walked back to his chair like a defense attorney who had just scored a major hit on cross–examination, basking in the glow of Heather's admiration. I used the opportunity to glance at the white wall. Now the image was a bird, a raptor of some kind, hovering high above a seascape, hunting with its eyes.

Suddenly, he looked up to face me. "A child, say a boy, four years old. He says a man down the street, a neighbor who has lived in the community for years, told him he had a puppy in his house and would show it to him. The man took him into his basement and fondled him," Kite said suddenly, looking at me. "Medical examination is negative. A therapist says the boy is suffering from some form of depression. He's blunted, mopes around, doesn't like to play with his friends anymore. Mother says he has nightmares, wakes up screaming. The man says he's talked to the boy a few times, but he never took him into his house. And never laid a hand on him. They ask you to talk to the boy, find out what really happened. What's your move?"

"That's all the information I've got?" I asked him, my voice as flat as his.

"That's all."

"You want me to go through the whole routine? Winning the kid's confidence, making him feel safe, taking my time…all that?"

"No. In fact, let's make it you get to ask him one question. One question only. What would that be?"

I took a minute, pretending I was thinking about it. Finally, I tilted my head back so I was looking at the ceiling. A pure, uniform off–white, as seamless as a sociopath's story. "What did the basement look like?" I said.

"Yes!" Kite said, clenching a fist. "Didn't I tell you?" he challenged, looking over my shoulder at the woman. "Mr. Burke is our man. Good research never lies."

The woman bowed her head, like she just heard the Truth.

"I have been told you are a master interrogator," he said, turning his gaze back to me.

"By who?" I asked him.

"Mr. C.," he said smoothly, laying down a trump card with a flourish. Mr. C., the Mafia don who paid me ten thousand dollars once. Just to come to a meal, listen to what some man I didn't know said. And tell Mr. C. if he was saying the truth. He wasn't.

"Anyone else?" I asked him, not showing he'd scored a hit. Not on my face, anyway.

"Oh yes, Mr. Burke. Numerous others. Heather…"

I heard the tap of her spike heels again. Another tapping then. Computer keys. Then the quiet whirring of the laser printer. I worked the cell phone signal again. The woman walked briskly past me, a long piece of paper in her hand. She handed it over to Kite, not bending over this time. Stood standing next to him, hip–shot, arms folded under her breasts. The backs of her arms were thick with muscle, her legs were power–curved, calves bulging hard against her stockings. He glanced over the paper, gave her a curt nod. She walked off. When I heard her heels stop clicking, I knew she was back in position again, somewhere behind me.

He handed the paper to me. A list.

A baby–raper sitting in the Brooklyn House of Detention. His 18–B lawyer thought he was innocent. Asked me to come along on an interview so I could get the facts, start looking around. I talked to the freak. And he finally told the lawyer all about what he'd done. A sick man, he said he was.

A Teflon–slick pedophile, computer–networked. In a lovely brownstone, safe and secure. We danced and dueled. Ended up trading. I got what I needed. He got what he thought was a free pass the next time he fell.

A guy who hired me to find out who raped and killed his wife. He thought he could trust me—after all, I was working for him. Twice stupid.

A long list. And you couldn't get that stuff just by having a friend on the force or bribing some clerk.

"Good job," I said, not pretending.

"I always do a good job," he said.

"Say what you want," I told him, glancing at my watch, making sure he saw the move.

"Can't you guess?"

"Somebody said they were sexually abused. Some kid, I guess. And you want me to prove they're lying."

"No, Mr. Burke," he said, talking in measured tones, making sure I heard every word. "I want you to prove they're telling the truth. I know your time is valuable. And I've used a good deal of it this afternoon. Heather will give you a representative sampling of my work on the syndrome. I'd like you to look it over. When you're ready, give me a call. Then we'll talk again. Fair enough?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for your time," he said formally. He got to his feet and walked out of the room.

I sat there, waiting. The woman came over to me, handed me a thick red folio, its flap anchored by the string looped between two circular tabs. "It's all here," she said.

I got up, followed her to the wrought–iron door. She didn't say goodbye.

"You okay, mahn?" Clarence asked, as I climbed into the back seat.

"Yeah," I told him, not sure myself.

"What did the man want, then?"

"Offered me a job. At least, that's what he said."

"Our kind of work?" the West Indian asked. Meaning: did he want something stolen or someone scammed. Or shot, maybe.

"I don't think so," I said. "Hard to tell. But I think I know who to ask."

I never opened the red file folder. It sat on my desk like an ashtray a kid makes for his mother in school—a mother who doesn't smoke. No point reading the stuff until I knew who wrote it.

It took four days to set up the meet. Wolfe wasn't chief of City–Wide Special Victims anymore. Couple of years ago, three college boys slipped a little chloral hydrate into a sorority girl's drink at a frat party. When she passed out, they took her down to a basement they had all fixed up. When she came to, she was tied up, penetrated by all three of them at the same time. The games went on for a long time. Thirty–six minutes, to be exact. Easy enough to prove that. Easy enough to prove it all—the boys had it on videotape.

When they were done, they dumped her on the front lawn of the sorority house. Naked. Bleeding a little bit from where they used the broomstick. The house mother called everybody except the police, but one of the other girls finally got the victim to a hospital.

The rape kit came up aces. Lots of sperm, and the boys were all secretors. The hospital took nice close–up photos too. You could see the bruising and the inflammation so clearly that some freak would probably pay a good price for it—good torture–porn stuff is always in high demand.

Nobody thought to test the victim's blood. They figured she'd been drunk, never suspected anything else. Everything was quiet until one of the rapists' frat brothers saw the video at a beer party. It didn't turn him on. It made him sick—he had a sister of his own. He took it to the cops.

Wolfe played the video for a grand jury. The boys were indicted for the whole boat–load: Rape One, Sodomy One, Aggravated Sexual Abuse, Unlawful Imprisonment….They were looking at about a thousand years apiece on paper—maybe eight and a third to twenty-five in real life…if some whore judge didn't give them probation.

The boys said she was a nympho. Begged them to do it. Hell, told them how to do it. The video…well, they had that lying around, sure. But making the movie, that was her idea. Even asked them for a copy. "SHE ASKED FOR ROUGH SEX, SAY COLLEGE BOYS!" screamed the headline from the same paper that called a thirty–five–year–old teacher "Classanova" for having sex with one of his fourteen–year–old students. New York: No jungle was ever so savage. Or so cold.

The boys' parents put together a whole team of lawyers—a white–shoe firm to negotiate a civil settlement, a couple of hardball criminal defense guys to explain what was going to happen to the girl if she was stupid enough to take the stand. They offered a sweet package—let the boys plead to a bunch of misdemeanors, take probation, do some community service, maybe even some sensitivity training in "gender boundaries." And they'd pay for whatever therapy the girl needed, say a quarter–million dollars' worth. After all, she was a sick kid, but the boys were still willing to take responsibility for their part in the whole sad affair.

Wolfe had the girl with a therapist. A good, strong therapist who was a warrior in her own fashion. She got the girl ready to face it all—ready for war. Wolfe told the pack of lawyers she was going to do to the boys what they'd done to the girl. Only it was going to last a lot longer.

Then Wolfe got taken off the case. In fact, they pulled the whole thing right out of her unit. Gave it to a kid who'd never tried a sex case before. A kid who'd gone to the same school where it all happened.

Wolfe told them they were tanking the case. They told Wolfe to shut up. Wolfe told them where to stick it and went to the papers.

Accusations flew.

Wolfe got fired.

The case went to trial.

The boys were acquitted.

Wolfe was the best sex crimes prosecutor anyone had ever seen. Every cop in the city knew it. They all said if Wolfe had handled the Simpson case, O.J. would be working on a life sentence instead of his golf game. But nobody would hire her after the unpardonable sin of standing up. If you work for the D.A.'s Office, you can be a drunk or a fool, a moron or a pervert. You can be late to work, screw up cases, have sex with your secretary…it doesn't matter, if your hooks are good. But you have to go along to get along, fall to your knees when the bosses snap their fingers.

Wolfe wouldn't do that, so they threw her whole life in the garbage for payback.

The rest of the staff got the message. None of the others in her old unit stood up except her pal Lily, the social worker, who only worked there as a consultant anyway. Wolfe formed a new crew. Started working campus investigations: date rape, sexual harassment, stalking. The schools hire her on a per–job basis—she'll never have another boss besides herself.

But there was something else. Something I'd picked up from the whisper–stream that flows just under the city's streets. The word said she'd gone outlaw after being fired, running her own intelligence cell, picking stuff up from the deep network she'd established when she was head of City–Wide…and selling it.

You can't trust everything you hear from the underground—the whisper–stream vacuums up everything, gold to garbage.

But I knew who to ask.

"I can place the face," the Prof said to me out of the side of his mouth, "but the crew is new."

We were on a bench in the park next to Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. A beautiful fall day, late September but still warm enough for the "Look at me!" crowd to display a lot of skin. The Prof was looking across to a parking lot where a tall woman with long dark hair was getting out of a battered old Audi sedan. She was wearing a white jumpsuit, a white beret set on her head at a jaunty angle. It was a good fifty yards away, but I could make out the distinctive white wings in her hair. I recognized the barrel–bodied Rottweiler she held on a short leash too. Wolfe. And the infamous Bruiser.

"You got them all?" I asked.

"One on the left," the Prof said. "With all the kids."

I took a glance. A small girl with long straight dark hair, surrounded by a pack of children. She was wearing a baggy pair of red–and–white–striped clown pants and a white T–shirt with some writing on the front. Big words, red letters. A beret on her head too; red. She had the kids bouncing around in some kind of snake dance, all of them laughing and waving their arms, following her lead. Black kids, white kids, Latino kids, Oriental kids…dozens of them, it looked like. The girl took a quick run–up and launched into a cartwheel, bounced up and clapped her hands. The kids all tried it at once, a riot of color tumbling over the grass. Adults stood back and watched, respectful of the magic.

"Catch the backup?" the Prof asked, tilting his chin at a big rangy–looking man in jeans and a cut–off black sweatshirt, his long light–brown hair tied in a ponytail. He had an athlete's build, stood with his hands open at his sides. Moving to the back of the watchers, rolling his shoulders, his hands empty, the man never took his eyes off the girl in the clown pants.

"Karate man?" I asked.

"Or boxer," the Prof replied. "Something like that. He ain't strapped, but he's got the broad wrapped, no question."

A young woman came down the path, a mass of dark–blonde hair spilling out from under a purple beret. Lemon–yellow bicycle shorts were topped by a white T–shirt with red lettering, same as the girl in the clown pants. She had a cell phone in a sling over one shoulder, a vanilla ice cream cone in the other hand. At her side was a light–tan dog with a white blaze on its chest—looked like a pit bull with uncropped ears. The dog moved with a delicate, mincing gait, its big head swiveling to watch anyone who got close.

The blonde stopped, dropped to one knee, held the ice cream cone inches from the dog's snout. The beast didn't move a muscle, feral eyes somewhere in the middle distance so it wouldn't be tempted to break the command. Then the blonde said something and the dog snapped the entire head off the ice cream cone in one happy snatch. The blonde stood up and kept walking, nonchalantly munching on what was left of the cone.

The girl got near enough for me to read the lettering on her shirt: the same DON'T! BUY! THAI! I'd seen on the woman at Boot's joint. I knew what that was about—I'd seen the same shirt a dozen times since. There's been a boycott going against anything made in Thailand for a while now. They sell babies for sex in Thailand. "Kiddie sex tourism," they call it. A whole lot of folks figured it out a long time ago: they sell babies for money, you choke off their money, maybe they'll stop it. Me, I'd rather choke off their air supply, but their neck's too thick.

The young woman stopped a few feet away from us, the dog halting next to her, regarding us with that flat disinterested stare that all the really dangerous ones have. The dog's short, muscular body was wrapped in one of those layered workout shirts, pink on top with just a hint of white around the neckline. When she sat up, I could read what was printed on the chest of the jersey. "IF YOU CAN READ THIS, CALL 911."

"What kind of dog is that?" I asked her.

"She's an AmStaff," the woman said. "An American Staffordshire Terrier."

"Looks like a pit bull to me," I told her.

"They were originally the same," she said, like she had all day to explain. "Petey, you remember, from the Little Rascals? He was the first AmStaff. They're like the show version of the pits. Sweeter too, right, Honey?" she cooed.

The dog responded to her name with a soft snarl. The woman stepped closer. Her face was lovely: huge eyes, peaches–and–cream skin. But her mouth was straight and serious—I didn't need the beret to tell me she was with Wolfe.

"You have something for me, Mr. Burke?" she asked.

"Just a message," I said, not reacting to her knowing my name. "For Wolfe. You can do that, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm interested in somebody. Man named Kite. Think she could help me?"

"That depends."

"On…?"

"We're in business, Mr. Burke. Just like you."

"I'll pay what it costs," I said. "When can you do it?"

"Maybe now," she answered. "I have to make a call. Just stay here, all right? Pepper will come over and tell you."

"Pepper?"

"You already spotted her," the young woman said, glancing over to where the girl in the clown pants was showing the kids how to twirl long thick ribbons on sticks.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the young woman walked off. The dog she said wasn't a pit bull looked over her shoulder at me without breaking stride, a clear warning.

It was another fifteen, twenty minutes before the girl in the clown pants broke away from the mob of kids, waving goodbye. Half of them tried to follow her—it took her a few minutes to get clear. The guy in the black sweatshirt stayed right behind her, about twenty feet back. I watched Max pick him up on an angle, moving fast but so smooth you couldn't tell unless you referenced him against the stationary trees.

She rolled up on us with a springy dancer's walk, flashing a smile bright enough to light up a suicide ward. "Hi!" she called out.

"You're Pepper?" I asked by way of greeting.

"That's me, chief!" she said, throwing a mock salute. "At your service."

The guy in the black sweatshirt settled in behind her, hands still at his sides. Max settled in too, maybe four paces to his right—he must have made the guy for a southpaw.

"Tell your friend to relax," I said to Pepper. "We're friends too."

"My friend? Oh, you mean Mick? He's fine where he is, okay?"

"Sure. You're gonna fix it? For me to talk to Wolfe?"

She stepped closer. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, deep and lustrous, shining with some inner happiness I'd never know. "You know the big statue? In the plaza?"

"Yes."

"Go on over. Walk slow. By the time you get there, you can talk to her."

"Thanks."

"You get what you pay for," she said, flashing another smile.

Clarence caught up with me and the Prof before we got halfway to the statue. He was wearing a mango jacket over a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck. His pants were black too, ballooning at the knees and tapering down to a narrow peg at the cuff. The saddle–stitching matched his jacket, right out of the Fifties. His shoes were midnight mirrors.

"Max went with the big guy, followed him right out. He hooked up with the Pied Piper girl. He's got a beautiful old bike, mahn. A Norton Black Shadow. British, you know. The girl just jumped on the back and they took off."

"What about the other one? The blonde with the pit bull?"

"Ah, that one. She is a piece of work, mahn. I was walking behind her. Just slow, ambling like. You know the pull–over spot? Where the cops park to watch everything?"

"Yeah. By the library, right?"

"Yes, mahn. There are two cops sitting there in a prowl car. You know, kicked back—not cooping or anything, just chilling. So this blonde girl, she walks up on them. And the pit bull, mahn, it stands up on its hind legs and sticks its snout right inside the car. And when it comes out, it has a donut in its mouth! I could not believe it, mahn—that damn dog must think the police car is a vending machine. I never saw such boldness."

"Ah, the cops were probably just trying to make points with the blonde."

"No mahn. It was not like that, I tell you. It was the dog. I believe it does that all the time, like a regular thing. Amazing."

We found a piece of railing just across from the statue. Wolfe was nowhere in sight. The Prof hoisted himself up onto the railing, dangling his short legs free, basking in the sun.

Girls walked by. On parade. Every size and shape and color on the earth, it seemed like. The railing was lined with young men, some not so young. All fishing off the same pier, but using different bait. Some smiled shyly, some fiddled with cellular phones self–importantly, like they were making some big deal. One guy did an ostentatious series of stretches, like he was getting ready to run a marathon. Some crooned "baby!" some snarled "bitch!" Some of the girls smiled, some of them looked away. None of them stopped.

Clarence just watched. A woman with high cheekbones and glowing dark–chocolate skin approached. She had on a white halter top and white shorts, cornrowed raven hair swinging with her step. She passed right in front of us, close. Her butt looked like a bursting peach. "Oh, God has blessed you, girl!" Clarence called out, sincerity lacing his voice like honey in tea.

"Might be He could bless you too, you act as sweet as you talk," the girl called back over her shoulder, not breaking stride.

Clarence catapulted off the railing, falling into step next to the woman like he was going to walk her to church. We watched them until they were out of sight. The Prof extended an open palm for me to slap. "That boy can go. And I taught him everything he know."

"He learned from the master," I acknowledged.

"Too true," the little man replied. "Only thing, I can't figure out why he likes them so skinny."

I didn't say anything. The girl had been maybe five, six, and she'd trip the scales right around welterweight. If every man in America had the Prof's taste, anorexia would vanish overnight.

A few minutes went by peacefully. Then the Prof said, "The Queen's on the scene, Schoolboy. Get it done, son."

I started across to the statue. Where Wolfe waited.

The years hadn't changed her. Pale gunfighter's eyes set wide apart in a cameo of fair, unblemished skin, all surrounded by a mass of heavy brunette curls. Standing tall on black spike heels, her carriage proud and straight. "It's been a long time," she said softly, "but I keep hearing about you."

"I hear about you too," I told her.

"And that's why you're here," she said, getting right to it, like always.

I just looked at her. Years ago, she'd told me the truth: "You and me, it's not gonna be," she'd said then. Reading the menu, changing restaurants before she got a taste. I didn't blame her—Wolfe crossed the border once in a while, but she didn't want to live there. "You know about a guy name Kite?" I asked her finally.

"You want pedigree?"

"I want whatever you got."

"Past, present, or future?"

"You do that? Surveillance?"

"Not twenty–four–seven. But we can pull agency stuff every day. And he's on the Net too."

"What's the toll?"

"You can have a voice bio for a deuce, paper package for five. A cross–check, right up to today, that's another five, unless he's webbed and you want the whole thing run."

"And the updates?"

"A grand for every hit, voice–notify. Half that just to keep the watch on."

"You must be rich, girl, you getting prices like that."

"I've got heavy expenses," she said, flashing her gorgeous smile. But her eyes stayed hard.

"You trust me for the voice bio?"

"Sure," she said. "But I know you wouldn't hit the street without at least that much cash. The kind of bail they'd put on you, you have to be carrying a much bigger piece just for case money."

"You want it here?" I asked, not denying her diagnosis.

"Tell one of your people to throw it in the car," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the Audi.

"Nobody's getting that close to your beast," I told her. I knew how Wolfe parked her car: passenger window wide open, the Rottweiler in the front seat, praying for invaders. He was a legendary killer—rumor is he even has a Judas cat who lures other felines into the yard so the Rottie can munch on them.

"Bruiser doesn't eat money," she said, giving me another smile. "I said throw it in—it'll be okay."

I held up two fingers, like I was testing the wind. "Consider it done," I told her.

Wolfe slit a pack of cigarettes with a long red fingernail, tapped one out. I fired up a wooden match, cupped the flame for her. She leaned against me, slightly, just barely making contact. I could smell her lemon–jasmine perfume. Sweet and sharp, like she was.

"He's a lawyer," she said softly. "Yale. Class of 1975. Full scholarship. Law review, top five per cent. He did matrimonial, then entertainment."

I nodded. Like I was listening, not like I'd heard it before. Wondering how she had all that in her memory bank—was she working Kite for someone else?

"He gave that up, years ago," she continued. "Now he's a free–lance hit man on child abuse cases. Specializes in blowing up testimony. He's damn good at it. Smart, thorough. Plugged in too. He gets really good information. Mostly pays for it, but he trades too."

"Bent?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'd like to think so, the side of the street he works and all. He plays hard. Even dirty, sometimes. I don't know where he gets some of his stuff, but I never heard of him manufacturing evidence."

"He's a science man?"

"Soft science. Psychology, not DNA or fingerprints. And pseudo–science too. Garbage like the 'False Memory syndrome.' He stays in the shadowland. The kind of cases where you never really know the truth, understand?"

"He never got burned?"

"Not badly. He doesn't testify himself. I know of at least three different cases where there would have been a finding if it hadn't been for him."

"A 'finding'? You mean a conviction?"

"No. In Family Court, in a child abuse case, they call it a 'finding' if they decide the abuse really went down. He works the civil side too. You know, lawsuits—"

"Yeah," I interrupted. "But if he doesn't testify…"

"One time, he found out the testifying therapist was in the middle of her own case. Trying to bar her ex–husband from visits, claimed he had molested their daughter."

"So? That doesn't mean—"

"He found out she'd done a couple of dozen evaluations. And she always concluded the child was molested. Every time. And she always said certain things were done to the child. Every time."

"She made it up?"

"Or she was so spooked she kept seeing ghosts, projecting her own kid's life on the ones she interviewed. No way to know. But when the jury heard she never interviewed a kid who wasn't abused, not even once…that was the ball game. Another time, he found out that the therapist had been abused herself when she was a kid."

"That's not so amazing, right? A lot of people go into the business because they—"

"Sure," Wolfe said, holding my eyes. "But this particular therapist, she'd never said a word until she was all grown. In her thirties. And when she came out with it, nobody believed her. So the way the jury got to hear it, the therapist was obsessed with believing whatever a child had to say, see?"

"One of those 'kids never lie' people, huh?"

"You got it. And that was the ball game right there."

"The information he had, it was righteous?"

"Absolutely. But that doesn't mean he always shows you the whole deck."

"So if he had information that would hurt the defense, he'd sit on it?"

"I don't know. He says not."

"You talked to him?"

"Once. Years ago. He was trying to get me to drop a case. He came to the office. We talked. He's got a real true–believer rap. Says it's all a witch hunt. Kind of like the lawyers who say every time a black man's accused of a crime, it's racism. I couldn't tell if he bought his own speech or not—he doesn't give a lot away on his face."

"What happened with your case?" I asked her.

"It was a day care center. Molestation. We got a conviction. Reversed on appeal—the Appellate Division said the initial questioning was too suggestive."

"Your office?"

"No," Wolfe bristled. "The first caseworker on the scene. And the therapist they referred the kids to."

"You buy it?"

"The questioning could have been cleaner," Wolfe admitted. "But there was a ton of other evidence. It's like the AD was looking for an excuse."

"There's a lot of that going around," I said.

"Yeah," she said dryly. "Anyway, this Kite's a strange bird all right. He said to me—actually, he swore to me—that he's just after the truth. That if he ever found a real stand–up case, he'd go to the mat with it. For the kid, not the defendant."

"And you've heard that before…"

"I have. Lots of times. But with this guy, I wouldn't swear to it. Either way."

"Thanks."

"You want the documents?"

"Yeah. Whatever you have. And maybe the watch, too."

"Are you in something?" she asked quietly.

"I might be. I don't know. But if I go down the tunnel, I'd like some light."

"Chiara—you talked to her before—she lives around here. Goes for a run every afternoon around five. She'll have the documents with her tomorrow, okay?"

"The blonde girl with the pit bull?"

"That's an AmStaff," Wolfe said, smiling.

"Sure," I told her. "Whatever you say."

"Give her the money," Wolfe said by way of goodbye. She turned and walked away. Suddenly she pivoted, stepped back toward me. I walked up to meet her. She stood very close, voice low, hardly moving her lips. "He's got a lot of friends," she said. "If something happened to him, there'd be a lot of people looking."

"He got a lot of enemies?" I asked her innocently.

"Those too," she said.

"Anything happening?" I asked Mama from the pay phone on the fringe of the park.

"Woman call. Say you call Kite tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No. Burke…"

"What?"

"Woman very angry."

"Why? What did she say?"

"Say nothing. What I tell you, that's all."

"So?"

"Under her voice. Very angry."

"At me?"

"I don't know. But very angry. Maybe you—"

"I'm always careful, Mama," I told her.

When someone at Kite's social level says "morning," they mean: any time past nine. Me, I was raised different. You knew it was morning by the PA system blaring in the corridor. That was prison. Before that, it was the juvenile institution, with the boss–man sticking his ugly head into the dorm room and screaming at you. Most of the time, in the juvie joints, I was awake anyway—hard to sleep when it could cost you so much to close your eyes or turn your back.

I never heard an alarm clock when I was a kid, not even in the freakish foster home they sentenced me to that first time. They woke me up there with a kick or a slap. Once with a pot of scalding water. I told the social worker it had been an accident—told her I tripped right near the stove. She didn't believe me. I didn't want her to believe me. But she acted like she did, and nothing ever happened.

If it hadn't been for the fire, they would have left me in that place.

I watched the darkness lift, sitting with Pansy on my rusty fire escape, smoking a peaceful cigarette, scratching her behind her ears the way she likes. I had the cell phone with me, complete with a newly cloned number good for at least another few days, but time wasn't pressing so there was no need to risk it. I heated up a pint of roast pork almond ding Mama had insisted I take with me last visit. Pansy's the only dog I ever heard of who loves almonds. But until I run across something she won't eat, I'm not going to be too impressed with it. Me, I had some rye toast, dry, and some ice water.

I ate slowly, reading the paper. The usual mulch of crime and whine. Another little girl tortured to death. Child Protective Services couldn't comment on the rumor that they'd returned the kid to her mother after the last abuse and never bothered to check up on her again. After all, their records are confidential. To protect the kids. Lying maggots. Politicians promised an investigation as the usual babblers ranted on: If you're a parent and you feel like hurting your kid, seek counseling. Yeah, that ought to do it. Next thing you know, they'll be telling incest victims to Just Say No.

Of course, a spontaneous memorial sprung up outside the building where the little girl died: handwritten poetry about how much everybody loved her, pictures cut from newspapers. Flowers as dead as that baby. But that's okay—it'll make the late news on TV. And they'll have an open–casket wake, so there'll be plenty of photo ops too.

All that concern for dead babies, none of it for the living ones. Everything as empty as a President's promise.

I felt a shudder of hate, like someone had pulled a string of broken glass right through my spine. I stared for a long time at the red dot I'd painted on my mirror, breathing deep through my nose all the way down into my groin….

When I came out of it, it was almost three hours later. I didn't think about where I'd gone, but I didn't like the fear–stink in the room.

I took a shower and tried to start over. I worked on my mail for a while, keeping the lines out, trolling for freaks. They're the easiest to sting, especially the stalkers who want kids. But the Internet has changed the game a bit—they all want samples now. I know this guy. Everyone calls him Spike. Doesn't leave his house much, and doesn't say why. But he hates the baby–rapers and he's real good with software—you lock modems with this boy, your hard drive's going to fry.

Spike lets me use one of his machines for an E–mail drop, but I only tap it for big scores, not the nickel–and–dime stuff I usually work. It's all anarchy on the Internet now. Makes me nervous. I'm more comfortable when I know the rules—it's easier to cheat.

"Mr. Kite's office." It was the woman, a tightness in her husky voice.

"It's Burke," I said. "Returning his call."

"Thank you. Can you come over? There's some information you need to have. Before you make up your mind."

"Come over now?"

"Yes. If that's convenient."

"I need about an hour, hour and a half."

"That would be fine."

There was enough of a snap in the air to justify me putting on a leather jacket over a denim work shirt and a pair of cargo pants. I laced up a pair of work boots, patted myself down to make sure I had everything else, tapped Mama's number into the cellular, told her where I was going. Now that Wolfe had confirmed Kite was a major player, I wasn't worried about him pulling up stakes. And Max knew where to find him if he was going to be stupid.

It didn't feel like that though.

I walked over to Foley Square, taking my time, and grabbed the 6 Train uptown.

I found a seat next to a white kid with the sides of his head shaved but center–parted long hair flopping down each side of his narrow face. He had a pair of headphones tight on his head but I could still hear the bass line pounding through. He was nodding to himself, playing Russian roulette with his eardrums.

I got out at Fifty–first. The streets were quiet—still too early for the two–hour–lunch crowd. I snapped a half–smoked cigarette into the gutter and stepped into Kite's building.

The doorman opened his mouth to say something about the service entrance, but I beat him to the punch with Kite's name. He picked up the desk phone, announced me, listened for a second, then waved me into the private elevator with no change of facial expression. He was a professional ass–kisser, reserving his special talent for members only.

The ancient elevator car's hydraulics were as well–greased as Congress—it rocked slightly but didn't make a sound on the way up. The door opened to show me the woman, Heather, standing behind the grille. She was wrapped in a gauzy piece of red chiffon, heavy makeup masking her face. Her hair was sleek and shiny; in the faint light, it looked the same color as the black–cherry soda I used to love when I was a kid.

She stepped back so I could swing the grille open. The chiffon wrap was open to the waist, cinched tightly with a belt of the same material. Her breasts looked artificial in the dim light, jutting huge and rigid, the nipples so heavily rouged they almost disappeared.

I closed the grille behind me. When I turned back to face her, she was already walking down the hall without a word. I stepped behind her, not too close. Her hands went to her waist, came away with the sash. She shrugged her shoulders and the wrap slid off. She kept walking, barefoot, naked except for a red garter high on her thick right thigh. Released from the bondage of the corset she'd been wearing the last time, her body was still curvy, but soft and fleshy, shimmering with every bouncy, assured step she took.

As she turned the corner into the big open room, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. I stopped too, just in time to keep from blundering into her. She spun on her heel and whirled to face me, a left hook coming up from around her hip, catching me right under the cheekbone. I dropped with the punch. As I hit the ground, I whipped my left leg around on the slick hardwood floor—the toe of my heavy boot cracked hard into her ankle. Her leg wouldn't hold her and she fell forward, right on top of me. I took her face into my chest as I fired a two–finger strike into the side of her neck. She gasped in pain and tried to claw at my face, snarling some foulness I couldn't understand, but I had my forearms crossed and she never got through. I turned under her, just in time to take her knee on the outside of my thigh, pulled my right hand free and hit her with a sharp, digging punch just under her ribs—I felt her breath go. I spun with the punch, got her facedown on the floor, and rammed my knee into her spine as I reached forward and locked her jaw with both hands. "One snap and you're in a fucking wheelchair for life, bitch!" I whispered in her ear.

Her whole body shook, but she didn't try to break the hold. "You done?" I asked her.

"Yes," she said quietly, her body limp.

I backed off her, carefully. She stayed facedown on the floor, pulling in ragged breaths. A muscle jumped right over the red garter on the back of her thigh.

A minute passed. I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket, palmed a roll of quarters, made a fist. Waited.

She slid her knees forward so her hips were elevated, but she kept her face on the floor. It was a submissive position, like an animal calling off a territorial fight. "Can I get up?" she said.

"Do it slow," I told her.

She tried to put some weight on her left leg, but it was no go. She gave it up and turned to face me on her knees, eyes on mine, gazing up. She didn't look submissive any longer—her orange eyes were as cold and watchful as a lizard's.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked.

"A warning," she said, still short of breath, but her voice hard. "It was supposed to be a beating. Just to show you. I thought, if you saw me naked all of a sudden, you'd be…frozen. And I could get the first shot in, before you realized…" She gulped down another breath, eyes still steady on mine. "I thought you'd take it—I didn't think you'd hit a woman."

"You had bad information," I told her.

"No," she said. "I had good information. But I didn't listen. He always warns me about that. Not listening."

"You're still not listening. I asked you: What was that all about, jumping me?"

"A message. That you better not play him wrong. If you do, I'll kill you."

"You don't have to worry about that, you crazy bitch—I'm done with this."

"You can't," she hissed. "He'll…"

"What?"

"He doesn't know anything about this. I mean it. He's not even here. He didn't know you were coming today. This was all mine. I read your file and I was…afraid for him. This is important. Really important. You'll never know how much. It means everything to him."

"You got a funny way of—"

"And he means everything to me," she cut in. Everything, you understand? I did it wrong, okay. You want to kick my ass now, that's okay too. Go ahead—I won't say anything."

"I don't care what you say," I told her, meaning it.

"You have to do it," she said, looking down at the floor, her voice soft. "Please."

"I don't have to do anything."

"I'll make it up to you. I promise. I'll make it worth your while. Just tell me what you want…"

I stepped carefully around her, kept going all the way to the front door. She called something softly at my back. I closed the door behind me, leaving her there.

I could feel my face swelling under the skin, but I didn't think the cheekbone was broken. Putting my fingers to the pain, I couldn't feel my pulse in the damaged flesh. Not too bad, then.

The subway glass reflected back my image, just starting to go swollen and discolored, the eye already closed. Nobody but me was interested—straphangers see worse every day.

I spent the rest of the ride reading the posters. My favorite was from a law firm:

BABY BORN BRAIN–DAMAGED?

YOU MAY BE ENTITLED TO A LARGE CASH AWARD!

FREE CONSULTATION—NO FEE

UNLESS WE GET MONEY FOR YOU!

Back at the office, I cracked open one of those Insta–Cold packs they sell in drugstores, squeezed it in the middle until the liquid formed inside, and held the artificial ice against my cheek while I reached out for Mama on the cellular.

"That woman call. Call twice. She say, you call her, okay? Very, very important. Call right now."

That was quick. "Anything else?" I asked her.

"Girl call too. Bondi. Say to call her too. Very important also, okay?"

"Okay."

"You need Max?"

"I'm all right, Mama."

"I get him here. You call later, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," I told her.

"That's a beauty, isn't it?" Bondi whispered, looking at my face under the gentle reflected light from one of the baby spots. I was lying on her couch, shoes off, a pillow under my neck, darkness just coming outside through the closed blinds of her showplace window.

"It's okay," I told her. "Not too bad."

"Ah, a tough boy you are, huh? You let them X–ray it?"

"I didn't go to the hospital. It was a punch, that's all. An amateur punch."

"What happened to the other guy?"

I watched her face to see if she knew something, but her grin was innocent—impish, just playing. "It's all done," I said. "Finished. Don't worry about it."

"She called here. Heather…that big fat woman I told you about."

"So?"

She leaned over me, eyes narrowing in concentration, working hard to make sense out of whatever she was going to say. "She said there was money for me. A…bonus, like. What I needed, I mean, what I needed to do, I had to get you to meet with her."

"Meet with her where?"

"Anywhere, luv, that's what she said. Said it just like that, too. But it had to be soon."

"Soon?"

"Tomorrow," she said softly.

"And how much is your…bonus?"

"Five thousand, she said. In cash. And Burke…"

"What?"

"She said she'd give it to you. For me, I mean. She'll give it to you when you meet with her."

"So she knows—"

"Oh I don't know what that damn witch knows!" Bondi snapped at me. "I'm not a player, am I? Never a player. Me, I'm always the goddamned game."

"Why you biting at me, girl? This isn't mine, and you know it."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I know it's not you. It's not even just…men, now. Not with…her in it. I wish I'd never started with that miserable bastard."

"The guy—"

"Yes! The man across the street," she said, voice hardening. "That's right. Him."

I closed my eyes, drifting with her rhythm. "How're you supposed to tell her?"

"She's going to call. At eight tonight. I told her I'd reach out for you. But I couldn't be sure if you'd—"

"It's all right, Bondi. Tell her I'll do it, okay?" Then I told her about a certain park bench.

It was eight on the nose when the phone rang. Bondi left the couch, punched one of the lines on the phone console.

"Yes?"

…

"Yeah, I did that."

…

"Tomorrow, then. Seven in the morning."

…

"Yes, in the morning—that's what he said."

…

"I don't know, do I? He just said seven in the morning, that's all."

Then she told the voice I couldn't hear where to come.

"Maybe cats have the right idea," Bondi said, her face so close to mine it was out of focus. In her bedroom, the queen–sized bed walled in with suitcases, all packed and ready.

"About what?"

"About licking their wounds," she purred, coming close, her pouty breasts brushing my chest, tongue flicking across my cheek where Heather had hooked me.

"Bad idea," I said, wincing from the little stab of pain.

"No," she whispered. "Just a bad place." She licked my stomach. Gentle, tip–of–the–tongue licks. "See?" she said softly.

"I'm leaving tomorrow, honey," she said later. "I hate this place. I hate this life. I'm going home."

"The man across the street—"

"—doesn't matter to me anymore. It was a bad idea. Maybe just someone else using me the way they always do, I don't know. But if you want to mail the money to me—her money, what she's going to give you tomorrow—I'll leave you my address at home. If you…"

"I want it anyway," I told her, the words coming so smoothly out of my mouth that I didn't stop to think if they were true. But they bought me a smile, her small white teeth flashing in the darkness.

The phone rang, a sharp intrusion. My eyes blinked open. The digital clock on the nightstand said 12:44.

"It's him," she said, wide awake, not moving.

"So fucking what?" I asked her. "Guess he's gonna miss his little show for once."

The phone rang again. Three times more. Then it stopped.

"Ah, it's my fat bum he wants tonight," Bondi said, an ugly edge on her voice. "I never liked that one."

"What difference—?"

"I know how I can do it," she said, suddenly sitting up in the bed. "I know what would square it. How I can get him. Right now."

"Bondi…"

"Will you help me, honey?"

"I'm not going over—"

"No," she said softly, her lips to my ear. "I know a better way. Please…"

When the mini–blinds opened a few minutes later, whoever was watching saw Bondi's last performance. She put everything she had into it, doing it all.

Only this time, she had a co–star.

"You pick up the stuff?" I said into the cellular. It was about four–thirty in the morning. The city was still dark through the windshield of the Plymouth as I worked the West Side Highway downtown.

"Made the call, got it all," the Prof came back. "Heavy package too. When you need it?"

"Couple of hours, if that's okay. I need something else too: a triangle. At the park bench. Can you do it?"

"I can do two, that's always true. But has the third heard?"

"I can do that part, I think."

"What time does it rhyme, bro?"

"I made it for seven. Got to shade it at least a half hour."

"How many for breakfast?"

"One. Better be one. Any more than that, it's a red zone, got it?"

"Dead and buried, Schoolboy. What's the rules? Got to keep hands showing, what?"

"It's not like that. Just watch, okay?"

"Yeah. One person you said. Looks like….what?"

"A woman. Big woman. And she'll be limping."

I got hold of Mama, wondering for the thousandth time if she ever slept. And where. She said she'd get Max to the spot in plenty of time. The Mongolian would eyeball Clarence and the Prof first, then he'd fit himself into the triangle.

Pansy was glad to see me. And overjoyed at the cold filet mignon Bondi insisted I take from her refrigerator. "I'm not one to let good food go to waste, honey. And when he comes over here, he's not gonna find anything except the bare walls, I promise you. And I plan to leave him a little something there too," she said grimly, an uncapped red lipstick in her right hand.

It didn't take us long to say goodbye. Sharing secrets doesn't always make you close.

I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, checked with Mama to make sure Max got the message. Almost six by then. Time to start my walk.

Battery Park is a pocket of green at the very southern tip of Manhattan, on the far side of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. The bench we always use faces out toward the Hudson River. There's a couple of ways to get to it, but no cover for the approach. And watching is real easy down here. At seven in the morning, you still got joggers and bikers and lurkers and drunks and wrongly discharged mental patients and drug dealers and the occasional tourist killing time until they open the ferry to the Statue of Liberty—no way to tell who's who no matter how suspicious you might be.

I was in place by six forty–five. Had the bench to myself, so I didn't have to pull any of the various disgusting moves in my considerable repertoire to clear the space. I thought Clarence and the Prof would be working their shoeshine routine, but I couldn't spot either of them. Even if someone else could, they wouldn't see hardware. Clarence isn't just fast; he's magic. One second you see his hand, the next, it's full of nine–millimeter heat—like the pistol just materialized.

Max was easier. He was standing right by the water's edge, performing a slow–motion kata, a lengthy one that looked like t'ai chi if you didn't know much about it. Passersby watched him with mild curiosity—the routine wasn't interesting enough to make them stop and didn't look threatening enough to make them hurry past.

On the back of one of the other benches, graffiti–splattered in bright yellow: SCHIZOPHRENICS ARE NEVER ALONE!

She came up the path a couple of minutes before seven, gimping along slow but steady, a black walking stick in her left hand and a white leather purse that looked like a horse's feedbag slung over the opposite shoulder. She was wearing a hot–pink sweatsuit, her body back in harness underneath. Her breasts jutted like heavy weapons, not a trace of jiggle anywhere. She halted a few feet from me, tentative, making sure she caught my eye. I nodded, not greeting her, just acknowledging her presence. She came over to the bench, raised her pencil–line black eyebrows. I took a deliberate glance at a spot next to me, still not talking.

She turned her back to me and sat down butt–first, the way you get into a low–riding sports car. Then she unslung the purse, put it gently on the wood bench between us.

"That's yours," she said.

"For what?"

"For nothing. I mean, not for doing anything. It's an apology, that's all. Go ahead, take a look."

"I don't have X–ray eyes," I said. "And I don't open strange packages myself."

She nodded as if that made sense. Reached down and pulled the zipper on the bag, using two hands to hold it wide open, like she was spreading the jaws of a giant clam. I looked inside. Banded cash. A lot of it.

"Twenty–five thousand dollars," she said, looking at her hands in her lap. A big diamond glittered on her left hand. An engagement ring? "Hundred–dollar bills," she said. "Used bills, no consecutive serial numbers."

"That's a big apology."

"I fucked up big time. Twenty of it's for you, five for the whore."

"The whore?"

"You know who I mean. Bondi, whatever her name is."

"And she's a whore?"

Her orange eyes caught the early morning light. "I did a stupid thing, but I'm not stupid," she said. "The research wasn't wrong, I was."

"So…?"

"So I know what she does. For money."

"I do things for money too."

"Would you let somebody fuck you for money?"

"Meaning you wouldn't?"

"No. I wouldn't. I would never do that. It's wrong."

"So you don't just punch people out, you're a goddamned judge too?"

"If you like."

"No, I don't like. I don't like you. A woman takes money for sex, she's no good according to you, right? But you, you want to do some bodywork on me, bang me around, scare me into doing something you want…that's okay?"

"I said I was wrong."

"No, bitch. You said you guessed wrong, that's all. It worked for you before, didn't it?"

"What?"

"Slapping people around."

"You chipped a bone in my ankle," she said, a little–girl undertone to her voice. "It hurt, what you did."

"You hurt yourself," I told her. Thinking of an ancient aikido master standing in a dojo years before, talking to a student who was moaning and holding his broken hand, telling him it was the student's desire to hurt another that caused him so much pain.

"I cop to it, okay?" she said flatly. "When you do something wrong, all you can do is apologize and take what's coming to you."

"And what's coming to you is paying me off?"

"I asked you if you wanted something else."

"When?"

"I said you could kick my ass if you wanted to. You still can, if it would make things right. Or…"

"What?"

"Or you can…have me. Any way you want."

"Instead of the money?"

"Yes."

"But you're not a whore, huh?"

Her face flamed. "You can keep the money too, all right?"

"I don't want you."

"You would if I was…nice," she said softly. "I know you would—it's in your eyes."

"You need a translator," I told her.

"Am I too fat for you? Or maybe you just like whores."

"Maybe I just don't like liars."

She took a deep breath, squeezing her hands together in her lap. Max was still into his kata, never breaking the flow. If she'd brought friends with her, they weren't close enough to do much. Not with their hands, anyway. I've seen Max move—he was a hell of a lot closer than he looked. And whatever she planned to do, she couldn't run away.

"I'll give you one more thing, then," she said. "The truth. How's that?"

"Say it. Then I'll tell you what it's worth."

She turned to face me, quickly ran her tongue over her lips. It wasn't a come–on—she was getting ready to talk. "When I was thirteen years old I was already…built like this. I looked like I was twenty at least. And I dressed like it too. I met a man. A famous man. He was a writer. A serious writer. He wrote books about economics. And social theory and politics and stuff like that. We were…friends. He thought I was older, but he never tried anything with me. Just…holding hands and stuff. I told him I was a salesgirl. In a record store. I knew a lot about that—I used to spend all my time in one. We were together a lot. Mostly in this coffeehouse in the Village. An old–style one. Little tables, checkered tablecloths, you could sit there for hours and nobody'd bother you….

"But sometimes we went to his place. He had an apartment, the first floor of a brownstone on Bank Street. It was mostly books. Real quiet and peaceful. He'd give me books to read, and we'd talk about them. I wanted him to love me. And I think he did, maybe…"

Her voice trailed off. I closed my eyes so I could hear her better. Waited.

"I had a key to his place. I got there before him one night. I wanted to surprise him. I took my clothes off and took a bath. A bubble bath. In his tub. Then I put on this negligee I bought. I thought it was real sexy, but now I know it was just cheap and tacky. I was going to be a surprise package for him when he got home. So he could unwrap it, you understand?"

"Sure."

"But when he walked in the door and saw me, his face got all red, like he was real mad. I asked him what was wrong. And then he asked me how old I was."

"I lied. Like I did before. But he wasn't going for it. I showed him my fake ID and everything, but it was like he…knew something. I took off the negligee. I stood right in front of him. Naked. But he didn't budge, just stood there with his arms folded. And then I told him the truth. His face went white. He was scared, I could tell."

She went quiet for a minute, her face bowed. A tear tracked her cheek, cutting a soft river through the heavy makeup. I turned my detector on full, but the signals were still scrambled. I swept the field with my eyes without turning my head but the ground all around me was bland. Max was still in place.

Maybe a minute passed. If she was waiting for me to say something, she was out of luck. Finally, she looked up. "That's when I…did it. I told him he had to make love to me. He had to. Or I'd tell everyone he did."

I made some neutral sound, encouraging her to talk, not judging.

"He just stood there with his arms folded. I got dressed and I left. I called him after that. A lot of times. After a while, he just used his answering machine to screen the calls. It made me so mad…knowing he was right there and he wouldn't even talk to me."

"What could he have said?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," she answered. "Something…But he didn't. Nothing. Nothing at all. So that's when I did it."

"Did what, Heather?"

"I told on him. I told my mother. But she said that's what I deserved, dressing like a slut, not listening to her and all. She called me a fat fucking cow. She always called me that. My father…they're divorced, he lives in L.A., I never see him. So I told a teacher. A guidance counselor. And then she went to my mother."

"What did you tell the counselor?"

"That we were lovers. That we had sex. Not…real sex. I was too smart for that. I mean, I was a virgin. And I knew there were ways they could tell. I knew what to tell them. I told them we did…other things. My mother was real mad. Not for what happened—what I said happened—but because I embarrassed her. She went and got the strap. But I told her if she ever raised that thing to me again, I'd break her fucking arm for her. She knew I could do it then—I was almost as big as I am now. Strong too."

"So what happened?"

"She didn't do anything. Just left me alone. But she told her boyfriend. A lawyer. And he told her she could make money if I sued him. So that's what we did."

"Did you go to the police too?"

"No. At least, not at first. Her boyfriend, he told us we should ask for money first. In a letter. But he wouldn't pay. He wrote and said I was a liar. And I was."

"How did the case…?"

"It made the papers. They even took my picture. My mother's boyfriend had me dress up like a little girl. No makeup, a big loose dress and everything. We sued him for five million dollars. I looked just like I really was—a fat, ugly, sad little girl."

"He ever pay it?"

"No," she said, her voice strangling on grief. "He never paid it. He killed himself. With a gun. In his apartment. In that same room."

"Ah…"

"He left a note. Not for the papers, for me. He mailed it to me—I got it after he was gone. It said: 'Your lies took my life.' That's all."

"What happened then?"

"I went…nuts. My mother put me in a hospital. I was there almost five years. I wanted to kill myself too. So I could apologize. So I could be with him and apologize. It took me a long time before…"

"Before…?"

"Before they let me out. Then I went to college. I went to high school in the hospital, so I was ready. When I got out, I just drifted. Waiting for something, I didn't know what. And then I met him."

"Kite?"

"He gave a lecture. It only cost ten dollars. He talked about the climate. The American climate. How we have witch hunts all over again, only this time, about child sexual abuse. After the lecture, I went up to him. And I told him the truth, like I just told you."

She clasped her hands under her breasts, lifting them up like the offering she'd made to the man she killed so many years before, her voice rapt with true–believer lust. "He didn't shun me. He listened. He explained to me why I did it. He said if the climate was right in America, I wouldn't really have caused that much damage. Nobody would have been hurt. The right people would have asked the right questions, and the truth would have come out. That's what he does. That's his work.

"He told me something else too," she said softly. "How I could make up for what I did. Helping him in his work. That's what I've done ever since. Almost ten years now. And when he told me about you, I was scared. I read your file. You're a criminal. You went to prison. I think you even killed people—it says you did in your file. But he was sure you were the right man for this. It's so important to him."

"What?"

"The truth—don't you understand? He always says the people who say it never happens are just as crazy as the ones who say it always happens. He believes this wom—In this case, I mean. I do too. And he says you're the man to prove it for him…If you can't break a story, it can't be broken, that's what he says."

She turned her head toward the water, looking at the dark river as if it would give her strength. "He says you would have broken me. That if you had been on the job, I never would have gotten away with it. Oh God, I wish that had been. But you're a…mercenary, that's what he calls you. I was afraid you wouldn't play square. That you'd take money from the other side and betray us. He's not a…strong man. Not physically, I mean. I was afraid you'd take his money and then just go away and laugh at him."

"So you thought you'd…what? Scare me?"

"I thought if you knew…that I'd kill you if you betrayed him, maybe you'd…I don't know! I wasn't really trying to hurt you. Not hurt you bad. If I wanted to do that, I would have used these," she said, one pudgy little hand going to the waistband of the sweatsuit. She moved slow and careful, taking out a pair of brass knuckles. Not fitting them over her fists, just showing them to me. "I know how to use them," she said. "I learned to do it in…there. Some of those attendants, they…I wanted you to know, if you did that to him, I'd kill you."

"I believe you'd kill me, Heather," I told her. "That's why I'm walking away. I got enough enemies."

"You can't!" she cried, grabbing my hand. "Please! He needs you. I do too. I'm sorry for what I did. Sorry for what I did to…him. And to you too. I don't care if you hate me. I wouldn't even blame you. I hate me too. Please, please…just take the money. And…whatever else you want."

I had no map for this, so I went with the only thing I knew. "Tell Kite I'll call him in a couple of days," I told her, scooping up the feed–bag purse as I got to my feet.

I didn't look back.

The Prof was standing next to Clarence's Rover as I approached, a lawyer's black leather attaché case in his hand. "She rolled in alone, home," he said. "In a big beast. All white, smoked glass—a high–glide ride."

"You get a look inside?"

"Just a glimpse, when the door opened. I tried to sneak a peek, but I couldn't see nobody else. She was behind the wheel."

"Think Kite doesn't know?"

"No way to tell, Schoolboy. She parked a long way down. Bitch had to gimp it for a good quarter mile."

"Yeah. That the stuff from Wolfe?"

"That's the true clue, babe. Pickup went smooth. Clarence copped it from that blonde with the doughnut–snatching pit bull. She was right on time."

"Thanks," I said, taking the attaché case from him. "How's this scan to you?" I asked, running down what happened in Kite's apartment, what Heather just told me too.

The little man listened close, head cocked so I didn't have to speak up, a habit that marked him as clear as a jailhouse tattoo. "She knows how it's done, son. Stripped to freeze your eye, dropped the sucker punch before you could catch the lie. Can't be the first time she played that tune."

"Yeah. Felt like she was going for it too. I hadn't stopped her, she was gonna hurt me."

"You think pain's her game?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"No. And I'm not gonna find out either. That's a freaky, dangerous broad. I think she was telling the truth. She wants this. Wants it bad. I think she's used to bulling her way through things. She's real…I don't know…physical. Maybe she works the bad–cop thing with Kite. When he does questioning…"

"If rough–off's the tool, she's a fool," the Prof said. "You got to check out the canvas before you paint."

"I know," I said, remembering. It was one of the first things he taught me.

"You gonna play it?" he asked me, not pushing either way.

"Man went to a lot of trouble," I said, thinking it through out loud. "Time and money both. It's me he wants. For this job, anyway. I don't know what he'd do if I pulled out, but there's no reason to risk it. We're gonna get paid, right? And some of that money's gonna buy us the same gun he's pointing at my head—information."

"Yeah," the little man agreed. "I wouldn't want that Wolfe woman getting me in her sights either."

I reached in the feed–bag purse, counted out five thousand and pocketed it for Bondi. Then I handed the purse over to the Prof. "There's twenty in here. Five apiece for you, me, Clarence, and Max. Hush money, bitch thinks it is. I'm gonna stay hushed for a while. Near as I can tell, Kite wants me to talk to someone, see if they're telling the truth. I'm gonna do that. Then…"