False Allegations

"You backed, Jack," the little man said.

I drove away slowly in the Plymouth, enclosed in the steel but looking out through the glass. Thinking about how safe the Prof always made me feel.

I'd come into prison a rookie thug, pulling armed robberies cowboy–style, ready to risk a life sentence for a payroll. The prison economy produces entrepreneurs the same way the Outside does. Pressure extrudes. There was this guy who was always just one beat off from the crime music the rest of us lived by. The Prof called him Einstein and, after a while, we did too. Einstein was always coming up with great ideas. One was books–on–video for the deaf: On the screen would be a person signing the whole book, like closed caption. Another move was Mother Nature's cigarettes: organically grown tobacco, no pesticides, rolled in recycled paper. He was going to sell them in health–food stores. The flash of his ideas always blinded him to the one little problem with them.

Einstein was out in the World once and finally hit on a winner—selling special limited editions of books by authors who never made the best–seller list but had real followings among collectors. He did it right: leather–bound, ribbon markers, marbled endpapers…everything. First time he tried it, he ran off a printing of five hundred, and he sold every single one. Then, of course, the genius figured he was on a roll, so he went back for a second printing. Couldn't figure out why that one flopped.

See, Einstein was a citizen in his heart. Only reason he kept coming back to prison, he was always using a gun to turn banks into his personal ATM, grabbing R&D money for his next project.

Einstein read a lot. I mean, a lot. He was always looking for the Answer. Anyway, one day he comes out on the yard, sure he'd finally found It. He just finished some book on the Civil War—it was all about how rich men avoided the draft by paying poor men to fight in their place. So Einstein figured this time he had the perfect scheme: why not let rich men who got convicted of crimes pay other guys to do their time?

He ran it down all excited, the way he always did. The first guy to respond was a stone fool named Vinnie. "I wouldn't do that for a million bucks," he sneered, superior.

But the Prof wasn't going to let anyone riff on Einstein. "Yeah, right. You too slick for that trick, huh? Naw, you wanna keep sticking up your goddamn bodegas for chump change! How much you pull from your last score, Dillinger? Few hundred bucks? And what you doing on this bit, another nickel–and–dime? My man Einstein may be loco, but he ain't stupid!"

By the time the Prof was done with my education, I knew a dozen slicker, safer ways to get money. All crooked.

I knew this was one of them—but I didn't know how to do it yet.

I sent the money to Bondi in a plain little box, tightly duct–taped inside the brown paper wrapping. It's a big–time felony to ship cash into Australia, so I put the package together as carefully as a letter bomb—if the cops opened it at the other end, it wouldn't bounce back to me. I did all the lettering with a pantograph—no handwriting, no hands. For a return address, I used a sex–dance joint in Times Square. Maybe they'd figure some old customer was sending her a present.

I used the Main Post Office on Eighth, the busiest one in the world. As I walked out, I stripped the surgeon's gloves from my hands, tossed them in a Dumpster, and disappeared into the subway.

Back in the office, I went through the package I'd paid Wolfe for. Kite was born in 1951. Weighed six pounds three ounces. No prior live births listed to his mother. Pediatric records showed regular visits. Nothing remarkable except a bout with whooping cough and surgery to correct an undescended testicle.

Parents both dead, car accident. Drunk driver took them out when Kite was eleven years old. Raised by mother's sister and her second husband, a lawyer in Spokane, Washington. Tonsillectomy, age thirteen. Pretty late in the game for that—must have been painful. Straight–A student in high school. Chess club, debate team, drama society. SAT score of 1540. Full scholarship to college.

In 1970, his aunt's husband was arrested for a series of highway rapes near the Idaho border. The rapist was a cripple–hunter, cruising the side roads in bad weather, looking for cars that had broken down…cars with women drivers, alone and stranded. He wore a stocking mask, never left prints. They caught him with an undercover operation, used a woman decoy cop standing next to a car with the hood up. Found the stocking mask, heavy pair of leather gloves, and a lead pipe wrapped in black friction tape. When they let him out on bail, he called a press conference. He said all the evidence had been planted—they had the wrong man and they knew it.

But two of the victims ID'ed him. The mask didn't help—he hadn't been circumcised until he was an adult, and the penile hood had a distinctive flap of darkened flesh where the surgeon had left a piece.

He pleaded guilty on the eve of trial. The prosecutor agreed he was suffering from a "mental disease or defect" and prison wouldn't be appropriate. He was committed to a closed psychiatric facility for an indefinite period, his status to be reviewed periodically.

Three months into his term, he was stabbed to death in the shower room.

His mother's sister remarried a year later. Kite never returned to Spokane. I glanced over the law school stuff—just a flesh–out of what Wolfe had already told me. Law Review, Order of the Coif, American Jurisprudence Award in Contracts. Admitted to the New York Bar in 1975, Federal District Court in 1976.

Never married. No indication he was gay. The Sutton Place address was the only one anybody had. No driver's license. Premises permit for a SIG–Sauer P230 semi–auto.

He had a SEP account at a major brokerage house. Started in 1988, rolling over the 401(k) from the last law firm he'd left. Present value: $588,644.22. The Sutton Place joint was a co–op. Mortgage of $860,000, this after a down payment of $750,000 flat. Monthly nut, mortgage, carrying charges, and taxes: $13,100.29. Paid perfectly, auto–EFT from his business checking account. The unit he owned included a basement garage. A 1996 Cadillac STS sedan was registered to him at that address. A white one.

Kite was listed as the sole stockholder of Screentest Supreme Software, a closely held corporation based at the Sutton Place address. Its only asset was a series of copyrights and trademarks. His 1994 IRS 1040 showed a net income of $801,444. Nothing looked cute about the tax return on the surface: no exotic deductions, no tax shelters. No employees either—he paid everything on a contract basis, from word processing to an occasional chauffeur. Heather received checks totaling almost forty thousand in 1994, all marked "research."

Bank accounts, T–bills, a smattering of stocks, mostly technology issues. His real estate portfolio was heavy: five co–op apartments in the city, from a three–bedroom high–floor to a couple of studios. A management company was handling them, and it looked like it was doing a good job—they were all fully rented. They all had mortgages too; he was carrying most of them flat, showing a slight profit on the biggest unit, making his profit off the mortgage deductions and depreciation.

American Express, VISA, MasterCard…all paid–to–date, no balances. Except for the mortgages, he didn't owe anyone a dime.

Wolfe's papers estimated his net worth at $4.3 million, "conservative."

The package also contained photocopies of various briefs and motions he'd submitted when he'd worked as a lawyer, a couple of contracts he'd drawn, even a transcript of oral argument on an appeal. The briefs were more science than law: charts and graphs, citations to articles in psychiatry journals, complicated logic chains painstakingly and elegantly drawn.

One of them was a custody case, Kite representing the father. The mother said she had discovered the man was sexually abusing his son. She wanted him barred from visitation. Kite argued that she'd made the whole thing up, proved that she'd been abused herself as a child, said she was "spooking at shadows" and that she was a "secondary victim of an incompetent therapist." His deposition of the therapist was a masterpiece. He questioned her about the protocols she used, showed she had no special training in the use of anatomically correct dolls, pointed out a few minor exaggerations on her résumé, asked why she never videotaped her sessions with the child. And his own brief was full of citations to studies by psychologists pointing out the damage to any child forced to carry the burden of a false allegation.

He won that case. The court said the mother's conduct was so egregious that it warranted an outright change of custody: the mother was allowed to see the boy only under supervision. The decision was upheld on appeal.

A year later, the mother was arrested for trying to kidnap the kid. She was all set to flee—had fake ID for them both. They bagged her at the airport, tickets to France in her handbag.

Kite had an AV rating, the highest, from Martindale–Hubbell. He was listed in Who's Who in American Law. Except for a half–dozen brief mentions in the New York Law Journal over the years, the newspaper search had come up empty—he wasn't a publicity hound.

No. He was a hover–hunter; a bird of prey who didn't need a perch to work from.

The last document was a double–spaced list of all the lawyers Kite had consulted to since he went into solo private practice. It ran four pages, went coast to coast. I recognized a couple of the names—media–slut matrimonial bombers—but most I never heard of. Wolfe had annotated the list, breaking the names down by specialty and type of case. Mostly custody and visitation, but a good many civil lawsuits and a few criminal cases.

In the matrimonials, Kite worked for whoever hired him. In all the others, he was always for the defendant.

I read it all through, then I read it again, looking for a pattern. The only one I could think of didn't pan out: although most of his clients—or, actually, the clients of the lawyers who hired him—were male, almost a third were female. He wasn't one of those "father's rights" guys.

Wolfe was good, and her microscope went deep. But I didn't see any cracks in the wall.

I took a break. Piled Pansy into the Plymouth and drove down to one of the abandoned piers on the West Side and let her run around a bit.

When I got back, I made us both some lunch. Then I opened the file folder I'd taken from Kite.

Articles by psychologists. Briefs by lawyers. Stories by journalists. Every one about false allegations of child sexual abuse. None of them written by Kite. But then I noticed the highlighting—neon–bright see–through colors splattering almost every page, sometimes several colors on the same one. At the end of the packet, I found a neat chart marked KEY. Each color was represented by a bold slash from the highlighter. Next to each slash, some tiny, crabbed, handwriting in jet–black ink, so hyper–precise that at first I thought it was a computer font.

[Red] An "unfounded" allegation of child abuse does not mean the allegation was "false." The "unfounded" designation also applies to cases in which the investigation could not be completed because the suspects left the jurisdiction, etc. And many "founded" cases are never made the subject of a Child Protective Petition.

[Blue] The "statistics" cited are not "statistics" at all. They are extrapolations based on estimates. No scientific validity.

[Yellow] (1) Expert witness for the defense was quoted in an interview in which he defended "pedophilia" as an "alternate lifestyle." (2) Individual testifying here not recognized as "expert" by courts in three separate jurisdictions. (3) The term "validation" is a misnomer: "valid" means "true this time," while "reliable" means "true over time." (4) "Expert" cannot testify as to whether child is telling the truth—this invades the province of the jury.

[Orange] Unsound research (sample too small, insufficient controls, et al.).

[Green] Financial interest in outcome. Hidden agenda. Undisclosed connection to foundation named as principal in lawsuit. Settlement forced on defendant by insurance company.

[Purple] Does not meet DSM–IV criteria for "syndrome." No data collected. Never submitted to refereed journal. Not scientific—merely the carefully packaged pronouncements of a merchant.

[Tan] Case reversed on technical application of the Confrontation Clause. Media reports as "vindication" inaccurate.

[Magenta] Statute of Limitations alert!

[Cyan] (1) "Protective Parent" label entirely self–awarded, meaningless. (2) Diagnosis of Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder is not axiomatic indicator of child sexual abuse. Pressure to carry a false allegation could induce could stress in a child.

[Pink] Journalists ranked on "Loyalty Index," set up a prediction model. 100% accurate: journalist's name a perfect predictor of the article's "findings."

On the next page following, still in the same tiny handwriting, more notes:

Hechler, The Battle and the Backlash…

APSAC protocols…

Salter, Treating Child Sex Offenders and Victims…

"Expert" cites own articles as "source material"…

NAMBLA member…

501(c)(3) criteria precludes lobbying…

And then the coda, all caps, double underlined, centered exactly at the bottom of the page:

A TRUE DEBUNKER OPERATES WITHOUT AGENDA

Kite's religion?

I let it simmer a couple of days, waiting to see if Heather turned up the pressure. But the phone at Mama's stayed silent. Okay.

"I'm ready to talk," I told her when she answered the phone.

"Thank you so much," she whispered into the phone, an undercurrent of promise in her voice. "When can you do it?"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"I'll have to check—no, I know it'll be fine. Is ten all right?"

"Yes."

I docked the Plymouth in an outdoor lot north of the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge near the FDR and walked to Kite's building. I was dressed the same as I was the last time. Not because I thought Heather would pull the same stunt—I just wanted to make sure her memory was refreshed.

She stood on the far side of the grille, wearing a black bustier under a transparent white blouse over black Capri pants anchored with a wide red belt. Her black–cherry hair was a lacquered helmet. Her eyes were little circles of orange glass in the dim light, bright even against the thick makeup. When she turned her back on me to lead the way, I saw she was back to spike heels. The left ankle was wrapped in tape—it must have been painful. I ignored the sway of her powerful hips, my eyes on her shoulders, but she stepped smoothly to one side to usher me into Kite's chambers without a hint of aggression.

The butterscotch leather armchair was in place next to Kite's fan–shaped chair. He waved me over like he was an old pal who'd been waiting for me in our regular saloon. I took my seat. He didn't offer to shake hands. If he noticed anything different about my face, it didn't show on his.

I heard the tap of her spike heels behind me. She leaned over with a glass of water, but she kept her head high, her nose almost in my hair. I heard a faint sniff, probably because I was listening for it. She was checking for cigarette smoke, her ankle reminding her not to relax her guard around me, but between the strong shampoo and the heavy gel, she didn't have a chance. I'd washed my hands in rubbing alcohol too, just in case.

"I won't insult you by asking if you read the material I gave you," Kite said by way of opening. "I'm sure you wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

"Okay," I said, staying inside myself. Thinking of that Zen rock, polished by years under the waterfall until it was as seamless as the water itself. Like Kite's rap. Prison is full of raps. Glassily ceramic, keeping your focus on the surface so you never looked inside. The cons who call themselves Aryans say blacks are mud people and whites are sun people. And the cons who call themselves Africans say blacks are earth people and whites are ice people. Two sides of the same smooth stone. And not a speck of truth under the sleek surface.

"Do you have any reaction?" he asked, white eyebrows raised behind the pink glasses.

"Liars lie," I said indifferently. "Guy rapes a woman in Dallas, he says it was consent, okay? Another guy rapes another woman in Chicago, he says it was consent too. That doesn't make it a national conspiracy. But some whore psychologist writes an article about some bullshit mental disorder that makes women who actually consented to sex scream 'Rape!' and all of a sudden, it's a fucking 'syndrome,' and defense attorneys have a field day."

"It cuts the other way too," Kite said, leaning forward. "A gang of pedophiles sexually assault a child in Sweden. On the videotape, they're all wearing black. The same videotape shows up in the house of a collector in the United States. He's got a black shirt in his closet. So the police tell the newspapers they've cracked an international ring of child molesters."

"Like I said: liars lie. So?"

"So idiot therapists who do their incompetent 'validations' of child sexual abuse start adding 'Did he have a black shirt?' to their stupid checklists. And when they get an affirmative answer, as they inevitably will in some cases, there's their 'proof.' The first thing any charlatan needs is nomenclature. A special language. Trappings. That's the true genesis of psychobabble terms such as 'disclosure' and 'in denial.' Every good con man needs plausibility…"

"People see what they want to see," I said. "Whatever pays their bills or races their motors. You pointed it out yourself, in the stuff you gave me."

"And so what's missing?" he asked, making a temple of his fingertips, gazing out at me between them. "I'll tell you, Mr. Burke: objective, damn–the–consequences investigation. The entire problem with the so–called system is lack of objectivity. Prosecutors want to prove their cases, not find the truth. And defense attorneys…obviously, most of the time, it's their job to avoid the truth."

"What about caseworkers?," I asked, knowing the answer. "Like for Child Protective Services?"

"Please," he sneered. "Search as you might throughout this country, you will not find more undertrained, undersupervised, understaffed, and underpaid individuals. They operate entirely without protocols, without standards. Tell me this: Why should a case of suspected child abuse not be investigated the precise same way in Detroit as it is in Denver? In some jurisdictions, they use actual social workers. MSWs. In others, any college degree will suffice. Do you know what the Star Chamber was, Mr. Burke?"

"England, right? Three, four hundred years ago? A little room where they dragged you in and told you you were guilty."

"Close enough," he acknowledged. "For the child, for the putatively abused child, every single little caseworker is a personal Star Chamber. If that caseworker decides there is probable cause to proceed, so be it. But if he or she does not, then what? Nothing. Nothing at all. If the caseworker is a bigot, or a moron, or an overzealous do–gooder, that determines the result, not the facts. The true investigator is, first and foremost, a skeptic. He does not operate under superstition or myth. But if you have a caseworker who doesn't 'believe' incest occurs, any investigation that individual performs will be fatally flawed…and the poor child won't have a chance."

"And if they see incest under every bed…"

"Yes! Then the poor parents won't have a chance either. In America, the predominant factor in the outcome of any child abuse case isn't the truth itself. No, it's the quality of advocacy on either side. An incompetent prosecutor, or even a lazy one, will result in more acquittals than even the most brilliant defense could provide."

"Yeah, and—"

"Of course"—he cut me off—"a sufficiently skilled defense can shred even the truest case. It happens all the time." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Mr. Burke, I live in the crossfire between two armed camps: the 'Believe the Children!' lunatics and the 'False Allegations!' fanatics. My only weapon is the truth. And if my syndrome is to achieve genuine professional acceptance, I must avoid the personal stigma of being associated with either group. My credentials as a debunker are impeccable when it comes to child sexual abuse. I have exposed case after case of incompetent, shoddy, or outright fabricated allegations of child sexual abuse. But I have never taken the position that such things do not, in fact, occur…and I personally find every single such occurrence abominable. Most cases, if you work them diligently enough, are susceptible to actual proof. And if the law were brought into the twentieth century, that proof would be much more widely available."

He took a short breath. When I didn't say anything, he rolled on like there had been no pause. "For example, the law should be that every single abortion performed on a minor must include the preservation of fetal tissue for DNA analysis. You could not ask for better, stronger proof of incest, if it actually caused the pregnancy. But the anti–abortion crowd, those so–called 'pro–family' people, they are bitterly opposed. And they have enough clout in Congress to keep such a law off the books."

"Kids don't vote," I said softly. Thinking: They don't carry guns either. Until they get older. And then they almost always shoot each other.

"Politics doesn't interest me," Kite replied. "The political process is tawdry, as whorish as anything you could find in Times Square. I'm not an organizer. I don't speak at conferences. I don't go to demonstrations. I'm not even an activist. I hunt…the truth. My contribution will be the FSG syndrome," he said, voice thickening. "And I do not intend to have all my years of research and investigation trivialized by snide little comments about my objectivity. My syndrome has validity only through contrast," he continued, his no–color complexion blotching red. "That is the very essence of investigation: friction creates heat, and heat creates light. The light of truth."

"And I come in…where?" I asked him, calling a halt to the flow. I could hear a harsh, resentful intake of breath somewhere behind me. Heather, angry that the minister's sermon was interrupted by some fool talking in church.

He took a deep breath. I heard the tap of spike heels. Heather brought him an earless white china cup, holding it in both hands like a precious offering. He sipped from the cup, inhaling the fumes as he did, pulling in calm. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "I am not normally a passionate man. This…my syndrome…is the one thing that inspires me to emotionalism. Your question is a fair one. I should have anticipated it—and answered it—first. Mr. Burke, I am not usually publicly associated with the cases I investigate. I have no desire for the spotlight, quite the contrary, in fact. But I realize that all causes need publicity if they are to capture the imagination—and the support—of the public. An hour on Oprah is, regrettably, worth more to a cause than a hundred articles in the most prestigious journals.

"Indeed, I will be completely honest with you: Miss Winfrey is one of my objectives. She combines a massive audience with a high degree of personal credibility. And on this particular issue, child sexual abuse, she has been a leading figure in American consciousness."

"I still don't get it," I told him. "You can't just call up and book a spot on Oprah. She doesn't do Siamese–twin lesbian dwarf adultery stuff the way the others do."

"Mr. Burke, believe me, I have thoroughly researched all the available television talk shows. In fact, I've made poor Heather monitor them every day for months," he said, glancing over my shoulder. She made some little sound, too faint for me to recognize. "The sexual abuse industry has made it impossible for a straightforward victim to tell her story. Simple incest won't even get you a booking on the trash shows anymore. It isn't good theater. But in a short time," he said soberly, "a young woman is going to come forward with the most shocking allegations concerning a major figure in a religious organization. She will have no conventional proof other than her own word. She will be immediately embraced by one end of the continuum…and immediately attacked by the other. I plan to stand with her, right in the middle of that firestorm, because every word she will utter will be the truth. I expect to defend her against all the so–called investigators who will try to tear her story apart. For the first time in my career, I will personally handle a case," he said, voice gathering momentum. "As her attorney, I will sue not only the perpetrator of the crimes against her; I will sue the organization which spawned him and tolerated his predatory conduct. I will fight them when they raise the statute of limitations; I will fight them on the law; I will fight them on the facts." He took a deep breath. "And I will prevail. The truth will prevail."

"So this is all about a lawsuit?" I said.

"No, Mr. Burke," he said sharply, "this is not about a lawsuit. It is about the launch of a new era in the investigation of child sexual abuse. This case will be my credential, my entrée to the rarefied air of public credibility. You see, I do expect to be on Oprah. But without my client. The show will not be about this one case, it will be about my syndrome. Before I can establish a new method of investigation, which will disprove false allegations, I need to establish that some allegations are true. Yes, this one case will get me on the show. But I will use the time to illustrate dozens of other cases. Cases in which my syndrome was employed as the ultimate litmus test."

"Yeah, all right. But I still don't see where I come in."

"Because I have to be sure, Mr. Burke. Everything is riding on that one foundation. And unlike others in my profession, I will never fall victim to arrogance. I am convinced to a moral certainty that this young woman is telling the truth. But I cannot take chances, not with an undertaking of this magnitude. I want you to step in now. I want you to do anything you can, and I mean anything at all, to break the young woman's story. If there's a defect anywhere, I want you to find it."

"But if I did find one…?"

"Then there is no case," he said flatly. "And I will wait patiently for another which appears to meet all my criteria. This isn't about money for me, not at all. In fact, I am taking this case pro bono, waiving my fee entirely, including expenses. But I know I will come under fire, and I simply cannot risk being wrong."

"How do you expect me to—?"

"I don't care what you do, Mr. Burke. I hope I made that crystal clear. I want the truth. Wherever it may be found and whatever it turns out to be. My client has pledged full cooperation. She will answer any questions you have…and do whatever else you want."

"You polygraphed her?"

"Yes. Two separate examiners, with impeccable credentials. No deception was indicated.

"She saw a psychiatrist?"

"And a psychologist. Both agreed: Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder. The psychologist's diagnosis included child sexual abuse as proximate cause. The psychiatrist wouldn't go that far…but they never do."

"Medicals?"

"Inconclusive. You'll see for yourself."

"Independent corrob?"

"Same answer."

"How much time would I have?"

"As much as you need," he said. "I am not going to move forward until I'm absolutely certain. You are the last piece of the puzzle, Mr. Burke. My own investigation is completed—the lawsuit awaits only your own."

"You went to a lot of trouble," I said quietly.

"I always do," he replied.

I could feel Heather behind me, the sheer intensity of her pushing against the cushion of air between us. "How would we work it?" I asked him.

I couldn't read his eyes behind the pink glasses. A tic jumped in his face. "We both know paying someone by the hour leads to potential corruption," he said calmly. "The same goes for paying by the result. I propose a flat fee, open–ended. I will be buying your complete investigation, for as long as it takes. And your confidential report."

"I won't—"

"Not in writing, Mr. Burke. You report to me. Verbally. Your name never comes into this."

"And you wouldn't expect me to testify?"

A smile snaked its way from one corner of his mouth, disappearing when it reached the far end. "No offense, Mr. Burke, but your record makes you something less than an ideal candidate for courtroom testimony."

"None taken," I assured him.

"Then there's only the matter of your fee."

"I don't know how to estimate a job like this," I told him. "Could take a long time to—"

"I understand. Still…I was thinking, say, thirty thousand dollars. In cash, of course. Payable one–third now, one–third as you progress, and the final third when you tender your report."

"I was thinking seventy–five," I said, taking the traditional gangster lawyer's route: more than double your asking fee, get the biggest chunk you can right then, and expect the client to stiff you for the rest. "Half up front, half when I'm done."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said smoothly. "Perhaps a compromise is in order. Heather!"

I heard the tap of her heels, caught a glimpse of her black–sheathed hips as she brushed past me to my left. She was back in a minute, carrying a slim black anodized–aluminum case. She bent forward, her back to Kite, and put the case in my lap.

"There's fifty thousand dollars in there, Mr. Burke," he said. "In a form I'm certain will be acceptable to you. Will you take that as payment in full?"

I took it as a signal we were done playing this game. "Yes," I told him.

He nodded as solemnly as if we just signed a cease–fire treaty. "As soon as my client is available for your first interview, I'll call you."

I got to my feet, the aluminum briefcase in my hand. If Kite was surprised I hadn't opened it, his face didn't give it away.

Heather led me to the grille. When she got a few feet away, she stopped, slowly enough so I could see it coming. I stopped too. She backed up, one little step at a time, until her bottom was pressed hard against my crotch. The thick corset made it feel like a side of beef. "Thank you," she whispered, shifting her hips.

"Your ankle must hurt in those shoes," I said.

"I'm real good with pain," she said, twitching her bottom against me again. "And I still owe you. Don't forget."

The next morning was a Sunday. The blue dragon tapestry was in the window of Mama's restaurant. Cops inside. I wasn't worried about it—cops were always dropping in, wasting their time asking questions. There was plenty to ask about. The Chinese youth gangs had pretty much given up trying to get a toehold on the gambling industry. Their elders had been at it too long, had too many connections. And the young ones had decimated their own ranks in bloody turf wars that made the old Colombian kill–crews look like Quakers.

The new crew was mostly Fukinese, and their latest game is kidnapping. They aren't any good at it. The wild kids snatched shop owners right out of their houses, dragged them to some abandoned apartment building, tortured them into calling their families. The snatching was easy, but the vicious amateurs never mastered the art of the ransom exchange. Though they mostly got nabbed, the body counts kept going up, and the business community was pressuring the cops hard.

When I was a kid, one of my foster homes was right on the Chinatown border. The old border, next to Little Italy. Some of the kids I knew had real mothers, not the State–paid ones I got. I always listened to what real mothers said, trying to see if I could hear the difference in their voices, how come they had wanted their kids. The real mothers always pointed to the Chinese kids as role models. So studious, hardworking. So polite and respectful. You wouldn't see those kids hanging out on street corners or in some stupid gang. No, not then. We let immigrants build this country, then we leave our mark on them for gratitude.

Mama wouldn't touch rough stuff and the cops knew it. They knew she wouldn't talk to them too, but they kept coming.

I had time to kill, but I didn't want to leave the neighborhood, so I drifted over to a sidewalk kiosk.

"You got the Racing Edition?" I asked the Chinese woman, pointing at the comics section that covers the Sunday News.

"Not ready yet," she said, nodding her head at various stacks of the different sections waiting to be assembled into one edition. "You need coupons?" she asked brightly, holding out a colorful sheaf.

"No thanks," I said.

The woman deftly flicked the coupons sideways into a large carton without looking and went back to her work. A little girl, maybe nine years old—her daughter—was sitting at a makeshift desk inside the kiosk. Someone had jury–rigged a single bare lightbulb for the child to work by. Behind her was a perfect cardboard imitation of the wall of slots they use for mail at hotel desks. The scissors in her small hands flashed as she snipped the brilliantly–colored sheets of coupons into individual units, sticking them in the pigeonholes without looking.

I stopped by the door to light a cigarette. A white woman wearing a quilted green parka pushed past me, asked the kiosk operator: "You have any for Pampers?"

"Sure, we got. How many you need?"

"Twenty?"

"Pampers?" the Chinese woman called out to the little girl.

"Yes," the child said gravely, handing over the coupons.

"Twenty coupons, 50 cents off, two dollars," the Chinese woman told the customer.

"That's…what? Twenty per cent?," the woman in the green parka said. "No. I'll go a dollar, okay?"

"Dollar fifty," the Chinese woman said, holding out the coupons.

The white woman reached in her purse.

The little girl made a mark in her schoolbook, adding to a neat column of figures.

The old woman was a good poacher. Most people don't give a damn about the coupons, so she pulled them out of every paper. If somebody bitched, she could always give them back. And the white woman had just saved herself some real money too. Even with her Sunday paper costing an extra buck and a half, she was still way ahead of the game. If you know where to shop, you can buy anything in this city.

When I walked by the second time, the white dragon was back in the window. I went around to the alley in the back, slapped my gloved palm against the door. One of the thugs let me in. I took my booth in the back. The soup arrived about the same time Mama did. She serves it around the clock, always keeps a giant pot bubbling in the kitchen, throwing stuff in from time to time as the mood seizes her. It's the only thing she ever cooks herself.

"You had visitors?" I asked her.

"Not me," Mama said. "You. Bull cop."

That wasn't slang for Mama. Only one cop it could mean. Morales, the human street–sweeper. A while back, he'd been stalking me—some unsolved homicides inside a house of child–molesting beasts in the Bronx. I was guilty, all right, but he couldn't lay a glove on me no matter how many rounds we danced. Then I got caught between him and a psychotic woman detective fronting for a serial rape–murderer. At least that's what I thought, right until the end. She shot Morales, I shot her. She died. He took the shooting for himself, ended up a hero in the process. Morales always hated me. Probably still did. But he was a man, and he paid his debts.

"What'd he want?" I asked.

"He say, 'Kite is dirty.'"

"That's all."

"Yes. He wait for you. Long time. Order plenty food."

"He eat the food?"

"No."

"He pay for it?"

"Yes. Leave money on table. Right there," she said, pointing to a corner table.

"He say he want me to call him?"

"No. Say 'Kite is dirty. Tell Burke. Kite is dirty.' Then get up and go."

"Okay. Look, Mama—"

"You not like soup?"

"Oh. Sorry," I said, spooning up a mouthful. "It's perfect, Mama. As always."

"Yes. Max be here soon, okay?"

"Okay. And the Prof, you found him too?"

"Everybody come. Before ten, okay?"

"Thanks. Mama…?"

"What?"

"Is there any such thing as a sparkling ruby?"

"Sparkle?"

"Yeah. Like a diamond. But red."

"Not ruby. Ruby not sparkle. Red diamond."

"A red diamond?"

"Sure. Yellow diamond too. Call 'fancies.' But not so much."

"Not so much what?"

"Money. Fancy diamond not cost like pure white."

"But not cheap?"

"Oh no," she chuckled. "No diamond cheap."

I ate some orange–glazed duck with roast pork fried rice and snow pea pods, washed it down with ice water as I read the paper. I checked Parade first, always do. Whoever thought up the idea of a free stand–alone magazine in every Sunday paper in the country was a genius. I heard their advertising rates were the highest in the world.

Another subway rape in Jamaica. Another drive–by murder in Washington Heights. Another racial assault in Bensonhurst. Another woman beaten to death by her estranged husband, died with an Order of Protection in her purse. Another baby–raper pleaded guilty and got probation. They don't need to hire reporters in this city—the stories are all written; all they have to do is fill in the names and dates.

Max showed up before I could get to the race results. We still had some time, so I didn't argue when he pulled out a score sheet from our life–sentence gin game. One of the alleged waiters brought a fresh deck of cards, and we got down to it.

It was Max's lucky day. I never saw the cards fall so good for him. Even as bad as he plays, even with Mama hammering him with incompetent advice, he hit me with back–to–back triple schneids, something he'd never accomplished in the thousands of games we'd played until then. Max has got a natural poker face. And the card sense of a chimp. But when the Prof showed up, the little man took one look and said, "My man ain't grinning, but he doing some serious winning, ain't he?"

I nodded to acknowledge the obvious reality of the situation and set my teeth, praying for the cards to change. It wasn't the money; even at the tenth of a cent per point we always play, Max was into me for almost a quarter of a million dollars over the years. We'd agreed when we started that we'd settle up wherever we ended up, after this life was done. But I knew there was no way on this planet I was getting up from this game with Max on the streak of his life. The Mongolian would sit there until I started winning or Cuba started holding elections, whichever came first.

The Prof knew it too. He sat down next to me and started in on a stream of criticism that would have cracked concrete. Clarence sat next to Max, a smile flashing broadly in his ebony face as the warrior drew bonanza after bonanza. Hell, I fucking dealt him gin twice in one hour. It didn't matter who held the cards—I passed my turn to deal over to the Prof with no change in the result.

"You got one humongous hoodoo, Schoolboy," the little man intoned. "The double–jinx maxi–mojo curse. Ain't nothing to do but let it do its worse."

Max kept glancing to the heavens, as if wondering when the sky was going to fall, but he never so much as shifted position, superstitiously keeping everything exactly as it was for as long as the magic moment lasted.

It was almost one o'clock before I turned the tide. And it was two–thirty before he was convinced that his incredible run was actually over. He stood up, bowed deeply…and snatched the score sheet from the table so fast I saw a vapor trail behind his hand.

And it was getting close to four in the damn afternoon by the time Immaculata showed up, with Flower in tow. Max quickly signed to them both, explaining in painstaking—and painful—detail how he had accomplished the ultimate gin destruction of his own brother.

And then we had to have supper.

By the time we got down to business, it was dark enough for it.