Footsteps of the Hawk

FOOTSTEPS OF THE HAWK

In my business, if you're the last one to a meet you could end up being left there when it's over.

I watched the refrigerator–white Range Rover work its way around the broken chunks of concrete dotting the asphalt that used to be a parking lot. Those luxo four–bys cost big bucks— I guessed Saunders had come into some serious money since the last time we did business. The big rig nosed forward, came to a halt at the start of the pier, then reversed so its rear end was backed against the abandoned building.

I trained the binoculars on the driver's door, watching the man get out. It was Saunders all right, dressed in a suburban safari outfit, right down to a pair of gleaming black boots. The passenger door opened. Another man. Medium height, with a face too chubby for his build, wearing a camo jacket and combat boots, eyes covered with mirror–lensed aviator sunglasses. I climbed down from my perch atop a heavy crossbeam using a rope ladder dyed black. As I moved closer to the door, the ladder merged into the shadows.

The mid–afternoon light was strong, fractured by the wreckage inside the abandoned warehouse— I could see all the way across the grimy Hudson to the Jersey waterfront. The door swung open and they stepped inside.

"Burke," Saunders said, offering his hand. "Long time no see."

"You said business," I told him.

"Same old Burke," he chuckled, dropping his hand…but keeping it in view. "This is the guy I told you about. Roger Cline."

"That's Cline like Patsy, not Klein like Jew," the guy said, smiling with his mouth, his eyes invisible behind the mirror lenses. "Saunders here tell you what we need?"

"Yeah," I told the man. "Ordnance."

"Heavy ordnance, my friend," he said. "Can you do it?"

"Sure," I told him. It was the truth— with all the military base closings, it's easy enough these days.

"What we need is— "

"You ever do time?" I interrupted.

"Huh?"

"You ever do time?" I repeated, watching my reflection in the mirror lenses.

The man turned his head slightly to his right, looking for an ally, but Saunders only shrugged, shifting his weight slightly to his outside foot, letting his body language tell the story.

The man turned back to me. "Yeah, I pulled some time," he said, a hostile undercurrent to his reedy voice. "So what?" He pulled off the sunglasses and glared at me all in the same motion— I guess it had worked better when he'd practiced it at home.

"Not so what," I told him. "For what?"

"What's it to you?" he asked.

"I like to know who I'm dealing with," I told him in a reasonable voice.

"Hey, I ain't asking your daughter for a date, man."

"Suit yourself," I said.

He was quiet for about fifteen seconds, still trying to stare me down— good fucking luck. Then he ran a palm over his close–cropped brown hair, bit into his lower lip for a split–second, said, "Armed robbery."

I nodded as if I was absorbing the information. "You go down alone?" I asked him.

"Huh?"

"When you went to the joint, your partners go with you?"

"No. I mean, I didn't have no partners."

I nodded like that made sense too. "All right," I told the man. "I'll see what's available. Take about three, four weeks. No guarantees, though."

"I thought you could— "

"What? Go over the wall and steal the stuff? Get real, pal. I got an inside man— that's the only way to pull off this particular thing. What's for sale is what he can get, that's the story. Whichever way it comes up, that's the way it is, that's the way it stays, understand?"

"Yeah. But…" He let it trail off, looking over at Saunders.

"Let me talk to you for a minute," Saunders said. "Just a little one–on–one, okay? For old times' sake?"

I nodded.

"Wait for me outside," Saunders told the other man. "Here's the keys."

Cline–like–Patsy started to say something, changed his mind. He took the keys from Saunders, walked out through the sagging doorway.

"What was that all about, Burke?" Saunders asked me.

"He's counterfeit," I told him. "A three–dollar bill."

"How do you know?"

"Nobody says they went inside for armed robbery— that's social–work talk. You say you went down for stealing, or you say you re a thief. You gonna rob, you're armed— how else would it be? And you see his face when I asked him about partners? He never had partners— not for what he was doing."

"So what do you care about his pedigree?"

"Look, this guy may be one of those lame Nazis or whatever they call themselves this week, but he's no white–tribe warrior— he's a fucking tree–jumper. And he ratted out a bunch of people when he went in."

"So?"

"So he's not reliable. You know it, and I know it."

"His money spends just as good."

"And you already got some," I said.

"Look, I— "

"Drop it," I told him. "You had an order for hardware, you would have come to me yourself— we did business before. Then you would have marked it up, sold it right over to the chump without me ever knowing."

"I— "

"But you wanted to stay out of the middle on this one, right? So it's one of two things: either you don't think this guy's good for the money or he's got you spooked."

"I don't spook," Saunders said, a hurt tone in his calm hustler's voice.

"How much did he pay you to set up the meet?"

"Five."

"Half's mine."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm not doing business with him, and neither are you. You stung him for five to make the meet. Later you'll tell him I couldn't pull it off. He won't be mad at me— I didn't take any of his cash. So you figure it's harmless…a nice score for a few hours' work."

"If it was a score, it's my score," he said.

"You think I'm a fucking 800 number? Toll–free?"

"I was up front with you, Burke. Come on, no hard feelings. How does a grand strike you?"

"You told me five, he probably duked ten on you. Cut me a deuce we stay okay, you and me."

"And if I don't?"

"You never know," I said quietly.

Saunders reached into the side pocket of his safari jacket. Slowly, with two fingers. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Held it forward, offering me one.

"No thanks," I told him. "I don't smoke."

"The last time I saw you, you did."

"The last time you saw me, we were doing some real business."

"Ah…he mused, firing up his smoke. "Tell you what. I don't want hard feelings, all right? How about if I give you the deuce, but I throw in some information? Valuable information. You pay whatever it's worth, okay?"

"I'm listening."

He stepped closer to me, dropping his voice. "I've been working out of the city. Understand you were doing some work up there too. In Connecticut?"

I kept my face calm, waiting.

"A cop's on your trail, Burke. A lady cop. She was up there, asking around."

"That's what cops do."

"It doesn't concern you?"

"No. I never do anything to bother the locals."

"Okay. Whatever you say. Just trying to do an old friend a favor."

"I'll remember," I said, holding out an open hand. For the money.

The creep with the sunglasses hadn't gone to prison alone. I had— more than once. But I never come that way to a meet. Max the Silent dropped out of the shadows, disdaining the rope ladder, landing as softly as moonlight on dark water.

Max is my partner. If I'd lit a cigarette while talking to Saunders, Max would have dropped on him like an anvil on an egg.

I pocketed seven fifty off the roll Saunders had finally handed over, gave the same amount to Max. The extra five would go into our bank.

Max nodded his acceptance. I heard the Range Rover pull away. Max was in motion before I was— he can't hear, but the vibrations of that big rig on the rotting boards of the old pier were so strong even I could feel them. Max glided to the warehouse door, looked outside.

When he nodded again, I followed him out the door.

My old Plymouth was parked on the other side of West Street, looking the way it always does— abandoned. I unlocked it and we both climbed inside.

I keyed the motor and we took off, heading for the bank.

We cruised by the front first. The white–dragon tapestry was in the window— All Clear. I stopped in the alley behind the restaurant. The seamlessness of the dirty gray wall was broken by a pristine square of white paint. Max's chop was inside the square, standing out in meticulous black calligraphy. You didn't have to read Chinese to understand it: No Parking. Ever.

The steel door to the back of the restaurant opened as we approached. A pudgy Chinese man stood in the opening, wearing a white chef's apron, a butcher axe in one hand. When he saw who it was, he stepped aside. I heard the door snap closed behind us.

We walked through the kitchen, past the bank of pay phones. Took my booth in the back, sat down.

Mama left her post at the cash register and came over to our table, snapping out some instructions in Cantonese. The waiter was way ahead of her— he vanished, then reappeared with a large tureen of hot–and–sour soup.

Mama served me and Max first, while she was still standing. Then she sat next to Max and used the ladle to fill her own bowl. Max and I each took the obligatory sip, made the required gestures of appreciation.

"We got— " I started to say.

"Finish soup first," Mama replied.

Okay. We drained our bowls, sat for a second helping. Worked that one more slowly, mixing in some dry fried noodles. The waiter came and exchanged our bowls for a blue glass ashtray.

"So?" Mama asked.

I handed her the five hundred. "For the bank," I told her.

"From both?" she wanted to know.

I nodded. Mama made the cash disappear. Max and I would each get two hundred dollars' credit in Mama's bank— the remaining 20 percent was her fee. The score was really too small to go through all that— we turned it over as a gesture of respect.

"That girl call again," she told me.

I knew who she meant. The same lady cop Saunders told me about. Belinda Roberts. That was the name she'd told me one day in Central Park. I was tracking, setting up a job, had Pansy along with me for cover. Belinda was jogging along, a fine–looking woman with a careless mass of reddish–brown hair topping a curvy, muscular body. She said she liked my dog. Said she liked me too. Gave me a number, asked me to call.

I never did. When I saw her again, she was in the same place. It was Clarence who made her for a cop. She was in the park, working. Maybe undercover to catch a rapist, maybe on observation for a drug deal. Maybe working me. No way to tell.

No way…until she called the restaurant, asking for me. Asking for Burke. I'd never given her my right name, never gave her the number.

Lying Belinda. Persistent bitch. Whatever she wanted, she'd get tired before I would— I'm a sensei of patience, a Zen master at waiting.

Max coiled his fists, cocked his head— a boxer assuming his stance. Looked a question over at me.

I shook my head, tapped my watch. Too early.

"Good investment, Burke?" Mama asked.

I guessed Max had told her about the Prof's latest get–rich–legit scheme. Some fighter he was training in a converted warehouse in the South Bronx. I had wanted us to all pool our cash and get a racehorse— I've always coveted a trotter of my own. But convicted felons can't own racehorses— the authorities don't want the wrong kind of people in that game. They run an extensive background check, photo, prints, checkable references, all that kind of thing. That's for owning a racehorse— you want to open a nursery school, they don't care about any of that background crap.

"I don't know, Mama," I told her honestly "I never saw this kid work."

"Prof says maybe big money," she said, her dark eyes alive with the flame of cash. "You invest?"

"Yeah. He took me for five large."

"Max too?"

"Sure."

"Why no ask me?"

"It's gambling, Mama," I said, keeping even the slightest tinge of sarcasm from my voice.

"Not gamble, Burke. Invest, right?"

"If you say so."

"So! How big piece you get for five thousand?"

"I guess I never asked."

Mama made a clucking sound with her tongue. Then she turned and said something over her shoulder to one of the waiters. He bowed, disappeared. When he came back, he was holding a battered gray metal box. Mama opened the lid, reached inside without looking. Handed me a stack of hundreds.

"Five thousand," she said. "I get same piece as you and Max, okay?"

I nodded, awestruck as always with her ability to count money by feel.

Max and I played a few dozen more hands in our life–sentence gin game. Mama was more animated than usual, shouting advice at Max, once smacking him on the back of his head when he made a spectacularly boneheaded play. Max ignored the slap, but kept following her advice. As a result, I was up another three hundred bucks by noon. I made a steering gesture with my hands. Max flashed a smile— time to ride.

We took the FDR to the Triborough, exited at Bruckner Boulevard and motored peacefully until I found the block. It was dotted with Bronx burn–outs, abandoned buildings with that charred look they get after a while. The warehouse was set back from the street, past a concrete apron once used to load trucks. I pulled onto the apron, climbed out and activated the security systems. The Plymouth didn't look worth stealing and it came prevandalized— but even all that won't protect a car once you're into the Badlands.

Clarence was just inside the door, comfortable in an old easy chair, resplendent in a goldenrod silk jacket over a black shirt. He's always dressed to the nines— as in millimeter. The young gunman got to his feet, said "Burke" to me, bowed to Max.

"He's here?" I asked.

"Oh yes, mahn. My father is in the back, working with our gladiator."

Clarence led the way through a maze of young men. Some were skipping rope, others working heavy bags or speed bags. A makeshift ring was set up in the far corner. Most of the fighters were black, with a mixture of Latins and a pair of Irish kids who looked like brothers.

"Put that iron down, fool. You training for a fight, not a goddamn pose–off." It was the Prof, drawn up to his full height, which put him right around this kid's chest. The kid was holding a barbell in both hands, waist–high, listening intently. A big kid, maybe six two and a piece, looked like he went right around two hundred pounds. He had Rome stamped all over his features, especially his nose, but his skin was fair and he had blue eyes under black hair combed straight back from his forehead.

"Sammy said— " the kid started to say, but the Prof was on him quicker than you could bribe a politician.

"Sammy? That chump's game is lame. You listen to that big stiff, you be seeing your name in the obituaries, not on the sports page."

"Okay, Prof," the kid said.

But the Prof wasn't done. "This is what wins fights, boy," the little man said, pounding his chest with a clenched fist.

"I know," the kid said. "Heart— "

"I ain't talking about heart, kid— you didn't have heart, you wouldn't get in the ring in the first place. I'm talking conditioning, see? Pure conditioning. A good heart is a nice start, but a bad lung will get you hung. Got it?"

"Yes," the kid said. Serious, not sulky.

"Righteous. Now drop that bar and shake hands with my man. Burke, this is Frankie Eye, do or die."

"That's what he calls me," the big kid said, smiling. "It's short for Ianello."

He had a powerful grip, but he wasn't trying to impress anybody with it. His eyes were clear and direct, his stance respectful.

"And this here is Max the Silent. The life–taking, widow–making wind of destruction," the Prof told the kid, indicating Max. The Mongol warrior bowed. The kid had one hand stuck out but he quickly pulled it back, imitating Max's ceremony with a bow of his own. I didn't know if he could fight yet, but he was no dummy.

"Heavy bag's free," the Prof said to the kid. "Come on."

The kid followed the Prof over to the now–vacant bag, slipping on a pair of training gloves as he walked. He stepped up to the bag like a man going to work, started pounding it with alternating hands, left–right–left, a steady stream of hooks, breathing through his nose, well within himself. He had a perfect boxer's body— you couldn't see any muscle development until he moved.

The Prof stood to the side, watching the kid like an air–traffic controller with too many planes on the radar screen. The kid kept working the bag, steady as a metronome. When the Prof finally called a halt, the kid didn't look winded.

"We need a hundred punches a round. Hard punches. Every round," the Prof told the kid, tossing an old terry–cloth robe over his fighter's shoulder. "This whole game is about conditioning, remember what I said? You get tired, you get weak. You get weak, you go down." The kid nodded— he'd obviously heard all this before.

"What you think of our boy?" the Prof asked me.

"Don't know yet," I told him. The Prof knew what I meant. The world's full of good gym fighters— it's when they get hit that you find out the truth.

Max stepped forward, shaking his head in a "No!" gesture, pointing at the kid. He bowed to the Prof, pointed at the kid, then at himself.

"Forget that!" the Prof snapped at him. "Ain't no way in the world you gonna spar with my boy."

Max ignored the Prof, stepped close to the kid, guided him back toward the heavy bag. I pulled the robe off the kid's shoulders as Max turned him so he was facing the bag again. Max stepped behind the kid, put one hand on each side of the kid's waist, fingers splayed around to just below the kid's abdomen. When he nodded, the kid started to throw punches, slowly at first, then harder and harder. Max stepped away, bowed again, and changed places with the kid.

"Put your hands where Max had them," I told the kid. He tentatively put his gloved hands on either side of the Mongol, confused but going along.

Max ripped a left hook, a jet–stream pile driver that actually rocked the bag.

"Look at your hands," I told the kid. The kid's left hand was dangling in the air, his right still on Max's waist. He put his hand back, bent his shoulders forward so he was closer to Max. The warrior fired several shots with each fist. The kid lost his grip again. Max stepped away, pointed to the kid's hips, made a maitre d's gesture, inviting the kid back to the bag.

Frankie got it then. He took his stance, started slowly, driving each punch by torquing his hips, increasing the tempo as he felt it working. The heavy bag danced, the blows much heavier than when the kid first worked it. When he stopped, he was smiling.

"I never realized…" he said, turning to Max, bowing his thanks.

"Yeah, yeah— the mope can smoke," the Prof said, reluctantly acknowledging Max's expertise, guarding his own territory. "But fighting's a mind game. It's all in the head, Fred."

"When's he gonna go?" I asked.

"Friday night," the Prof said. "We got this showcase gig. Over in Queens. Exposure's good, and the purse could be worse."

"How much?"

"One large."

"That's not a whole lot to get beat on," I said, dubious.

"Look here, schoolboy. It ain't about bucks, not at first. Way I hear it, one of the cable scouts'll be there— it's their show. National, get it? There's a big–time shortage of heavyweights. And white heavies…hell, you can write your own ticket. They so desperate for white, they settling for some of those Afro–mocha, too–much–cream–in–the–coffee brothers. The heavyweights? I tell you, there ain't no bop in that crop. The ones they got, they just nursing them along. You see these clowns, records like thirty–two and oh. But they never fight each other, see? They got to have that undefeated record to get a shot. Then they score, but there ain't no more. One fight, that's right. And then it's over, Rover. We not going that route. Frankie's gonna fight anybody wants to play, all the way. So when he gets his shot, he drops the hammer."

"But for a first fight…"

"Look, Burke. Frankie got a whole bunch of fights before this. Amateur, sure, but plenty of fights."

"How'd he do?"

"Ah, he was jobbed most of the time. He fights pro–style. Body punches, chopping down the tree, see? But the amateurs, it's all about pitty–pat. Slap each other like bitches in a pillow fight. That wasn't Frankie."

"That's where you found him? In the amateurs?"

"Nah. He was in this club over to Jersey. Fighting smokers. In the basement, you know how it works. You get paid to cook, but it's off the books. Don't go on your record, neither."

I looked over to where the kid was skipping rope under Clarence's watchful eye. "Speaking of records…" I let it trail away.

"Down twice," the Prof came back. "One in the kiddie camps, once upstate. Assault, both times. Kid's got a real nasty temper."

"Who's he been…?"

"Anybody, babe. He was a brawler. Half–ass burglar too. Booze was his beast. But now that's all done, son. My man don't touch a drop, and that's a Medeco lock."

I watched the kid spar for a while. Nothing spectacular— steady and dedicated, learning the fundamentals. I slipped the Prof the five grand from Mama, told him she was in. Then I signaled Max it was time to split. He would have happily stayed there all goddamn day, but I had work to do.

I pulled the Plymouth into the garage of the warehouse where Max lives. He pointed up, making a "come on" gesture, inviting me to say hello to Immaculata and the baby, Flower. I tapped my watch, held my thumb and forefinger close together, showing him I didn't have time.

I stood on the sidewalk, watched the Plymouth disappear behind the descending garage door. As soon as it disappeared, I walked over to the subway on Chrystie Street and dropped into the underground, heading uptown.

A small group of people clustered near the middle of the platform. Timid rabbits— knowing one of the herd would be taken, praying it wouldn't be them, never thinking that together they could have a fox for breakfast. I walked away from them, toward the rear. The end of the platform was deserted. I stood there quietly, settling into myself. A bird flew past my face, almost too quick to see. I was used to rats in the subway, but I'd never seen a bird before. I trained my eyes on where the bird had vanished. Nothing. Then I heard a chirping noise and refocused. A nest was neatly tucked into the hollow part of a crossbeam. The mother bird hopped about anxiously, trying to quiet them down. I walked a few feet back toward the center of the platform, turning my back. In a minute, the mother bird swooped by again. A sparrow, she looked like. Down here, the squatters aren't all humans.

The train finally rolled in. It wasn't crowded at that hour. I found a two–person seat at the end of the car. Two stops later, a pair of black teenagers got on, doing the gangstah strut. One of them sat next to me, bumping my shoulder slightly. I stiffened my left arm, ready for a move, but the kid said, "Excuse me, sir," in a polite voice. His pal took the seat facing us, and the two started a rapid–fire conversation.

"Ain't no way the bitch gets away from me," the kid next to me said. "My game is too strong."

"Why you gotta be referring to sisters like that?" the guy across from us said.

"What you mean?"

"I mean, man, what is all this bitch thing with you? You not showing no respect. Why you call your own woman a bitch?"

The kid next to me considered the question for a minute, then he leaned forward, said, "Well, what else I gonna call the ho'?"

His pal gave me a "What can you do?" look. I nodded to show I understood his dilemma. When the train rolled up to my stop, they were still going at it.

The private clinic was housed in a discreet brownstone on a quiet East Side block. I rang the bell, standing so the video eye could pick up my image easily. In a minute, the door was opened by a young woman in jeans and a white T–shirt. "You're Mr. Burke?" she asked. I nodded to tell her she had the right man but she had already turned her back to me and was walking away. I followed her into a small room just past a receptionist's desk, took the seat she indicated. She walked out without another word.

Doc showed in a couple more minutes. Medium height with a husky wrestler's chest, his eyes unreadable behind the glasses he always wears.

"Thanks for coming, hoss," he said.

"I owe you one," I told him. It was the truth. Hell, more than one, maybe. "Besides, I wanted to see how your new setup was working out."

"So far so good," he said.

"It's a long way from Upstate," I told him. Upstate— the prison— where we first met. I was a convict, Doc was the institutional psychiatrist. Later, they put him in charge of all the institutions for the criminally insane. I'd heard he packed it in. Quit cold. Moved down here to the city to open up this clinic for damaged teenagers.

"I'm still the same," Doc said, just a faint trace of Kentucky in his voice.

"Me too," I assured him.

Something shifted behind the lenses of his glasses. A microscope, focusing. "Heard you might have bought yourself a bit of trouble a while back."

"That wasn't me," I said.

Doc just nodded. I lit a cigarette. "I used to— " he started.

"I heard this before," I interrupted. It was self–preservation.

Doc's a great storyteller, has a real narrator's gift. But it doesn't work so well from a soapbox— I'd heard about his heroic triumph over evil cigarettes too many times already.

"Okay, hoss. Whatever you say. Here's the deal: we have a client who's expecting— "

He stopped talking when a teenage girl burst into the room. A brunette with long, thin hair flowing all the way down past her shoulders. Her face was a skeleton, her body too scrawny to cast a shadow. Her skin was that dull–orange color starvation freaks get from a heavy carrot diet— there's some bullshit going around about how carrots fill you up but have no calories— every teenage girl in the world seems to believe it.

"I'm not going to— " she started.

"Susan, I'm with somebody," Doc said mildly.

"I don't care! They can't make me— "

"Nobody is going to make you do anything, Susan. But if you don't— "

"I won't. I know what I'm doing. I…"

Doc held up a hand, palm out like a traffic cop, but it was no good. The girl just charged ahead. "Just let me explain, all right? Let me tell you why. Please?"

"As soon as I'm finished with— "

"No! Now! I don't care if another shrink hears— "

"Burke isn't…" Doc started to say. He caught my eye. I nodded, He went with it, settling back in his chair, spreading his arms, palms out and open. "Tell me," he said.

"There's a reason for it," the girl said, standing with her hands on what should have been her hips. "I don't have anorexia. I mean it's not an addiction or anything. I'm not like Aurora."

"Tell me the reason," Doc said, gently.

The girl's face contorted. She shook off the spasm, wrapped her arms around herself, whispered: "I don't want to look sexy."

"Susan…" Doc tried.

"I won't!" the girl lashed out. "You can't make me."

"How old were you when it happened?" I asked.

Her face whirled around toward me. Only her head swiveled— her body was still facing Doc. "What?"

"How old were you when…?" I repeated, holding her close with my voice, cutting off the exit roads.

Her eyes screamed at me, but her voice was low–pitched. "Nine," she said.

"You have a lot of curves then?"

"What?"

"Did you look sexy then, Susan? Like a woman?"

"No…"

"You keep starving yourself, you end up looking like a child again. No curves, no shape. All flat lines, right? Like a skinny little girl again."

"I…"

"They don't want grown women," I told her, sharing the truth— we both knew who "they" were. "They want little girls," I said quietly. "You're not keeping them away, Susan— you're playing your old tapes."

"I hate you!" she shrieked at me. Then she started to cry. Deep, racking sobs. Her bird's–wing ribs looked like they were going to snap from the pressure and Doc was on his feet in a split–second, arms around the girl, crooning something soft in her ear, patting her back until she stopped holding herself so rigid, walking her out the door.

I finished my cigarette, looking around the office, someplace else in my head. But I wasn't that far gone— I used the time to slip a couple of Doc's Rx pads into my pocket.

Doc was back in a few minutes. If he noticed the missing pads, he didn't say anything. "You should have been a therapist, hoss. We've been discussing how we could confront Susan with her real agenda for weeks now."

"I'm sorry. I— "

"Don't be sorry. I wasn't kidding you— that was what she needed. I guess it was better hearing it from a stranger. She was sent to us for anorexia, but we weren't getting anywhere. Another week and she'd have had to go on IV."

"Who sent her?"

"Her dad."

"The same one who…"

"No. It was her grandfather. Happened maybe ten, twelve years ago. They never did anything about it. Oh sure, they kept her away from him, but that was it. They thought everything was fine until she just stopped eating."

"The weight she's trying to lose, it's got nothing to do with calories, huh?"

"Right on the money, hoss. But now we got ourselves jump–started. And Susan got herself a chance." Then he leaned back in his chair and told me what he wanted.

I told Doc I couldn't handle a 24–7, but he promised that his client's daughter would be on the midnight bus out of Cincinnati. That was the job— a runaway. At least that's what she thought. The kid's parents made the arrangements with Doc. She'd go right into his clinic. And she wouldn't have to go home if she didn't want to. If you wanted Doc to treat your kid, you had to sign that last part. Notarized.

I didn't ask Doc anything else. I got up to leave but he stopped me, using the same traffic–cop gesture he'd used on the girl with the carrot skin.

"You know, Burke…the way you handled that thing with Susan…I don't understand why you live the way you do."

"You don't know how I live," I told him, trying to shut this off.

"I've got an idea," Doc replied. "Look, I know you — I know you a long time. Even back…inside…you were always studying something. Reading, asking questions. You've got an amazing vocabulary— it's almost like you're bilingual— sometimes you sound like a mobster, sometimes you sound like a lawyer, sometimes you— "

"I do have a great vocabulary," I interrupted. "It's so fucking big, I even know what the word 'patronizing' means.

Doc nodded— like he'd tried his best, but the case was hopeless.

When I walked in the Eighth Avenue entrance everyone was in their places. The Prof was sitting on his shoeshine box, industriously working over a pair of alligator loafers. Clarence was in the loafers, eyes sweeping the terminal. Max was slumped on a bench, his body disguised under a filthy old raincoat, a battered felt hat shielding his eyes.

I was wearing one of the suits Michelle had made me buy. Gray silk, fall weave. Carrying a black anodized–aluminum attaché case in my left hand.

I strolled past a bank of pay phones, listening to a United Nations babble— all kinds of people, calling home. Calling home is a big business in this city. You can find special setups in any heavy ethnic neighborhood— phone centers, they're called. They set them up almost like tiny apartments— nice comfortable chair to sit in, couple of spares in case you want to crowd the whole family in too. Some of them have desks, shelf space, writing paper. And their rates are cheaper than you could get on your own phone, because the guys who run it buy blocks of trunk time to specific locations. In Flushing, it's Korea, India, Southeast Asia: two seventy–nine for the first minute, then seventy–five cents for each additional minute. In Jackson Heights, it's Colombia: a buck twenty–six for the first, forty–nine cents after. People who use the centers, they're not thinking of a quickie call— some of them stay for hours.

Down in the Port Authority, they have the low–rent version— you make your call with someone else's credit card. Thieves rent the credit–card numbers— all you can use for twenty–four hours, one flat fee. The Port Authority is the best place to use them— plenty of pay phones always available, impossible to stake out, anonymous.

My watch said it was eleven–forty. Plenty of time even if the bus was on schedule. The Port Authority cops were all around, watching for runaways. No shortage of pimps either, trolling for the same fish, using different bait.

It went so smooth I almost didn't trust it. While the predators hovered, I walked straight on through. I met the bus, told the girl I was with Project Pride, a safe house for runaways. Promised her a nice private room, free food, and counselors to help her find a job. She told me she was going to be an actress. I told her lies of equal weight. She got into my Plymouth. I drove her to the clinic, half–listening to her stream of chatter, hating how easy anyone could have gotten this little girl to come along with them.

I found a place to park, rang the bell. The door opened. I left the kid there.

The next morning, I went back to work. Ever since I got back from Connecticut, I've been bottom–feeding, picking at carrion. I run my scams in the Personals— promising whatever, delivering never. I also use my P.O. boxes— offering losers a real pipeline to "mercenary opportunities." The only mercenary they'll ever meet that way is me. Kiddie–porn stings don't have much bite to them today— the freaks all want to sample the merchandise over a computer modem before they buy. Or they want you to fax a teaser. And even the pedophiles who want hard copy insist you use FedEx so the federales can't bust you for trafficking through the U.S. mail. But that's okay— there's never a shortage of targets who can't go crying to the cops when they get fleeced.

I deal with citizens too. Every time the government adds a new tax to cigarettes, the market for bootleg butts goes bullish. And brand–name counterfeiting is always a sure thing: Mont Blanc pens, Rolex watches, Gucci bags— they're all best–sellers for street merchants. Most of it's made in Southeast Asia, where child labor is real cheap. In Thailand, the Promised Land for baby–rapers, it's so cheap that the freaks organize tours: for one flat rate you get round–trip to Bangkok, a nice hotel…and babies to fuck. The planes are always filled to capacity.

But even if hustling, scamming, and grafting all dried up, I could always sell firearms— hate never goes out of style. I only deal in bulk, like a case of handguns. And I won't touch the exotics— titanium crossbows that cost three grand, mail–order SAMs— that kind of stuff's for the borderlands, the far–out frontier where psychosis and technology overlap.

I sell to the usual suspects, mostly far–right dim–bulbs who sit in their basements stroking the gun barrels…the firearms equivalent of the inflatable women they sell in the freak–sex catalogs. Most of my customers are pretty easy to scope out, but when an unsmiling young woman in overalls and a flannel shirt wanted to buy enough plastique to level a high–rise, I raised my eyebrows in a question. She told me she was an animal lover, like that explained it all.

I passed on that one. I don't play much— and when I do, it's with my deck.

My bottom–feeding wasn't limited to business. I've known Vyra forever, met her when she was engaged to marry an architect. She didn't go through with that one. After working her way through another half–dozen guys, she eventually settled on an accountant. All throughout that, we'd get together once in awhile. We never had that much to say to each other— came together as smooth as chambering a round, parted as easy as firing it.

Vyra was a slim girl, not very curvy, with breasts way too big for her frame. The only bras she could wear had industrial–strength under–wires— when she took them off you could see the violent red marks where they had cut into her. They made her back ache too, she said. And sometimes her neck hurt so badly she had to have it braced.

"Why don't you get them fixed?" I asked once, lying next to her on a hotel bed.

"You mean like the rest of me?" she asked, not sure whether to try sarcasm or tears— she always had both on tap. I'd known Vyra before she started on the plastic surgery— hell, I knew her when she was still Myra— but I'd never tried to talk her out of it. She finally got her nose reduced, earlobes cut down, and an implant at the tip of her chin. All in one visit— I didn't see her for about three months. When I did, she was the same sweet bitch–on–wheels she'd always been, only with more confidence,

"Why not?" I replied. "You could get the best— "

"Men love them," she said. "I mean, they worship them. You have no idea…"

"But if it's going to keep you in pain all the— "

"Don't worry." She smiled, her perfectly capped teeth white in the afternoon dimness. "I make them pay for it."

When I first saw Vyra, she was a hat–check girl in a nightclub, wearing one of those imitation bunny outfits— a one–piece bodysuit cut high on the thighs with a deep V at the chest. A customer gave her ten bucks to reclaim his hat, watched hungrily as she stuffed the bill deep into her cleavage.

"I'll bet you could stuff a hundred bucks down there," the guy said. "All in singles."

"I don't play with singles," Vyra shot back, telling him the score.

She married a guy she met in the club. Or a guy she met in the club introduced her to the guy she married. Or the guy was married when she met him and divorced his wife over her. Or something like that…When Vyra tells her stories, I don't listen too hard.

Next time I ran into her, it was an accident. I was working a tracking job over in Jersey— she was sitting out in front of a café, at one of those little round tables with big Euro ashtrays, sipping something from a tall narrow glass. I sat down across from her, grateful for the vantage point and the cover.

Vyra told me about her life, flashing a diamond ring that must have cost five figures wholesale. She gave me her phone number, but the calling instructions were so complicated— only on Tuesday and Thursday, between two and four in the afternoon, but not if it falls on the first day of the month…crap like that— I never got around to it.

But when she called me, she caught me just right. I was in Mama's, not doing anything, and she was in the Vista Hotel, right across from Battery Park. It only took me a few minutes to get there. About the same time it took both of us to get done with the only thing there ever was between us.

She was good at it— a lifetime of faking passion blurred the line so much that, sometimes, she actually thought she was letting go.

"You're the only one who ever made me come," she told me. It was a good line, as such things go. "You were the first" would have been deeper sarcasm than "I love you," but making a woman come for the first time in her life— hell, most men's egos would slip–slide around that credibility gap with ease.

Vyra's good at sex. Practiced, athletic, responsive…controlling enough so she does most of the work, but not so much so that you feel controlled. On a good day, she can bite a pillow hard enough to make you think you were driving steel like John Henry never dreamed, the Boss Rooster with his pick of the chicks. Vyra must have learned the truth early on in her life— faking love is a snap, but faking lust is a bitch.

Vyra's great at girl–gestures— whipping off an earring to make a phone call, tossing her hair off her face with a quick movement of her neck, walking with one hand on her purse, the other swinging in time with her hips, like a conductor directing musicians— not an original move in the lot, but all of them sweet, smooth and sexy.

Vyra's a good person too— just tell her about an abandoned baby or a wounded animal, her checkbook opens faster than a bagman's hand. She's one of those girls…I really can't explain them. It's like they're running parallel to you all the time. The lines never cross, but, sometimes, they get close enough to almost touch.

It was always hotel sex, except for one time in her car. She never asked to come to my place— never asked me much of anything. Sometimes we made a date on the phone, sometimes she'd just call when she was around…and if I was too, we'd get together.

It's as though our lives are checkerboarded— when our pieces land on the same square, we get together, take care of business, and move on.

Vyra wants something she can't call by name. I know what to call it, but I don't want it.

She offered me some money once. Real money, so I could go into a business or something. It was a sweet thing she was trying to do, maybe the only way she knows how. I didn't take it— told myself it was better to leave that kind of offer in the bank, for when I might really need it.

I didn't need Vyra, either. But when I called in, and Mama said there was a message from her, I aimed the Plymouth at the Vista without thinking much about it.

Vyra had a new pair of shoes. Blue spikes, with little red bows at the back. She liked them so much, she kept them on.

Afterwards, she wanted to tell me all about what she'd been doing— she was a volunteer counselor in some "therapeutic community" on the other side of the Hudson. I lay on my back, blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. She propped herself on one elbow, sprouting prepackaged wisdom— "there's no such thing as a free lunch" seemed to be her favorite. I closed my eyes, letting her voice wash over me.

"Are you listening to me?" she finally said.

"Sure."

"Listen, Burke, you're not the only one with problems. Everybody has to carry their own baggage through life."

"But everybody doesn't have to go through Customs, do they, little bitch?" I asked, my voice gentle.

I don't know why that started her crying, but I held her against my chest until she was done.

I pulled my car out of the hotel's underground garage, thinking about how Vyra had offered me money again— she was one of those goodhearted women who could offer to lend you money without wanting your balls for a down payment. And my ego wasn't stupid enough to tell her I still had a big piece of my last score stashed away.

I don't want to live large— it just makes you a bigger target. I live a small, low–maintenance life. I'm just trying to get through it.

I was just trying to get through the intersection at West Broadway and Chambers, heading for the West Side Highway, when it happened. I was coming through at the same time as a bright lipstick–red low–slung sports coupe— a Dodge Stealth, it looked like. My Plymouth has so many dents in its primer–coated body that I usually carry major bargaining power over any contested space in city traffic, but the driver of the red car wasn't having any, bulling his way through, oblivious to the blaring horns and screech of brakes. I let him through, tucked in behind, followed him to the Highway.

He made the right turn ahead of me. I cranked the wheel hard into the service road and pulled ahead. I took a quick glance at the red Stealth— it sported blackout windows and I couldn't see inside. I felt it somewhere to my left but, after a while, I couldn't even pick it up in my left–side mirror.

The Highway forked just before the Meat Market. I stayed right, heading for the whore stroll on Tenth Avenue. A working girl was having trouble leaving her pimp— and she'd gotten word out to me. I promised the broker who gave me the word that I'd listen to the offer, make my decision after I'd heard the pitch.

I was motoring sedately along Tenth Avenue when the idiot in the red Stealth shot across my bow at Eighteenth Street, sliding so I'd have to hit him or stop. I floored the brakes— crazy bastard. I was checking the rearview mirror to see if there was room to back away when I heard a car door slam. A man with the build of a fire hydrant was walking toward my car. Walking fast. I recognized him. Morales, the no–neck thug who partnered with McGowan for NYPD.

Damn.

I climbed out of the Plymouth, put on a "What the hell's this all about?" expression. Morales stepped right into my face, showing teeth. It wasn't a smile.

"I fucking thought that was you," he snarled.

"What's the beef?" I asked him.

"Oh, let me see. Burke, right? What could the beef be? Parking tickets? Drunk driving? No…how about fucking homicide, that more up your alley?"

"We already did this once," I reminded him, keeping my voice soft. It's a tightrope dance with Morales. He's a pit bull in human form— you show him fear and you're done. But if you challenge him, that just lights his fuse. With Morales, the only safe place is away.

Traffic flowed past. The drivers didn't rubberneck us— it takes more than a couple of men talking in the street to get attention around here.

"I never mind going another round," Morales said. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this house up in the Bronx, would you? A house with all kinds of dead bodies in it. Kid's body too. A little kid. You know anything about that, Burke?"

"No. Was it in the papers?"

"Yeah, motherfucker, it was in the papers. All over the papers, a couple a years back. Remember now?"

"It doesn't ring a bell," I told him, keeping my eyes away from his. Morales wouldn't take that as a sign of guilt: his eyes are little black ball bearings— nobody ever looks into them long.

"Let me help you with that," Morales said. "There was a bunch of baby–raping freaks, some kind of cult, making torture films. They fucked up a little kid, fucked him up real bad. And you know what this little kid did, Burke? He fucking killed a baby. Killed him, okay? Canceled his ticket, took his fucking life, all right? A little tiny baby…So we're talking to the DA's office. City–Wide Special Victims. Woman named Wolfe, maybe you heard of her?"

I kept my eyes on the middle distance between us, staying out of focus, not saying a word. Morales was hitting too close to home, and he'd never be cool enough to just leave it there.

"No, huh?" he sneered. "I guess fucking not. Anyway, we put it together. Put it together slow, see? Like we're gonna make a case, prosecute the miserable slime. But they disappear, just fucking vanish, okay? Now, they're around, way we understand it. Somewhere close. Turns out they were holed up in the South Bronx. In one of those rehabbed joints, right next to a burn–out. So we're ready to roll, just waiting on the warrants and all. And you know what happens then, Burke?"

I stayed in the middle distance, feeling him talk more than hearing, his gut–bucket voice climbing an octave as it got tighter and tighter.

"Yeah," he said. "You know. Somebody went into that house before we did. Blew the fucking front door right off. Couple of people at least, too much for one man. Maybe a whole fucking team, not that it matters. When they was done, it wasn't a house no more, it was a fucking crypt. Dead bodies. Nine dead bodies. A couple of splatter–jobs, probably with a sawed–off. One inside, one outside. The one outside had a long knife in her hand. The rest of them, all bullets. All nines, in fact. And, oh yeah, one had a broken neck. We found a whole video setup in the basement. Looked like they were gonna make themselves a snuff film…even had a little boy all tied up, ready to go. All kinds of that Satanic horseshit down there too. The two downstairs, they was heeled, cranked off a few rounds. Didn't do 'em no good though— they both bought the farm."

"What's that got to do with— ?"

"With you, motherfucker? With you? That's your work. Ain't a working cop in this town don't know that. Ain't the first time you went psycho like that either. We got a list, motherfucker. And you're on it, big–time."

"I don't know what— "

"You know what happens the next time you fall?" he asked, cutting me off. Like it was new information to me.

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm not into anything."

"You been inside twice," Morales said. "Felony beefs. Hell, armed felony beefs. Don't you read the papers, asshole? Three strikes, you're in. One more, and you do the book."

I just nodded, like he knew the score. But he was off the mark— once you put ten years between your last prison sentence and your next conviction, they can't run them wild to habitch you into a down–forever, no parole never, life sentence.

"You wouldn't recognize things inside anymore. It's all changed, Burke. Face it, you're getting old."

"You know what's getting old, Morales? This shit you're putting on me. What do you think, you're gonna clear every homicide in the city by rousting me?"

"This ain't no roust. You see a squad car anywhere? You see any backup? I'm undercover," he said proudly, as though any fool couldn't make him for a cop at a hundred yards.

"What is it, then?"

Morales pulled the lapel of his jacket back just far enough for me to see the shoulder holster. "Assume the position," he growled.

I turned around, my back to him, hands on the trunk of my car. I felt his hands patting me down. When he got to the side pocket of my jacket he reached inside, took out what he found there. I knew what it was— a tiny box of wooden matches. A white box with a black bull's–eye on one side, an address and phone number on the other, with the name of the nightclub in black letters:

TARGETS.

I felt his hands putting the matchbox back, felt him continue all the way down to my ankles. When he stepped back, I turned around, eyes still not meeting his.

"How come you ain't saying nothing about Probable Cause?" he sneered.

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I'm clean."

"Clean? You'll never be clean, motherfucker. You know, I could understand a man doing a murder. Shit happens, right? Man gets up in your face, disrespects you, threatens you, tries to steal your money, fucks with your wife…anything. But a contract hitter, that's the scum of the planet."

Maybe Morales was slicker than I thought. It's an old cop technique— telling you how much they understand some crime they think you committed, get you talking. A legacy from his old partner, but he didn't have McGowan's honey–Irish voice. On Morales, "Have a nice day" sounds like a death threat.

But if he was playing that tune, he was in the wrong country. Down where I live, it's not the amateurs who lose their heads who get the respect, it's the ice–men: enforcers, torches, contract killers. I hadn't gone into that house of beasts alone. Max came down from the roof— that was the broken neck. And it was the Prof's scatter–gun that cut down the last of them, the woman with the long knife. The rest, that was me. But even a lunatic like Morales wouldn't believe I'd give up my own family to make a deal. I'd kill him first, right where he stood. But this wasn't the time…

"What's that got to do with me?" I said.

"Look, pal, don't waste my time. I know you had something going with McGowan. He was a stone sucker for kids. So he let you slide a few times. Tell me you don't remember that massage parlor just off the Deuce. Tell me you didn't scam me and McGowan so you could total that karate freak. You think I forgot how you Pearl Harbored us that time? Well, you need to know this, punk— McGowan pulled the pin. Retired, understand? Moved down to motherfucking Florida so he could go fishing all the goddamned time. You ain't got a friend on the force anymore, Burke. Too bad too— from where I sit, you could use one."

"You volunteering?" I asked him, meeting his eyes for the first time.

"I'd suck every cock on an AIDS ward first," he snarled, subtle as ever.

As I pulled away in my Plymouth, I glimpsed Morales in my side mirror. Writing something on a pad.

I hadn't forgotten that massage parlor either. Morales never forgave me for that one. Not for the killing— he would have done that one himself, on the house— he just never forgave me for the double–cross. He's been on me ever since, laser–sighted on my heart, just waiting for a clear shot. I knew he was around, but I didn't know he was that close.

I didn't spot the red Stealth again. But I did spot Roxanne, on Eleventh Avenue near Thirty–ninth, standing with a pair of other hookers— one black with a red wig, the other white, sporting a Dolly Parton blond job. As I cruised up, Roxanne waved, bending forward at the waist, licking her lips. It looked about as sexy as a cow chewing its cud.

I slid the Plymouth to the curb, hit the power–window switch for the passenger side. She leaned into the open window, said, "You looking for a date, honey?"

"Mojo Mary said you wanted to talk to me," I answered.

"You're…"

"Yeah."

She opened the door, climbed inside. A white girl, maybe twenty–two, already sagging from The Life. The combination of cheap overdose perfume, body powder, and stale sweat was overpowering. I turned the AC up a notch as I pulled away. Noticed the blonde standing hip–shot, watching over her shoulder.

"Where do you— ?" I asked her.

"There's a parking lot on Thirty–seventh," she said. "Just pull in near the corner. The guy lets us use it."

I found the spot, backed in so the nose of my Plymouth was facing out. Roxanne curled up on the front seat. "This way, if anybody's watching, they'll think it's a head job," she said.

"Okay," I told her, impatient with all this. "What's the deal?"

"What did Mojo Mary tell you?"

"Girl, you think I'm gonna sit here and play games with you? Your time is money, right? So's mine."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I told Mary that I was having trouble with my man, okay? I know you…do that kind of thing. So I figured, I could get to meet you that way, like with her introducing us."

"Okay, it worked. Now tell me the rest."

"My man, he's into all kinds of stuff. Powder, mostly. He works me hard, and he treats me hard too."

"So?"

"So he's in jail now. For a little while, then he'll be out. I got to make my move. Now, while he's still inside."

"Talk straight," I told her. This broad could have gangbanged every liar in Congress in the time it took her to get to the point.

"I heard you could get it done…inside. You got friends there. I want you to…take him out, okay?"

"No, it's not okay. I don't do that."

"Listen to me," she whispered harshly, her voice urgent, "he does kids too. Little kids. And he gets money for it. Lots of money. If you do it, it's all yours."

"You've got the wrong man, girl. The wrong man on both ends, it sounds like."

"How much would you want? Up front? If I paid— "

"It's not me," I told her. "I don't know what you heard, but you heard wrong. And you damn sure didn't hear it from Mojo Mary either."

"Look, it'd be easy. I know exactly where he— "

"Not now, not ever," I told her, starting the engine. She was still gabbing away when I pulled over at the same spot where I picked her up. The same two hookers were there. As she walked over to join them, the one with the Dolly Parton wig put her arm around Roxanne's shoulders, pulling her close, and walked off with her. The way it looked, soon as Roxanne found someone man enough to snuff her pimp, her next one wouldn't be a man at all.

It wasn't my problem. I cranked the wheel over, headed back downtown.

It was only late afternoon, but already I felt tired— like I'd worked all night. I closed my eyes at a traffic light— I could always count on some impatient swine waking me up with a horn blast when it turned green.

I drove quietly, trying for smoothness, calming my center so I could think. A guy in a blue Camaro cut me off— I let him go, ignoring the middle finger he saluted me with. There's a lot of other things I could have done, but the Plymouth was a pro— nothing for fun, anything for money.

The Camaro almost T–boned a white Ford Taurus at the next intersection. The driver was already wearing one of those foam cervical collars they give you in the Emergency Ward when you have whiplash— I guess he was related to a lawyer.

Pedestrians crossed against the light, right in front of me, just about begging to get hit, every one on full ready–to–lie alert…"I crossed on the green, officer. I had the Walk sign all the way. That maniac just swooped down on me. I never saw him coming."

Down here, you show some politeness, they think you're intimidated. Down here, mercy is rarer than honesty.

New York may be a woman, the way some writers say. If she is, she's a low–class evil bitch. She wouldn't care if you killed yourself. Probably giggle at it. And sell the suicide note to the newspapers.

I hate it all so much— more now than ever.

Pansy was waiting for me, ice–water eyes watchful in her massive skull. She's a Neapolitan mastiff: a hundred and forty pounds of brick–brained muscle in her salad days, the beast was probably pushing one seventy by now.

"Glad to see me, girl?" I asked her. Pansy was probably the only living female on this planet who would answer me the same way every time— her tail wagged out of control as she made happy sounds deep in her throat. I walked over to the tiny refrigerator and took out a quarter–pound of raw hamburger. I patted the hamburger into a round ball. Pansy watched me steadily, drooling quarts but not moving. I finally said "Speak!" and tossed it in her direction. She snapped it out of the air with the immaculate precision of a striking cobra. It was gone in one gulp, and she looked at me pleadingly. "You've had enough, you fat pig," I told her.

If her feelings were hurt, she didn't show it, padding over to the back door and knocking against it with a raised paw. I once thought about installing a dog door so she could go in and out herself whenever she wanted, but when I measured how big a cut it would take I realized there wouldn't be anything left but the frame.

I opened the door and she worked her way up the fire escape to the roof, where she'd dump another load. I don't go up there much— the smell would gag a mortician.

When Pansy came back down, I made myself something to eat from one of the takeout cartons from Mama's restaurant, heating the concoction up on my hot plate. I spooned it down, mixing swallows with some ice water from the refrigerator. What I didn't finish, I dumped into Pansy's bowl, right on top of the dry dog food she can get for herself anytime she wants by pushing a lever with her snout. I don't use plates much— everything has to be washed in the bathroom sink. Anything Pansy won't eat, I just throw into a thirty–gallon plastic bag. When that gets near full, I wrap it up, take it downstairs. First Dumpster I pass, in it goes. I keep the place squeaky–clean, like I did my cell when I was inside— you let New York roaches establish a beachhead, it's the beginning of the end.

I walked around the office for a few minutes until I realized I was pacing. I'd taught myself not to do that— it makes you tense, exaggerates the limits of your surroundings. That's what you are in jail, surrounded. And it's not the locks and bars that make you feel so hemmed in, it's the lack of choices. It basically comes down to two in there— you live or you die.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

It's safe up here. Besides Pansy, I've got all kinds of security systems. The Mole fixed it up for me. He arranged it so I could use the telephone line of the aging hippies who live in the big loft just below me too. He even has my electricity wired into their line. Only thing he couldn't pirate was the cable TV— Con Ed doesn't care what's going on so long as it makes its money, but the cable TV people get big–time serious about piracy. I make do with a wire coat hanger for an antenna on my old B&W set,

I found a Mets game on TV That collection of egotistical maladroits was blowing still another opportunity to climb out of the cellar. Somebody must have put a curse on them— no team is as bad as they were playing. They say baseball is a game of inches, but those suckers were a couple of yards off the mark.

Pansy growled her disapproval— baseball bores the hell out of her. I played with the dial until I found some pro wrestling. She snarfled her approval, settling down into a huge lump on the floor next to me. I closed my eyes, one hand absently patting her sleek head.

When I came around, it was dark outside. I let Pansy out one more time, promised I'd bring her a treat when I got back.

Rain slanted down through the polluted air, dirty–dancing in my headlights. The blue–dragon tapestry was in Mama's window I drove right on past, found a pay phone, called in.

"It's me. You have visitors?"

"All gone now. Lady."

"Lady cop?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Man call. Say he from Targets. Say somebody looking for you there."

"Lady too?"

"No. Man. Angry man."

"Thanks, Mama. I'll see you later."

"Lady cop, she not have uniform."

"How'd you know, then?"

"I know," Mama said, and broke the connection.

I was on the move early the next morning. I felt boxed. Not trapped yet, but close. I needed a place to think things through. Not my office— if they came there, the best I could do would be to hold them off for a while— I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

I aimed the Plymouth north and let it roll toward the Mole's junkyard, sensors on full alert. When I was in prison, when I was studying all the time, I learned about artifacts. When psychologists do a series of interviews with the same guy, they sometimes insert a piece of false information and wait to see if the guy feeds it back to them. That would mean the guy's faking the symptoms. Malingering, they call it. What else would you expect from a business where they say you're "in denial" instead of just calling you a fucking liar.

Artifacts work like verbal trip–wires. Doc told me about them. He was doing a pretrial screening interview with a guy they'd dropped on a couple of dozen rapes. This guy, he said he was a multiple personality. You know, it wasn't him who did it, it was the other one. So what Doc did, he left some of his notes lying around on top of the desk. He gets an emergency phone call and he runs out. The guy, naturally, takes a look. Doc's notes said the guy sounded like a multiple all right, but one thing was missing— all male multiples complain of bad toothaches even when there's nothing wrong. Some mumbo–jumbo about the nerve endings in the lower jaw. Pure bullshit.

Anyway, a couple of days later, the guy starts screaming in his cell. When the guards come, he tells them he's got this incredible pain in his back teeth. They give him a couple of painkillers, stand there and make sure he swallows them. Next morning, he goes out on Sick Call. Sees the dentist. They take X–rays. Nothing shows. They mark the guy down for a hustler, send him back to his cell. So the next time he sees Doc, he doesn't want to talk about the rapes— all he does is complain that his teeth are killing him and begs Doc to make the dentist look at him again.

The guy went from NGI— Not Guilty by reason of Insanity— to NFG— No Fucking Good— in that session. Last I heard, he was still Upstate.

That's where I got the idea. What I do is carry these matchboxes around. The fancy kind you get in some joints— wooden matches in shiny little boxes. Free advertising, I guess it's supposed to be. Only I've never been in Targets except for one time. It's a tiny joint over on the West Side— only open from six at night to two in the morning. The guy who works the bar, he's actually the owner. But he's got a felony fall on his sheet, so he can't be listed that way. I know him from Upstate. He knows how things work. We made a deal— if anyone comes around asking for me, he drops word to Mama. I call him back, get a description. It costs me five yards each time, but it's worth it for the safety net.

I didn't need the description this time— it had to be Morales.

Morales on one end, Belinda Roberts on the other. I went back far enough with both of them so it couldn't be an accident— I was in a vise.

Hunts Point— a giant open–air discount market, from slightly used car parts to very used whores. I stopped for a red light on Bruckner, glancing to my left, toward the shantytown squatting below the overpass. Even out there, in the middle of a war zone, the homeless felt safer than they ever would in one of the city shelters. They weren't wrong, either.

As soon as traffic stopped for the light, the street was filled with young Latino men, all brandishing some form of sign. AUTO GLASS was the most common. They're all commission salesmen, shilling for one of the nearby body shops. You need a new windshield for your Chevy? Why pay four bills when you can get it done at the Point for one and a half, tops. The Point is an all–cash economy, everything's negotiable.

Everything. The Point is so dangerous, it can kill clichés. Down here, things are as bad as they seem.

I drove through slowly, staying smooth at the wheel— erratic movements in this neighborhood, they're like a fish going belly–up…the predators are always next on the scene. The Point— where the feral dogs fear the feral children, and even the STOP signs are bullet–pocked.

You get a flat tire around here, you just keep driving on the rim until you're over the border.

Terry opened the back gate at the junkyard. I docked the Plymouth in the space he pointed to. We walked back to the Mole's bunker together. Terry was getting his growth. Filling out some too. No point in wondering who he'd look like when he was done— his bio–parents sold him to a kiddie pimp when he was small— all he remembered from them was the pain. He was the Mole's son now. The Mole's and Michelle's.

That's the way it happens down here. Somebody always picks up the strays. Most of the time, they're just table scraps for freaks. Terry, he got lucky. But he paid heavy for that luck before it came to him.

I half–listened to the kid going on about some experiment he and the Mole were doing— I already knew from experience I wouldn't understand it even if I focused on every word. The dog pack swirled around us, not herding so much as flowing along with us.

"Where's Simba?" I asked Terry. Simba was the pack leader, a mixed–breed murderer who'd held his position against all comers for years. Usually, he'd be the first one up when a stranger came through the gate.

"He's down at the other end," the kid said. "With a girl…Remember Orchid? The white pit bull? The one who had puppies last year?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the next batch of puppies, Simba's going to be the father," Terry told me proudly.

The Mole's deck chair was standing by itself in the afternoon's slanting sunlight, a cut–down oil drum with a cushion on top. But there was no sign of the Mole himself.

Terry saw me looking, asked: "You want me to get— ?"

"No," I interrupted. "I'm okay. I just wanted a quiet place to be by myself for a bit, all right?"

"Sure," the kid said. He turned around and started back the way we d come.

I sat on the Mole's chair, lit a cigarette, eyes half–closed, centering myself, dropping down in my mind to where I could do the work. I finished the smoke, breathing shallow. After I tossed it away, I swept the grounds until I saw a piece of chrome bumper from a derelict car. It was glinting in the sun, a spark in shadow. I focused on the spark, narrowing my vision, converting all the street sounds to white noise. I got quieter and quieter inside. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the spark of light. I went into it.

Morales hated me. Hated me for scamming McGowan— had me marked for that house of freaks in the Bronx too. Maybe some other stuff. He was a grudge–loving dinosaur pit bull. He'd stay on the case forever. And once he got his jaws locked, he'd never drop the bite.

If it was an accident that he ran across my path, why would he muscle over to Targets? What did he want to know?

That was one gap.

Belinda. She'd been on my case for a long time now. Calling, leaving messages. But she wasn't pushing it. Until now Coming by Mama's joint, letting me know what she knew. Why? Why now?

Another gap.

The gaps were too big for me to fill with logic, so I let my other side work, trying to feel what I couldn't calculate.

What it felt was bad. Treacherous bad.

The Mole has a super–safe phone down in his bunker. He tried to explain it to me once…something about a blue box into the 800 loop and then back out. I never did understand it.

I walked over to the entrance of the bunker, called "Mole" softly. The Mole looks harmless but he's so smart that he's crazy with it— you don't want to spook someone like that.

After a minute or so, he appeared at the top of the stairs, his skin as underground–pale as always, eyes unreadable behind the thick Coke–bottle lenses, his form shapeless under a dirt–colored jumpsuit. He answers people who call his name the same way he answers his phone— with silence.

"I need to use the phone for a few minutes, okay?"

He didn't answer. Just turned his back and started down the stairs. I followed. The underground bunker was illuminated with diffused lighting, like an aquarium. The Mole went to his workbench, started fumbling with some small vials of liquid. The phone was near the wall. I picked it up, got a dial tone, tapped out the number for Targets. The phone made a whirring sound, then a series of rapid–fire beep–tones as it worked its way into the loop and then back to Manhattan. It rang four times before it was picked up.

"Targets," a woman's voice said.

"Can I speak to Nate, please?" I asked the voice.

"Who should I tell him— ?"

"A friend. From Upstate."

It was maybe half a minute before I heard Nate's voice. "What?"

"It's me," I said. "I got your message. About somebody asking for me."

"Yeah. Right. So when do I get— ?"

"It's on the way. You'll have it tonight. What can you tell me about the guy?"

"Big man. Not tall, he walked big, understand?"

"Yeah."

"Latino. P.R. maybe, who can tell? Big chest. No neck. Growls when he talks."

"What'd he want?"

"Do I know you? You been around? You come there a lot?"

"He say my name?"

"Yeah. He flashed the tin, didn't make no secret of it."

"He leave any kind of message?"

"Yeah. Said he'd be back. I told him I take care of the captain— I'm not supposed to get no street rollers coming around. He just laughed. Only not 'ha ha,' you understand?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Nate."

I hung up on his "When do I— ?"

I called Mama's. "It's me," I told her when she picked up my pay phone in the back of the restaurant. "Can you tell Max I need him to drop off five small at Targets? The guy's behind the bar. Named Nate. Fat guy, going bald."

"Where Targets?" she asked.

I gave her the address. Then asked, "Mama, this lady cop, what did she say?"

"Say very, very important. You call her."

"The same number she's always leaving?"

"Yes. Same number. Say anytime after four o'clock."

I looked at my watch. Seven–fifteen already. "Four o'clock when?" I asked.

"She not say. Walk out, fast."

"Thanks, Mama."

I crossed back over the Triborough into Manhattan, thinking how badly things had changed. Used to be, when I was leaving a place like Hunts Point, I could feel the muscles in the back of my neck relax as I crossed the border into safer territory. No more. Now the muscles stay tight— all the time. There's no safe harbor in this city, no neighborhood where anyone really feels secure. There's a thin vicious mist over the city, the whole place poisoned by that red–zone aggression–terror mix. That's another reason I don't carry a gun anymore— it makes you too brave. I know what being brave costs— I'd emptied that account the same time I emptied that last clip…in the basement of blood I walked away from in the Bronx.

I took the FDR downtown, darkness coming now. I found a parking spot on Lex, walked a couple of blocks until I got to the building I was looking for. The entranceway was deserted. I pushed the button for 11–G, my mouth near the intercom in case they were going to screen the clients. Nothing came out of the intercom, but the main door buzzed open.

I took the elevator to the eleventh floor, walked the length of the threadbare carpet to the last apartment on the right. The door was painted matte black, its flatness broken only by the letter "G" in gilt and a heavy steel plate surrounding the lower lock, protecting the deadbolt. I pushed the tiny pearl–white button on the door frame, heard chimes ring inside.

I stood back a couple of feet to give whoever was working the peephole a good look at me. The door was opened by a short, skinny man wearing a black suit with red suspenders over a white shirt. A wispy mustache made him look even more weasely.

"Can I do something for you?" he asked.

"I'm here to see Mojo Mary," I answered.

"You have an appointment?"

"No."

"She know you?"

"Yes. Name's Burke."

"Chill," the man said, closing the door in my face.

He was back in another minute. This time he stepped aside, waved me to a white Naugahyde couch in the front room, facing the door. I sat down, waited. The man disappeared to my left. A tall brunette in a peach–colored teddy walked across the room on my right, heading for another door. She winked at me, gave her hips an extra shake— a reflex action. I knew her— by reputation, anyway Word is she was fired from her job as a porno actress because she couldn't memorize the lines.

The man came back with Mojo Mary in tow. She's half Cajun, half Lao— on any given day, she'll tell you a different story about how that happened. Her skin is a rosy bronze color, her glossy black hair long and straight; her teeth are so white they don't look real. She was wearing a man's red pajama top with the top buttons undone. It fell to mid–thigh, showing off the fishnet stockings she wore with red spike heels.

"Hello, stranger," she said, smiling.

"How you doing?" I responded, getting to my feet.

"Come on with me— I'll tell you all about it," she said, holding out her hand,

I took it, followed her down a carpeted corridor. All the doors were closed except the one we went in. It was a bedroom, all pink and white, dominated by a king–size bed with an elaborate headboard. A bathroom door stood open to my left.

Mary closed the door behind us, stepped around me and sat on the bed, crossing her legs.

"It's seventy–five for a half–hour— a buck and a quarter for an hour. You feeling strong today?"

"I just want some answers," I told her, taking a roll of bills out of my jacket. "Here's the seventy–five— I'll be out of here in a few minutes. And here's your tip," I said softly, handing her another hundred.

"Ummm," she said, licking her lips. "Money makes me hot. You sure you don't want me to— ?"

"Roxanne. That girl working the West Side, near the Javits Center— how'd you meet her?"

"Roxanne….? I don't know if…"

"She gave your name. When she called me. Said she had a problem. White girl. Looks kind of used."

"All those tire–biters look used, honey— that's a rough life out there."

"She used your name, Mary. I know you got paid. Just tell me what you know and I'm out of here."

"Square business?"

"Square business. I got no beef with you. Just run it down— where, when, like that, okay?"

She looked up at me, dark eyes glinting over high cheekbones. "Look, honey, all I did was what I do, okay? I mean, I figured she had a job of work, she pays me to get word to you. After that, you're on your own, right?"

"Right."

"And, the way I figure it, if you make out good on the job, maybe you'll come by, take care of Mary."

"I just did that, take care of you. You don't like the way I did it?"

"Come on, honey. You know that isn't what I meant. It's just…you sound like you're mad at me for something."

"Mary, I came to your place, didn't I? I was mad at you, I wouldn't come here, give everybody a good look at me, would I?"

"I…guess not."

"And I came alone, didn't I? Showed you respect?"

"Yes…"

"So give it to me, girl."

She got up off the bed, walked over to a night table, knocked a cigarette out of a pack, tapped the filter against one long thumbnail. "You got a match?" she asked, coming over to where I was standing.

I cracked a wooden match into flame. She cupped my hand in both of hers, taking the light. "Sit down," she said. "You're making me nervous."

I took an easy chair near the foot of the bed, lit a smoke of my own. Mary walked in little circles, gesturing with her cigarette. "This Roxanne chick, she called me. Here. We're not supposed to get personal calls here, but Rudy— you know, the guy who let you in— he doesn't ride too hard. Anyway, she wanted to meet me. Said there was good money in it. I met her in Logan's. You know that bar on— ?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Anyway, that's a safe place. I mean, I picked it and all. And Rudy went with me. This Roxanne, I never saw her before. Not her friend either."

"Her friend?"

"Blonde girl. I think it was a wig…like too much hair for her face, you know? Kind of fat, you ask me. Too much makeup."

"She tell you her name, the blonde girl?"

"No. She didn't say much of anything. But I could tell it was her pulling the strings— this Roxanne, her motor's not hitting on all cylinders, you understand?"

"Yeah," I said, making a "get on with it" gesture with my right hand.

Mary took a deep drag from her cigarette, buying herself a little time. "Anyway, she said she was having trouble with her man. She wanted to jet, but she was scared of him. Happens all the time, right?"

"Sure."

"So I asked her, does she want to hire Rudy, take care of it? And— "

"Rudy? The skinny guy who answered the door out there?"

"Oh yes, honey. Rudy maybe can't bench–press fifty pounds, but he's quick as a snake with that blade of his. Quiet too."

"Okay. So…"

"So she says no. She wants you. Burke, she said. She knew your name. Said she heard you was real good at this. I told her, everybody on the street has peeped your hole card a long time ago— if it don't have nothing to do with kids, you not gonna do any heavy work."

Wesley flashed across my mind. Wesley, the maybe–dead ice–monster. The perfect killer, good for nothing else, but better at it than any man alive. Wesley telling me I had a bull's–eye on my back. A weakness. Kids. Get rid of it, he told me in his deadman's voice. I wish I'd listened then. I put the cigarette to my lips, making a smoke screen for my eyes. "So what happened after that?" I asked Mary.

"She said it was about kids, kind of. Anyway, she'd pay me to get word out to you."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Five yards," Mary said. "I figured, it must be big, she was gonna pay that much for just a message. Figured, you were gonna get paid big too."

"So she paid you how much up front?"

"The whole thing. Only, she didn't actually pay me— it was the blonde chick."

"And that's all you know?"

"That is all I know, honey. I even told her— I can get word to you, but I can't promise you'll do anything about it. She just told me where her stroll is, told me to tell you that."

"You'd know the blonde girl if you saw her again?"

"I…think so. Like I said, she didn't say much. And it's dark in there, so— "

"Okay, Mary. Thanks." I got up to leave.

Mary opened another button on the pajama top, flashing a smile. "You paid for some time, honey. You want me to earn it?"

"If you told me the truth, you just did," I said, reaching behind me to open the door, watching Mojo Mary all the time.

I drove back downtown, working it over in my mind. Coming up short again. That last bit stunk worse than aged sushi. Mojo Mary has a hooker's soul. She's all whore in her heart— no way she gives up pussy for free. But she didn't seem scared, the way she would if she thought she'd sold me out and I was still walking around. She was guilty all right, but lightweight guilty— figured she could work it off. Just didn't add up.

Only the white dragon was in Mama's window. I pulled around to the back, walked through and found my booth. Mama came over, clapping her hands for soup. This time, she didn't wait for the ceremony, just sat down across from me.

"What is all this?" she asked me, gesturing in a wide circle.

"I don't know, Mama. Mojo Mary gave my name to a street girl. Girl wanted me to ice her man, take him off the count. Mary knows I don't do that kind of work…"

"Mary is street girl too?"

"Yeah. Only she works inside."

"So! Maybe she… hear something. From long ago…"

I kept my mind away from that, away from the past. Too many "Father Unknown" birth certificates— too many unmarked graves. Who knows what the pimps gossip about in their after–hours joints, where flash counts heavier than cash? Who knows what Mojo Mary heard? "Maybe you're right, Mama," is all I said.

I sipped my soup in silence, expecting Mama to go back to her cash register. But she stayed where she was, face composed, watching me.

"What?" I finally asked her.

"Why you not ask about lady police?"

"I already know her," I said. "Belinda. The same one who's been calling here all along, remember?"

"Short girl, kind of…"

"Plump?"

"No, not plump. Like…solid. Strong."

"Yeah, that's her."

"Blue eyes?"

"I don't remember," I told her. It was the truth.

"Blond hair?"

I looked up from my soup, paying attention for the first time. "No. It's kind of reddish–brown."

"This one blonde."

"You sure?"

Mama gave me a look of intense pity, clearly wondering how I got to be as old as I am despite being so stupid. "Yes," she said. "Sure. Blonde."

"Maybe she dyed her hair. Women do things like that, right?"

"Not dye hair," Mama said. "Blond wig."

I felt a hammer drop somewhere in my head. Maybe I was getting too old for this. Who strips a blow–job whore looking for a wire? That blonde girl, the one on the same corner as Roxanne…I tried to replay the image, but I couldn't get the screen to clear. Belinda? Belinda getting me on tape, agreeing to kill a man for money?

But I hadn't gone for it.

I was in a long corridor. A long mirrored corridor. I couldn't see the end. Just reflections. Images. I couldn't see, so I listened.

And all I heard was that special–ugly slammer–sound when the jailers rack the bars closed at night.

"Mama," I asked, "you still have that loft over on Mott Street?"

"Sure."

"Anybody staying there now?"

"No. Nobody till next month."

"Can I borrow the key?"

Mama reached in one of her kimono pockets, handed it over. "Take Max," she said.

I used the phone in the back to reach out for the Prof, came up empty. He wasn't at the gym. Not at any of his usual spots either. I left word.

Mama's is a good place for waiting. It's quiet and peaceful, the food is great…you can make a call or get one, read the racing form, take a nap if you want. Mama always keeps a stock of English–language international newspapers around. I opened one idly, glanced through it, enjoying the soup the waiter had poured into a thick coffee cup for me.

The paper had two full pages of escort services. One place said all their girls spoke at least three languages. Sure— French, Greek, and Missionary.

The classifieds were more interesting. An offshore bank was offered for sale: ten thousand, cash. Somebody was advertising a kidney for sale. His own. Cost you a hundred grand plus expenses, but if you needed a transplant, you wouldn't have to wait in line.

I dropped the international stuff and shifted to the local tabloids. A human on the Holy Coast fixed up his basement for his stepdaughter— soundproofed walls with a videocam set up on a tripod. Called it his War Room. He tortured the girl down there. When they busted him, he said he was trying to teach the girl right from wrong. That's what's wrong with kids today— they have no discipline. He was willing to plead guilty to child abuse, but not to any sex crimes.

It might have worked if the jury hadn't seen the tapes.

I turned the page. A man and woman— a male and female anyway— got all embarrassed about the woman's condition. She was about to give birth, but the baby wasn't his. So they took the baby home from the hospital and buried it in their back yard. Nobody knew anything about it until the woman got pregnant again…by the right man this time. A nurse asked her if she'd ever been pregnant before, and the woman said she had, but the baby had died. It didn't take them long to find the baby's body— the cops locked them both up.

When the man was produced for his arraignment the next day, his face was badly swollen. Some sanctimonious columnist wrote the story, smirking self–righteously about "jailhouse justice." Every time I read wishful–thinking garbage like that, I want to puke. I did time with a guy once— Mestron, his name was— he was a sex killer, and proud of it. None of the girls was over seven years old. The miserable freak would snatch the poor little things, take them back to the basement where he lived…grab their ankles, hold them upside down, then use his powerful arms to crack the little girls like wishbones…so he could slide in on the blood. I know the details because he told them to anyone who would listen. Over and over, doing it again in his mind.

Mestron was a short guy, maybe five foot six, tops. He weighed about two hundred and thirty pounds, all of it muscle. He was good with his hands and better with a shank. And he wasn't in population two weeks before he raped a bank robber— hundred–and–twenty–pound bank robber who couldn't bring his gun to prison with him. And Mestron? That baby–killer did good time— righteous indignation doesn't stack up too high against homicidal muscle. You want to see jailhouse justice? Just spend some time in a jungle…and pray you're not the prey.

The scumbag on the Coast, the one who tortured his stepdaughter— my hope for him was that he'd have something worth killing for in prison. It wouldn't take much.

I stopped reading the paper— I don't know why they call it "news." I got up from my booth, bowed a goodbye to Mama, and got back out into the world.

The next day was Friday. Still no sign of the Prof. I figured I could catch him at the fights, so I picked Max up and we drove over the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, exited on Queens Boulevard and motored along, watching for the turnoff. All along the strip, the topless bars and storefront churches coexisted, each crew deluding itself it was competition for the other. I found the turnoff, followed the Prof's directions. The joint was off Skillman Avenue, an old arena that hadn't been big–time since World War II. We circled the area half a dozen times before Max spotted a parking place. I pulled in, secured the Plymouth.

"We're with one of the fighters," I told the guy at the door. "Where's the dressing rooms? I got a boy going tonight."

"Him?" the guy at the door said, nodding his head in Max's direction.

"Not this time," I told him.

"You're not gonna work the corner, you gotta pay like everybody else," he said.

I gave him a fifty for two ringside seats. "First come, first served," the guy said, gesturing toward the ring standing in the middle of the auditorium surrounded by rows of folding chairs.

One of the cable networks was setting up a trio of heavy cameras on massive tripods. I saw the lights had already been strung, the network's logo was firmly in place near the ceiling. They tape all the fights, but the four–rounders only make it to the screen if the main event ends early.

We walked around the perimeter until I found the entrance to the back rooms. The locker room was crowded with fighters— they were all in the one room, but separated by invisible lines, surrounded by handlers and hangers–on. The place smelled of fresh sweat and stale hopes. I spotted the Prof standing over to one side, saying something to Frankie as Clarence carefully wrapped the fighter's hands in tape.

"It's the first bout for the other guy too," the Prof was saying to Frankie, "but he's a Golden Gloves winner— they looking for you to be a sheep for the creep. But ain't the way it's gonna play, okay?"

Frankie nodded attentively, not speaking.

"You got to be quick, babe," the Prof continued. "Get off fast— don't let it last. On TV, KO is all they know. You ready?"

Frankie nodded again.

"We're up first," the Prof said to me. "Got about a half–hour." He turned to Frankie. "Just lie back, son. Relax. Don't bother trying to break a sweat until it gets close to game time."

Frankie obediently lay back on the table, closed his eyes.

"I got to ask you something," I said to the Prof, drawing him aside.

"After the bout, schoolboy. This is business now."

"Okay," I agreed, staying on his topic. "You know anything about this boy Frankie's going to fight?"

"Sure. See that guy over there? The one against the lockers? That's him. Jermaine Jenkins."

I looked over. Jenkins was a black kid, looked about nineteen. He stood about six four, looked like he weighed maybe two thirty. A real big kid. Big all over. He was admiring a neon–blue robe with his name on the back, rapping to a couple of guys in suits.

"We can take him easy," the Prof said, smiling. "Boy's got a nice wardrobe. Slick moves too. But his punch don't crunch. Only reason we got the date is they glommed Frankie's weight. We should be fighting cruisers, but there ain't no cash in the off–brands."

"What corner they give you?"

"Blue," he replied. "True blue."

"Frankie's ready?"

"He'll be on that pretty–boy like a ho' on dough, bro— nothing to it."

I walked back over to where Frankie was lying down. Noticed Clarence had placed a clean white washcloth over the fighter's eyes. "Be yourself," I told him, giving his shoulder a pat.

"I will," he said quietly.

Max and I went out, found seats near the blue corner. The place was filling up. I spotted a crew of dope gangstahs through the ropes, all sitting ringside. One of them was talking on a cellular phone, making a production out of it. A dark–haired man in his fifties in an expensive–looking midnight–blue suit sat a few places over to my left, his arm around the waist of a sharp–featured bottle–blonde about a foot taller and thirty years younger than him. Most of the crowd was local— blue–collar whites and flashier–dressed Latins. A group of Orientals sat by themselves, occasionally glancing over at the black gangstah crew. Hard looks, returned with interest.

The announcer stepped to the center of the ring, a middle–aged man with an elaborate hairdo wearing a bright–red tuxedo jacket with black shawl lapels. He held a microphone in one hand and a large index card in the other. Then he did the usual bit about welcoming us to the fabulous arena, announced each of the three judges by name, identified the State Boxing Commissioner and a bunch of other people. Then the referee. In the middle of his spiel, the two fighters walked toward the ring from opposite directions. Jenkins was resplendent in his pretty robe, surrounded by half a dozen different guys. Frankie's robe was wide black–and–white vertical stripes, like an old–time convict's uniform. Jenkins' handlers held the ropes for him to climb in the ring— Clarence did the same for Frankie. The cornermen removed their fighters' robes. Jenkins' blue trunks were a perfect match. Frankie's were striped the same as his robe too.

The referee called the fighters to the center of the ring, mumbled something. Jenkins looked much bigger than Frankie, a menacing scowl on his face. He glared at Frankie— Frankie gave him a blank stare back. The referee said to touch gloves. Frankie held his two hands out— Jenkins brought both fists down hard, said something I couldn't catch. The fighters went back to their corners, sat down.

Frankie opened his mouth for Clarence to insert the white rubber mouthpiece. The Prof leaned close to Frankie's ear, whispering something.

The bell rang.

Jenkins trotted out of his corner, circled to Frankie's left, up on his toes, firing a series of pretty jabs that Frankie caught on his gloves. Frankie shuffled forward methodically, working from a slight crouch, occasionally pushing a weak jab out.

"Let your hands go!" the Prof screamed.

Jenkins continued to circle, drawing cheers from the crowd with each flurry. Frankie cut off the ring, bulling Jenkins into a corner. But Jenkins spun away, slapping a glove to the back of Frankie's head as the crowd laughed.

Jenkins pop–pop–popped more jabs, then crossed with his right, catching Frankie flush on the jaw. Frankie stepped back, but quickly lowered his head and came on again. The bell rang with both fighters in the center of the ring throwing punches— Jenkins outspeeding Frankie by an easy three–to–one. Jenkins raised both hands over his head as he strutted back to his corner.

Clarence took the mouthpiece from Frankie, held a sponge to the back of the fighter's neck. A girl in a gold thong–back bikini pranced around the ring in matching spike heels, holding up a white card with a red 2 on it.

The Prof was saying something in Frankie's ear— I couldn't make it out.

The bell for the second round sounded. Jenkins was off his stool quickly, covering most of the distance between the fighters before Frankie took a single step. Jenkins flicked the jab. Frankie didn't move his feet, but he dropped his right shoulder, shifted his weight way over and exploded a pair of right hooks to Jenkins' ribs. Jenkins staggered backward, hands up to protect his face. Frankie threw another right hook, legs spread apart, feet planted for power. The crowd screamed as Frankie came on, hooking with both hands now. Jenkins dropped to one knee. The referee started to count. Jenkins was up at eight. The referee asked him if he was all right. Jenkins nodded, held his hands up to show he was ready. The referee wiped off Jenkins' gloves on the front of his white shirt, waved Frankie in.

Frankie shuffled forward as Jenkins retreated behind his flicking jab, maintaining distance. It didn't work— Frankie swallowed the jabs, a flash of white showing at his mouth. Either a smile or a snarl— I couldn't tell.

Jenkins still had his hands up, elbows against his chest, armor–plated. Frankie pounded away at what he was offered, smashing blow after blow to his opponent's forearms. Jenkins backed into the ropes. Frankie threw a left just below Jenkins' elbow, then followed with an overhand right to the temple. Jenkins lost his legs— his knees wobbled as he tried to pull Frankie into a clench. The referee separated the fighters, pushing Frankie back a few feet.

It didn't help. Frankie drove a right into Jenkins' kidneys and the other man went down— this time he didn't get up. A doctor came into the ring as Frankie walked slowly back to his own corner.

Max and I found Frankie back where he'd started the night. He had just stepped out of the shower and was toweling himself off.

"Good job," I told him.

The kid kept his head down, mumbled "Thanks." The Prof pulled himself up onto the table, used it for a chair as he spoke to Frankie. "You got to get off first, " he said to the fighter. "You was all warmed up before you went out there. What happened?"

"I…dunno," Frankie replied.

"That boy was all flash," the Prof said. "He couldn't hurt you with a fucking tire iron, right?"

"Yeah."

"Look, kid, you don't want to get a rep as a slow starter. You can't be giving away the first round every time— that makes the other guy brave."

Frankie's head came up, looking the Prof full in the eyes for the first time. "I know," he said.

A smile broke across the Prof's handsome face. "You hear that, schoolboy?" he said to me. "My man's got a plan. The other boy raps, my boy sets the traps. Beautiful!"

"You cannot be defeated, mahn," Clarence said to Frankie, as gravely as quoting the Bible.

Max tapped Frankie's shoulder to get his attention. Then he mimed throwing a right hook, bowed to Frankie. Frankie returned the bow. "How do I tell him thanks?" he asked me.

"You just did," I told him. I turned to the Prof. "You about ready to go?"

"I want Frankie to see the rest of the fights, all right? Only a fool cuts school."

We all went back outside, just in time to see another four–rounder come to an end, this time with both fighters standing. When the decision was announced, one of the fighters leaped into the air, waving a gloved fist in triumph— the other made an emphatic gesture of disgust. The crowd booed them both.

Frankie sat to my left, Max to my right. The Prof and Clarence went off somewhere, probably to arrange Frankie's next fight. Or to collect some bets.

We watched some paunchy heavyweights waltz around the ring to the thunderous boredom of the crowd. It was so bad that the ref tapped one of them on the shoulder when he wanted to cut in. I knew cable TV was desperate for product, but this was obscene— if it wasn't for the 10–point–must system, the sorry bout would have ended up a 0–0 double–draw loss. The crowd booed and hissed at the decision, disgusted that either of the slobs won. Like New York voters, wishing there was a Fuck–All–a–Youse choice on the ballot.

Finally, they announced the main event. Frankie sat up straight in his chair, taking it all in.

The Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and zip, with seventeen KOs. He was as sleek as an otter— all smooth, rubbery muscle under glistening chocolate skin. He wore royal–purple trunks with a white stripe under an ankle–length robe in matching colors, his name blazing across the back: Cleophus "Cobra" Carr.

Tonight he was the main event, a ten–rounder. Middleweights, they were supposed to be, but they called Carr's weight out at one sixty–four.

There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside— betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.

Nobody knew the opponent— he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.

The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables— Orrrr–Teeese!

Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.

Maybe he had dreams for this once— now it was a part–time job.

I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena— I could see it in his face, all of that.

Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half–dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value— they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.

The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone— the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.

Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men— Ortiz was working. I could feel the pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.

The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves the way Frankie had, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.

The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, firing a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.

Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.

Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped backpedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw Ortiz shook his head— then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.

The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead— maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.

Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.

The girl in the gold bikini wiggled around again, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.

Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as nervous as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.

Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.

The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.

Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient— they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.

"Shoeshine, Cleo!" a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.

By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure— this wasn't what they had come to see.

A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.

Carr snapped at the cut like a terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.

Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.

The ring girl was really energized now, hips swinging harder than Carr was hitting.

Carr came out to finish it and drove Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed flush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.

The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.

Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.

Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.

The announcer grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and still undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra… Caaaarrrr!"

The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.

Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.

Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.

"That's a real warrior," Frankie said to me. "Carr? He's nothing but a— "

"Not him," Frankie said. "The Spanish guy."

That's when I knew for sure that Frankie was a fighter.

We followed Clarence's green Rover sedan to the Bronx, where they'd drop Frankie off near Arthur Avenue. Through their back window I could see Clarence driving, Frankie in the passenger's bucket seat, the Prof's head between them, probably doing all the talking.

"Meet you at the gym, Slim," the Prof called out his window as the Rover pulled away.

The Prof had a key. Inside, the gym was deserted. Clarence found the light switch. One wall was lined with gym mats. I leaned against one, offering the Prof a smoke before he could snatch one out of my hands.

"You remember that Belinda girl?" I asked him. "The one who Clarence made for a cop in Central Park?"

"Yeah, his pick was slick— and he got there quick. Pulled your coat in time, too. What now?"

"She's been calling. For a long time now."

"So?"

"So she calls Mama's direct, not to the bounce number. Letting me know she knows where to find me."

"What's she want?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, she's been after it for a while. Anyway, Mojo Mary gave me the word— some street stroller had a job for me. I go to meet her. What she wants me to do is drop her pimp."

"Total him?"

"Oh yeah."

"Damn, man. That old rep died a natural death. Long time ago. Even the players don't be saying it. The street's got its own wire…Some little girl might knock on the wrong door, hear some bullshit rumor, but Mojo Mary…fuck! The ho' is a pro, she knows you don't do contracts."

"Yeah. Anyway, I meet this girl. And she makes her pitch. I blow her off— tell her I don't do work on people. So she throws in some tripe about how her man is doing some kids."

"She read the book, knows the hook. They can call, but you won't fall. What's so strange?"

"Couple of things, Prof. When I go to drop her off, I see another hooker close by. Chunky girl, blonde. I figure, maybe the two are hooked up. You know pimps— that girl–girl stuff really spooks them. Maybe the guy they wanted me to do is really macking them both. Anyway, next, I brace Mojo Mary. She comes across like Little Miss Innocence— she's just trying to toss a job my way, looking out for the commission, okay? Tells me this little girl makes a date, meets her in Logan's. And the blonde hooker is with her. They don't say Word One about me icing her man, just want Mary to pass the message."

"It don't take no rocket scientist to be a ho', bro— all you need is the lips and the hips. Her story's weak, but it don't sound freak."

"How about this? I pay Mary for her time, right? Toss another yard at her for a tip before she even opens her mouth, okay? Then, after she gives up the information, she offers me a free ride. And when I talk to Mama about Belinda, turns out she was there. In the restaurant. In person. And she's wearing a blond wig."

"Bitch wanted you on tape," the Prof said quietly.

"Sure. She has a tape like that, I have to dance to her tune. Especially because that fucking Morales, he's still on my case."

"That last clue is true, brother. Morales, he's got a memory like a damn herd of elephants. Bad business, you get on the bad side of that roller. And he ain't got no good side."

"How does it scan to you?"

"Got to be this, schoolboy: this Belinda bitch, she's working with Morales, setting you up on a conspiracy rap, leverage you into dimeing everybody on that old stuff. You go back a long way with that blue coat…Hard to see him working with a woman, though. He's an old East Harlem head–breaker, that's more his style."

"His partner's gone now. So maybe he's— "

"No way to tell," the Prof mused. "Hell, maybe it's just the broad. Maybe she's got something she wants you to do. Something off the books."

"I'm gonna meet her," I said.

The Prof just nodded, covering it all.

It was 5:05 am. when I punched Belinda's number into a pay phone on Canal Street. She answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"You wanted to talk to me?" I said, gentle–voiced.

"I sure do," she said, recognizing my voice too quickly for someone who hadn't heard it in years…and never over the phone. "I've been trying for—"

"Tomorrow night okay with you?"

"I don't get off work until after two in the morning."

"How about if I pick you up there?" I asked, like I didn't know what she did for a living.

"Uh…no, that wouldn't work. I need to take a shower, change my clothes, put on some perfume…. Or a body mike, I thought. But I told her, "Whatever you say. How about five in the morning, that suit you?"

"That would be great. I'll meet you at— "

"I can come to your place," I said innocently.

"No, that's okay. I could meet you at the restaurant. You know, the one where I— "

"It's closed by then," I lied smoothly. "How about the corner of Canal and Mulberry?"

"It's a date," she replied.

I hung up the phone, putting the lies on Pause until we could do it again in person.

I had almost twenty–four hours to set things up— I wouldn't need them all. I stopped in an all–night deli on Broadway and cruised the aisles like a lunatic in a gun shop, looking for something to catch my eye and speak to me.

A slightly built kid with an olive complexion and a long ponytail was restocking shelves— he was already on the last aisle. The kid's ears were covered with stereo headphones plugged into a tape recorder hooked onto his belt, his lips moving in silent–sync to the lyrics pumping through his head. On a low deep shelf I spotted a flat tray of dark–chocolate–covered coconut bars. I reached in and took three of them from the front. A young woman dressed in head–to–toe I'm Serious black gave me a pitying look before she reached all the way to the back of the shelf to take some for herself. Her glance said it all— any idiot knows they stock the shelves with the freshest goods at the back so they can move the stale stuff first.

Maybe in Iowa. In this city, the hipper you think you are, the easier you are.

I picked out an assortment of cold cuts, a loaf of rye bread, and a half–dozen bottles of Ginseng–Up, then walked it all over to the register. Behind the counter was a whole wall of glass, designed to display the refrigerated collection of .40–caliber malt liquors. The oversized bottles are best–sellers. The kids take one of the baby cigars— Philly Blunts are the favorite— razor it open, load it with marijuana, and mix tokes with sips. The big booze brand is called Crazy Horse. Real classy, like naming a vodka after Chernobyl.

When I got back to my office, I shared the food with Pansy. All except the soda— she hates the bubbles.

For dessert, I cracked one of the coconut bars— it was as fresh as a just–burst rosebud. I hoped the hipster chick didn't crack one of her expensive caps on the ones she bought.

After supper, me and Pansy each got a handful of Dismutase tablets. One tab's the equivalent of about a quart of wheat sprouts. Vets give them to dogs who've had broken bones— they say it's the best thing for arthritis. Pansy's a long way from being a pup— sometimes her bones give her trouble, especially in the winter. I tried some on her— in a few weeks, she was moving a lot easier. No way a dog reacts to a placebo, so I figured the stuff had to be doing the job. I have trouble with my hands— the right one's been broken too many times and I can feel cold weather right through it. Since I've been taking the Dismutase along with Pansy, they don't hurt as bad.

I measured out the dose. You start with one tab per twenty pounds of dog, then switch to one tab per forty pounds as maintenance. We're both on maintenance now. We weigh about the goddamned same, too— she's really packed on the poundage the last couple of years.

While she was up on her roof, I fiddled with the TV set. Once I got a channel to come in, I kicked back on the couch, eyes closed. Pansy came back downstairs, walked over and put her massive head on my chest. She does that sometimes. I got her when she was a tiny puppy, not even weaned. I had to let her nurse from a baby bottle. When you first pull a pup from the litter, it's a good idea to wrap a towel around a wind–up clock and put it next to them— the ticking makes them think of their mother's heartbeat and they sleep better, safer in their minds. I didn't have one of those clocks, so I slept on my back with Pansy on my chest. Seemed to work pretty good. Every once in a while, I don't know why, she wants to hear my heartbeat again. I scratched behind her ears until she settled down. She took her head away, curled up on the floor to watch TV with me, making that noise that sounds like a downshifting diesel truck to show she was about to relax.

After a few minutes of product–pushing perjurers, I got lucky— an old episode of the Andy Griffith show— one I hadn't seen before. There was this guy, came to Mayberry from some other place. And the townspeople, they really treated him like shit, like he was a foreign spy or something. Finally, Sheriff Andy read them all the riot act…about how they should be flattered that this guy picked Mayberry to be his home town…how most folks don't have a choice. Kind of like the difference between adoption and birth.

I don't have a home town. New York isn't anybody's home town. It's different in other places. If you're a Chicago boy or a Detroit girl, the local papers treat you special. You're home–grown, and that counts for something.

Not here. In this city, PTA groups are more worried about the metal detectors' working than whether their kids are learning to read. Confidence is crumbling faster than the infrastructure. People with options flee this city— then they sit around in the suburbs whining about how much they miss the "energy."

When I got out of prison one time, I went over to Two Dollar Dominick's to get a haircut. I don't know why they called it that— there never was a guy named Dominick there. It was a little two–chair shop. Full service, though— you could get a manicure, your shoes shined, bet on a horse, borrow some cash…the works. Anyway, a haircut always used to be two bucks, but I'd been away a long time. When Angelo was finished cutting my hair, I asked him, "How much does a haircut go for now?"

The old man hadn't seen me for five years or so. He just looked me in the eye, said, "For you, it's still two bucks."

That was the closest I ever felt to having a home town.

Angelo, he's gone now. To the one retirement community where everybody gets the same pension.

I slept in late the next morning— I knew I'd be up a long time once it got dark. I had breakfast with Pansy, then I went over to the restaurant to find Mama debriefing Max about last night's fight. The Mongolian was showing her each and every move, acting it all out. Mama's eyes had that glazed–over look people get when they're stoned on boredom, but Max was relentless. I never saw Mama so glad to see me.

"Burke! Our boxer won, yes?"