Footsteps of the Hawk

"Gamble with money, sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders to show that was of little consequence. "Horses, cards, dice. Even buy a fighter, yes? All you lose is money. Always get more money."

I knew what she was saying. Hell, any professional thief knows the odds. You measure risk against gain, and take your shot. A B&E in a slum neighborhood is easy— not much chance of the cops' even coming around, much less dusting for prints and all that techno–stuff. Only problem is, the score's going to be low. Try the same stunt on Park Avenue, you raise the chances of being caught— but the take is a lot better if you pull it off. And you don't just look at the score, you look at the penalty too. You stick up a grocery store, you're probably looking at some serious time Upstate. If you're lucky enough to get out of there alive, that is— every self–respecting bodeguero has a gun somewhere under the counter. But if you embezzle a million bucks out of some widow's estate, you're probably looking at probation and community service.

You have to pick out the right scores too. If I was going to rob someone in Grand Central Station, I'd stick up a beggar instead of a guy in a business suit. I asked a beggar there for change of a five once, and he pulled out a roll thick enough to choke a boa constrictor. All I'd probably get from the suit would be an ATM card.

"You think there should be more money?" I asked innocently.

"Not enough money for this," Mama said, her tone serious, unrelenting. "This woman is bad. Immaculata, she say that too."

"This is…what? Woman's intuition?" I smiled at her.

"This is truth. You do something because you like a woman, it is not wise."

"I wouldn't— "

"You do it before," she interrupted.

I didn't need Mama to remind me. I still hurt for Belle— for what happened to her. My fault, all of it. Mama wouldn't have used such a heavy hammer on me unless she was scared about something.

"Mama, I don't like this girl. That's the truth. I think I'm in a box, and I think she's part of it. There's no way I can hide from her. I have to go down the tunnel, look around for myself."

"Take Max," she suggested.

"Maybe. Maybe later. I have to see first, okay?"

Mama nodded her head, reluctantly agreeing.

When I checked in later, Mama told me I had a message from Belinda. "That woman," Mama called her. It wasn't much of a message— just an address in the Village and a time.

The address Belinda left was on Van Dam, a few blocks south of Houston, just off Sixth Avenue. Ten o'clock, she said. I left my car on Fifth, just north of Washington Square Park, figuring I'd walk the rest of the way.

When I was a kid, I used to come here a lot. By myself. There was always something to see: the chess hustlers on the permanent playing boards, folksingers trying out new stuff, pretty girls walking— gentle, safe stuff. I was so young then that I thought the sun had something to do with it— that all the bad stuff only happened after dark.

Or inside houses.

Even a kid wouldn't believe that anymore. The sun burned fresh–butter bright, but it didn't mellow the shirtless man wearing a heavy winter hat with flapping earmuffs, viciously arguing with a schizophrenic inner voice. And it didn't have any effect on the drug dealers and assorted lurkers. It didn't calm the nervous citizens looking over their shoulders.

An open–top, pus–yellow Suzuki Samurai slowly prowled past, a boom box on wheels, aggressively smashing its hyper–amped sound violence at hapless citizens in a scorched–earth assault. The latest city ugliness— the sonic drive–by.

A long–haired white man in a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off strolled by, pushing one of those metal shopping carts they give you in supermarkets. The homeless love those carts— they pile all kinds of stuff in them and wheel them around the streets. The carts are stainless steel— they don't break easy and they never rust. They're real expensive too, and the supermarkets hate to lose them. In fact, they have a contract with a business that gets a flat rate for every one they recover.

The stroller wasn't homeless, he was a thief. There's a guy works out of a vacant lot off Houston on the East Side— he's got a standing offer to buy all the carts you can bring in.

On MacDougal, the precious–special shops looked depressed, pounded into near–submission by the sidewalk vendors. It was prime–time out there for cruising, but I didn't see many tourists. A man urinated against the side of a building. A woman sat on the curb, picking at her head, her blackened fingernails no match for the lice. Another boom–box Jeep rolled by, this one full of young men all decked out in brand–name gangstah–gear. Even the scavenging pigeons looked more degenerate than usual.

I stopped at a corner, right behind two guys on bicycles. They were pro messengers— you could tell by their gear. Not the Speedo pants or the fingerless gloves or the whistles on cords around their necks. Not even by the crash hats— open–weave padded leather fitted tight over their heads. No, what gave them away was the heavy combat chains wrapped around the base of the bicycle seats, always ready. One of them had his chain in his hands, talking urgently to the other.

"Motherfucker tried to door me, check it out! I laid it down, but when I come up swinging, pussy decides to bail!"

The other messenger high–fived his endorsement of biker self–defense as I stepped around them to move on. Three black youths approached, spread out in a fan across the sidewalk, blocking the way. One wore a T–shirt with "Back The Fuck UP!" on the chest. Another had a picture of Mike Tyson silk–screened on it, with "I'LL BE BACK!" below. I guess that was a political statement— Tyson gets convicted of raping a young girl and all of a sudden he's Emmett Till.

I gave way to them, stepping into the street, ignoring the sneering hiss one threw in my direction. When I was their age, I wouldn't have stepped aside. I was stupid then, and I paid what stupid people pay.

The sidewalk was clogged, but I wasn't in a hurry. I stopped at a bakery, bought myself a French bread, scooped out the inside and dropped it in an overflowing garbage can, and munched on the crust as I moved along.

On the next corner, a dressed–for–success woman was telling a tall man— her husband? boyfriend?— some miserable story.…I could see it in her stance.

"You know, you kind of expect this over in the East Village," she said, pointing a finger at a decrepit gray–haired man huddled in a doorway, his pants down around his ankles, calmly dumping a load as people stepped out into the street to avoid him.

"I know," the tall man commiserated. "Just the other— "

"I hate them," the woman interrupted. "The fucking homeless. I can't help it. I really hate them for what they've done to this city. You can't even use an ATM machine in peace anymore— they're always there, standing around with their hands out, like a pack of filthy doormen."

The dangerous ones, you won't see their hands, I thought to myself. I never considered sharing my professional knowledge with the woman— New York isn't that kind of place.

Once I crossed Houston into Little Italy, it got quieter. I wondered how long that would hold— in this city, there's no border invaders won't cross.

I found the place easy enough. The sign on the door said: RING BELL AND STEP BACK! I knew what that meant, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a second–floor window open and Belinda lean out. "Catch!" she said, tossing down a thick wooden stick with a key attached by a loop of wire.

I used the key to let myself in, then climbed a set of metal stairs to the second floor. Belinda was standing in an open doorway, wearing a baggy T–shirt that fell to mid–thigh. Her hair was lighter than I remembered, reddish highlights dancing in the reflected sunbeams from the window. As I stepped past her to walk inside, she put her lips against my cheek, a butterfly kiss so soft I couldn't be sure it had landed at all.

The place was furnished totally in Now and Today— which, from looking around, I guessed meant Retro. The joint was loaded with reproductions of old junk— a red–and–white Coke machine reprogrammed for diet soda, a Wurlitzer jukebox that spins CDs instead of 45s, and a painting that gave me a headache. I walked over, took a closer look. It was about twice the size of an eight–by–ten, done on white Crescent board. Supposed to be the Seven Dwarfs, near as I could tell, slapped on in a crude, amateur style, all in primary colors, right out of the tube. In the lower right hand corner: POGO in small block letters. I looked over at Belinda.

"An original," she said. "Before they made him stop signing that way."

I nodded, keeping my face expressionless— it wasn't the first time I'd seen Serial Killer Chic proudly displayed by moral midgets. The thrill–killers themselves have a rigid pecking order: if you want to qualify for celebrity status, if you want freakish disciples memorizing your trial transcripts like they were religious tracts, if you want erotic mail and money orders too, it's not enough to have slaughtered a bunch of people, there's other qualifications you have to meet. First, it really helps to have three names, like Westley Alan Dowd or Henry Lee Lucas. Then you need a high body–count— preferably in several states, so you can have serial trials to go with your serial killings. If you can lead the cops to some buried bodies, that's always good for a few more fans. But the most important thing is what John Wayne Gacy lacked— the secret ingredient that rocketed Ted Bundy to high–status serial killer even without a middle name. If you want to be at the top, you've got to kill females, the younger the better. Holding victims captive is a plus. So is torture. But it's all for nothing if you don't do it to females— male–victim snuff films always do lousy box office.

Belinda spread her arms wide, like a rancher showing how much land he had. "This is a perfect place," she said. "All the other lofts are empty— the owner bought them out. He wants to convert the place to condos. This is the last one."

"Very nice," I said, still thinking about the Gacy painting.

She walked over and perched on a big white plastic cube— it must have been stronger than it looked. The only other seat was a leather director's chair, with "Jon" written in embroidered script across the back panel. I took it, settled in, waited.

Belinda leaned forward. "Did you…find out anything? I know it's early, but…"

"Yeah," I told her. "I found out some stuff. DNA."

"That isn't foolproof," she said so quickly that she must have known. "They only got that in Jersey, right? And the woman on University Place, George knew her, I told you. Before it happened, I mean. And there was no sperm in her anyway, remember? Just that red ribbon…"

"So he just caught a bad break, right?" I asked. "He had legit sex with her, then some maniac came along and wasted her before she got a chance to leave the apartment?"

"It's not the weirdest thing I've ever seen," she said. "One time, when I was working Vice, I— "

"Yeah. Okay, I got it— people are strange, sure. But here's the part that throws me— the woman on University Place, the other two victims, none of them had any sperm in them at all. How does that play with you?"

Belinda got up, started pacing in little circles. I noticed she was barefoot, her feet were tiny, too small for the rest of her. I watched her pace, not saying anything more. She walked over to me. Stopped and made a "come here" gesture. I got up. She put her finger to her lips, held out her hand. I took it, and she gently pulled me along a hall to a back room. A bedroom, it looked like, but only because there was a bed— the rest was all file cabinets and photography equipment.

"This isn't my place," she whispered into my ear. "But Jon lets me use it sometimes, when he's out on assignment. He's a video freak— I think he has the living room wired. There's something I have to tell you, but it's just for you, okay?"

I nodded Okay back, not saying anything.

"You want me to strip?" she asked. "So you can be sure there's no— "

"You're the only one talking," I reminded her.

"You sure you wouldn't want me to anyway?" she asked softly, more promise in her voice than in her eyes.

"Some other time," I said. "When I'm not working."

And when you're not either, bitch, I thought.

"It's a date," she whispered.

I stepped past her, sat on the bed— there was no other place to sit in the little room. Belinda started her pacing again. Then she stopped, moved very close to me, bent down and whispered, "You don't have to talk. Just nod for Yes or No, okay?"

I nodded Yes.

"You looked at the autopsy reports, didn't you?"

I nodded Yes.

"And you saw…there was no sperm in any of the bodies, right? Not the one George went down for, not the ones that got killed after he was inside?"

I nodded Yes.

"So what does that tell you?"

I shrugged my shoulders, spread my hands wide in a "Who knows?" gesture.

"The killer…the real killer, I think he read the autopsy reports too. On the woman, the one George knew. I think he…the killer…figured it out. If he left any sperm inside the others, they'd know it wasn't George— the DNA would clear him. The way I figure it, he wore a condom."

I made a "So what?" gesture.

"I think the killer is crazy," she said. "Stark raving mad. And I think he killed those women, stuffed the red ribbons inside them…and then pulled them out of the dead bodies himself…later."

"When?" I asked her, tired of playing.

"When? What do you mean?" she said.

"I mean, when did he do it? What's so complicated? When would he get the chance?"

"Think about it," she said, no longer whispering.

I did. Inside myself, willing my face to go flat as my mind ripped through the possibilities.

Leaving only one.

"You're saying it's a— "

"Cop," Belinda finished my sentence. "Yes. And I think I know who it is."

I just looked at her— the name wasn't going to come out of my mouth. But I knew….

"Morales," she said. "Detective First Jorge Ortega Morales. He killed the woman on University Place. He killed them all."

I didn't argue with her— what was the point? As soon as she dropped her bombshell, she sat back on top of a two–drawer file cabinet, hugging herself, almost squirming in the embrace. The look on her face— I'd seen it before. In England, just before I went over to Africa and into a stupid war. I saw that same look on the hard face of a woman who called herself Colleen— a woman who planted bombs in department stores. Not for the revolution— that was just her excuse— for the thrill. Colleen always wanted to be close to her work— close enough to bask in the fallout.

That was Belinda, the way I saw her then— playing with fire, close enough to feel the heat…the only heat that really made her hot.

"Why am I in this?" I asked her. "You got all this stuff, what do you need me for?"

"Don't you understand?" she said, leaning forward, holding my eyes. "This isn't about the truth. If that's all it was, this would be easy— life would be easy. The way I figure it, you don't have many choices. Morales wants you. You know it and so do I. He's not the kind of man that'll stop. That's what gives him so much juice— he's insane. Out–of–his–fucking–mind insane. Most cops, they respect that. That's his rep— an Officer Down goes out over the box, Morales is gonna be the first one on the scene every single time. And if you're outside a door— a wood door— and you know a bad guy's inside— a nothing–to–lose killer— one of those crazy young don't–mind–dying gangbangers, probably got his Tec–9 stuffed with Teflon bullets so even your vest won't save you, okay? Well, Morales, he's going in, you can bet on it. He's been shot on the job. Twice. Couple of years ago, he caught a round in the chest taking down a dealer in Washington Heights. And he dropped the shooter…just blew him away He's got more CCRB complaints than anyone working— any detective, anyway— but they keep cutting him slack because he's a cops' cop, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know," I told her. "He may have a screw or two loose, but nothing you said about him makes him into a sex psycho."

"There's more," she said. "You remember McGowan, his old partner? The guy who worked the pimp detail?"

"Sure."

"Well, let me tell you something you don't know. McGowan pulled the pin last year. Retired. That was the price."

"The price for what?"

"McGowan always hated pimps— specially the kiddie pimps. You knew that. Everybody knew that. Morales knew it the best of all. Anyway, McGowan got this little girl to talk. Not just to him, to a grand jury. They finally had enough to take out this guy named Remington. You ever hear of him?"

I shook my head No— another lie.

"Okay, anyway, they go to this hotel where Remington was staying. In Times Square. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Remington took off. He made it down the back stairs, into an alley. That's where Morales shot him. In the head— he was dead before he hit the ground. And then Morales flaked him. With a throw–down piece— he always carries one. McGowan saw it all— he was standing right there. But he wouldn't testify against his partner. He didn't want to risk his pension either, not after so many years on the job. So he gave it up and went fishing."

"So Morales flaked a bad guy, so what? He's not the first, won't be the last. It don't make him— "

"Just listen to yourself," Belinda said. "You know McGowan how many years? A dozen? Twenty? Whatever, a long time, right? You ever know him to flake a perp? Even a live one? No. No you don't. 'Cause he never did it. But Morales, for him, that's a day at the office."

I knew that was true. I even heard Morales once threaten a pimp, telling the pimp that's what he was going to do if he didn't give up some information. That's what I was after too, so I told her, "I still don't get it," wanting to listen, not talk.

"The way I heard it, Remington had his hands up in the air," Belinda said, standing up and raising her own hands high enough to show me she wasn't wearing anything under the T–shirt. "Morales just walked up and smoked him. Cold–blooded murder. He put McGowan in a cross. The old man did the right thing— but Morales knows he made his own partner retire, and it's eating him up inside. He was always ready to go over the line— now he lives there."

Where I live too, I thought. "It doesn't add up," I said aloud. "Morales, he's a law–and–order freak, right enough— I can see him cutting some corners to make a case. But you got him doing the crimes without a— "

"Burke, I'm telling you, he's out of control. He's fucking nuts . That's why he's working solo now— nobody'll partner him. And I've got proof…."

"What proof?"

"After the shooting, he saw a shrink. A Department shrink. You have to— that's the rule. They call it a trauma screen— it's just to see if you're dealing with it okay. The shrink made a report. And I got a copy."

"How?"

Belinda ran her tongue over her lips— doing it slow, watching me from under her long eyelashes. Working undercover as a whore must have been a piece of cake for her.

"This report, it says he's the killer?" I asked her. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Read it for yourself," she said, getting up and walking over to a blue gym bag in the corner. She bent from the waist, held the unnecessary pose an extra beat, letting the T–shirt ride high, still working undercover, until she finally fished out a few sheets of paper. She straightened up and walked back over to me, holding the papers in her hands.

"Here," she said. "Take your time— I've got another copy."

I stuffed the papers in my jacket without looking at them. "I want to talk to him," I said.

"Morales?"

"No. Piersall. I want to talk to him."

"We can do that," she said quickly. "I'm going down to see him on— "

"You, me, and this reporter I know," I told her.

"I don't know. I— "

"There's no 'I don't know' in this," I said. "Either I talk to him— my way, the way I said— or I'll work out the week and keep the cash. You want more, you re gonna have to go the extra mile."

"Let me think about it," she said, calm now. "Can you call me on— ?"

"You know where to find me," I told her. "And it's your call. But the clock's running."

The psych report. Rigid, obsessive–compulsive. Superstitious. Guilt–ridden. All black and white, no gray areas. Unmarried. No significant peer relationships.

Q: What if you lost your job?

A: I'd eat my fucking gun.

Calvinistic. Angry. Feels he must keep tight hold on his emotions or he'll crack. Doesn't smoke, drink.

I returned Belinda's call, standing on the corner of Van Dam so I'd see if she went into action right after. She grabbed it on the first ring.

"Hi," is all she said, as if she could see through the telephone.

"You called me," I said.

"It's…okay. For the visit, I mean. The way you want it. I don't have a car. I usually rent one to go down there, but— "

"You don't need to do that," I told her. "Just give me your address and we'll pick you up."

"Ah…no, that wouldn't work. I'm working a split shift. And Tuesdays are the best for visits— it's not so crowded then. You know the Zero One? On West Broadway, just this side of— "

"I know it," I said. I never heard of anyone calling the First Precinct the Zero One before— something about this woman, always about a half–note off.

"Can you make it around ten in the morning?" she asked. "From there, it's only a little jump into the Tunnel and we can— "

"I'll be there," I said, cutting the connection.

I waited almost two hours— she didn't come out.

"I can drive," Hauser told me. "It would be better, anyway— I got a lot of stuff I use in there, and— "

"I'll meet you on West Fourth. You know, where the basketball court— "

"What time?" he asked.

"Say about nine–forty–five? Tuesday morning. Okay?"

"Yeah. You found out anything yet?"

"Not yet," I lied. "See you then."

Doc scanned the psych report quickly, not even wasting a minute to comment on the blackout surgery I'd performed to convert every mention of Morales' name to a blank space. He snapped a gooseneck lamp into life and held the report in his lap. Doc never looked up. He grunted once in a while, checked off a couple of spots on the paper with a red marker. I blew smoke rings at the ceiling, not interrupting.

"Okay, hoss," he finally said, looking up. "What do you want to know?"

"Could this guy be a sex killer?" I asked.

Doc rubbed the back of his head, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "That's too big a question," he said. "Bottom line? If psychiatry could predict human behavior, the Parole Board wouldn't make so many mistakes."

"Come on," I said. "Don't you guys do that all the time? What's the standard for locking somebody up in Bellevue? Dangerous to self or others, right? How could that be anything but a guess?"

"Sure," he said. "That's the standard. But it's way too broad for what you're asking. You just want to know if this guy's dangerous, that's an easy one. Yes. Hell yes! He's as tight as a stretched strand of piano wire. He sees the world real clear— black and white, no grays. Violence is part of his personality. It's almost his only means of self–expression, the way an artist paints or a musician plays. He seems to process information differently too."

"What's that mean?"

"The brain's a computer," Doc said. "Data comes in, it gets analyzed— much faster than this," snapping his fingers, "messages go to the body, the body reacts. That's all processing is. This guy," he said, indicating the papers in his lap, "he gets the same data as everybody else, but he comes to different conclusions."

"Meaning he's crazy?"

"Not at all," Doc said, deciding to answer more than I asked, as usual. "Trauma of any kind can cause a processing change, especially if it's early enough. Or severe enough. There's this guy, Bruce Perry, he's down at Baylor, in Texas. He's just starting to publish now, so I can't evaluate his stuff completely yet. But it looks like he can actually document past trauma in current brain patterns…and in a sleep–state, no less. That would revolutionize every treatment modality in the world— there's nothing cultural about brain waves. He pulls that one off— and from what I've seen so far, I'm betting he does— he wins the Nobel Prize, no contest."

"So, what this guy Perry does, it's like a lie detector?" I asked.

"I don't quite follow that, hoss."

"Say somebody is all grown. An adult, okay? Then they all of a sudden remember being abused as a kid. Like a flashback. It happens all the time. And there's the usual crap— How do you prove something like that? What kind of evidence would there be of incest that happened twenty years ago? This guy, Perry? It sounds like he could prove it."

Doc rubbed the back of his head again, thinking. I waited. "You know what, Burke? You might just be right. I mean, it wouldn't be that easy….You could maybe prove past trauma occurred, but not exactly what it was. But it's a start, sure enough."

"Okay, so this guy Perry's a fucking genius— what's that got to do with my man?"

"We already knew some stuff," Doc said, still ignoring my straight questions. "Even after they're grown, abused kids are different. A lot of them stay different too. Hyper–vigilant. Distrustful. The prisons are full of people like that, right?"

"Right," I answered, meeting his eyes, knowing who he was talking about.

"It doesn't mean they can't be good citizens, lead normal lives. Even accomplish great things. It's just that they'll always be…different."

"So, if this Perry guy could hook my man up to one of his machines, he could tell if there was some significant trauma in his background?" I asked, getting Doc off the track he wanted and back onto mine.

"Sure. But that wouldn't necessarily tell you much. This…person, he probably experienced trauma many times in his life. He's a hard man, working in a hard trade. It's not like TV. Most cops, they really can't turn it off and turn it on. They become suspicious. Aggressive, even hostile. It's the best way for them to function on the job. Some of them, they just can't go home, take off the badge and the gun, and turn into Ward Cleaver. The job has so many built–in stressors. What job gives you more broken marriages, more alcoholics? And there's temptations too— it's hard to work for wages when the people you arrest are making millions. There's always easy money lying around if you're a cop. And on top of everything else, you've got Internal Affairs snooping into your life. Dangerous? Hoss, most of them are."

"Doc, I appreciate all that. But…okay, just tell me this: could my man do it?"

"Sex murders? Yeah. Yeah, he could. His definitions of right and wrong, they could be skewed that bad. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink….I wonder if he uses foul language— "

"Every other word," I told him.

Doc took a short breath, went on like he hadn't heard me. "His kind of rigid, Calvinistic personality structure could easily lead him into a hatred of what he sees as impure women. And if you combine that with impotence— ?"

"What makes you think he— ?"

"I don't. Necessarily. But you'll notice he doesn't seem to have any regular relationship with a woman. He's thirty–eight years old. Never married."

"Plenty of guys never get married," I said.

He gave me a look. I ignored it. "Here's what doesn't fit," Doc said. "There's no iron–clad rule, but when you find a serial killer with this sort of rage against women, they usually target victims who fit their fantasy of 'bad' women, understand? The most likely targets are strippers, topless dancers, prostitutes…like that. And, from what you tell me, none of the victims were in the business."

I smoked another cigarette in silence, tracking it through. "Doc," I said. "What if he's gay? Wouldn't that account for it? I mean, if he's gay and doesn't want to deal with it— can't deal with it? That'd make him all those things it said in the report, right?"

"Ummm," Doc mused. "It could…especially if he believes homosexuality is morally wrong. If he repressed it strongly enough, you'd see the kind of overmacho behavior this guy exhibits. But those types, if they turn to violence, it's almost always against gay men. Still…"

"Thanks, Doc," I said, getting up to leave, holding out my hand. He gave me the psych report. "If there's any way I could talk to him— even for a few minutes— maybe I could…"

"We'll see," I lied.

The basketball court on West Fourth is one of the city's major arenas, almost on a par with Rucker Playground uptown. The freelance guys who work the top courts are as professional as any in the NBA— when it comes to the city game, maybe better. The city game is all about styling and profiling. Flash is the hallmark, but they still count the points at the end…where heavy money always changes hands.

Some of the playground names are still legend— Helicopter, Connie, The Goat— their feats magnified by time. I know a guy who claims he once saw The Goat soar above the rim, jam one down with his right hand, catch it coming out the bottom of the net with his left, and slam it home again with that hand before he touched down.

The city game is way past rough— anytime they call a foul, they call the paramedics too. Once I was watching a football game on cable— Australian Rules, the announcer said. None of the players wore helmets or pads, but they threw themselves at each other like they were armor–plated. An Aussie was in the same bar, and we struck up a conversation. He was in town to do a deal with someone— it was that kind of joint. He tried to explain the action to me, but I wasn't following all of it. I saw one player use a judo move to throw an opponent to the ground, then dive on him head–first. I could almost hear the ribs crack. "What do they have to do to have a foul called?" I asked the Aussie.

He thought about it for a moment, obviously puzzled. Then he said, "Well, if they were to use a weapon…"

That hour of the morning, the court was being used by stay–in–shape amateurs. The game was so weak there was no betting going on. I leaned my back against the chain–link fence, looking down Sixth Avenue, waiting for Hauser. I heard a double–honk of a horn, looked at the source and saw a window going down in an electric–blue Ford Explorer four–by. Hauser's face showed in the window. I walked over, got into the passenger seat. He hit the gas and lurched out into traffic.

"Very subtle ride you got here," I said.

"Yeah!" Hauser replied, taking it as a compliment. "And the boys really love it."

"Take the next right," I told him, then gave him directions to where Belinda would be waiting.

"Check this out," Hauser said, his face animated as he pushed the eject button on his radio. A cassette tape popped into view, still in the slot. I thought he was going to put in a new one, make me listen to some lame music, but he just left it there.

"What's it supposed to do?" I asked him.

Hauser grinned, pushed a button on the radio. No music came out. He waited a couple of seconds, then pushed another. "What's it supposed to do?" came out of the speakers. In my voice.

"The whole truck is wired," he said. "I've got other stuff too. Even a minicam in the back. I could sit back there for hours. I can see out, but nobody can see in. It's just perfect for surveillance."

"What if somebody wants to listen to the radio?" I asked him.

"As long as the tape cassette is in the slot, it works," Hauser said. "I can play the tapes too— all I have to do is push it in."

"This must have cost a fortune," I said.

"Not so much," he said, a slightly defensive tone in his voice.

"It's awesome," I assured him.

"It's great in bad weather too," he said, still not satisfied.

"I sure wish I had one," I said. That seemed to calm him down. Which was a good thing. I quickly discovered Hauser wasn't one of those guys who could talk and drive at the same time— he almost splattered a pedestrian because he was so busy talking. Apparently, he couldn't talk without making eye contact. I made up my mind to ride in the back seat on the way to Jersey.

Belinda was right in front of the precinct. She was wearing jeans tucked into mid–calf black boots, her upper body covered in a white turtleneck, a jacket over one shoulder. When we pulled up, I got out, opened the passenger door for her. She climbed inside, and I slid into the back seat.

"Belinda Roberts, J. P. Hauser," I said by way of introduction.

"I'm pleased to meet you," Belinda said.

"Same here," Hauser said, turning to face her, holding out his right hand for her to shake. Belinda started to reach for his hand, then gasped as Hauser just missed crunching a taxicab at the intersection.

"Take the Tunnel," I said to Hauser. "Then we want the Turnpike south."

In the Tunnel, Hauser and Belinda got to talking about courthouse personnel: judges, clerks, court officers, ADAs. "Moltino's a major asshole," Hauser said.

"Big–time," Belinda agreed.

I put my feet up on the big back seat, leaned back, closed my eyes.

My eyes flickered open as Hauser was pulling off to the side of the road. I could feel the trooper somewhere behind us. "Fuck!" Hauser said. "That's just what I need— another goddamn ticket."

I looked back over my shoulder out of the corner of my eye. The trooper was Central Casting: tall, square–jawed, his Mountie hat canted at just the right angle. He walked around to the driver's window— Hauser already had it down.

"Sir, you were clocked at— "

"It's my fault, officer," Belinda said, leaning across Hauser, arching her back so she could look up into the trooper's eyes. Or to show him how eager her breasts were to bust out of the white turtleneck.

"I'm on the job," she said. "Going down to the state prison to interview a witness." She pulled a thick leather wallet out of her jacket, handed it over.

The trooper flipped it open, saw the badge, gave Belinda a sharp look.

"Call it in," she said, flashing a dazzling smile. "It's not my boyfriend's badge, it's mine. I don't even have a boyfriend," she said in that pouty little–girl tone I'd heard her use before.

"May I see your license and registration, sir?" the trooper said to Hauser.

He took it all back to his cruiser. A few minutes passed. He walked back over. "Sir, you were clocked at seventy miles per hour. Since you have no prior record, it is our policy to issue a warning at this time. Please drive more carefully in the future."

"Thank you,"Hauser said fervently.

The trooper leaned into the window a bit, handed Belinda's wallet back to her. Then he straightened up, threw a half–salute and went back to his cruiser.

As Hauser pulled away, Belinda snapped open her wallet. A white business card popped out. She put the card in another jacket pocket, cranked her seat way back so she was almost reclining, looking up at me.

"Nice work," I told her.

"Well, you can usually tin a Jersey cop," she said, smiling. "We'd do the same for them on a traffic thing."

"I don't think it was the badge that did it," I told her.

"What else could it be?" She smiled again, taking a deep breath.

We got off the Turnpike at Exit 8A. Belinda directed Hauser from there. I knew a faster way, but I didn't say anything.

You almost never see prisons in the middle of cities. Jails, maybe, but prisons, they always want them out in the sticks. But Trenton State Prison is so old that it was there first— they had to build the city around it. We turned off Federal Street into the visitors' parking lot. Hauser looked at the dark monster looming above us: endless stone walls aged into a single definitionless mass, a filthy gray–black slab. "It's right out of a movie," he said. "A fucking horror movie."

Belinda went up to the window first, leaned in to talk to the guard. When she motioned to us, Hauser and I went over too. We each showed ID— Hauser his press pass, me my phony bar card:

Juan Rodriguez, Abogado.

"I told them you were George's lawyer," Belinda whispered. "And that J.P. was covering the case. This way, we get a contact visit."

"What's that?" Hauser asked her.

"If you're not an attorney, or a cop, or whatever— if you're just family or friends— then the visit is over the phone. Not a telephone, just a receiver you pick up on one side of the glass. The guy you're visiting does the same. A contact visit is when you can touch— no barriers."

"Piersall. George Piersall," the speaker squawked.

"That's us," Belinda said, standing up to lead the way.

The place was chambered, like the hatches in a submarine. As we walked through each set of doors, they closed behind us before the next one opened. The guard in the first chamber ran over our bodies with a hand scanner. It beeped for keys, the metal clip on ballpoint pens…anything. Hauser took out one of those giant Swiss Army knives, the red ones with enough attachments to build a house from scratch. The guard shook his head, gave Hauser a look. Hauser stared back blankly until the guard dropped his eyes. "You get this back on your way out," he muttered.

The next chamber had a metal detector we had to walk through. Then a guard led us around to the conference room. Most of the room was taken up by a long table with a wooden divider running lengthwise: attorneys on one side, clients on the other. There were also a few smaller tables scattered around, the space between them the only privacy permitted.

"There's a better room, for lawyers," Belinda said. "They let cops use it too. But I didn't want to try and talk them into letting the three of us in."

"This'll do fine," I said, casing the room. Over in the corner, a muscular black man in a blinding–white T–shirt was huddled forward, talking to another black man in a business suit. The muscular black man looked up. His eyes passed over my face like it was a blank wall.

"Hey!" A man's deep voice, greeting someone. It was Piersall, spotting Belinda. He walked over so slowly it was just this side of a swagger, a blond man with a neat haircut. His eyes were dishwater blue, set close together, his nose almost too small for his face. He smiled at all of us— his teeth were either all capped or factory–perfect. I made him at around six feet, maybe an inch over. About a hundred eighty–five pounds, most of it in the upper body. A good–looking, confident man— I could see a woman leaving a bar with him way before closing time.

He sat down, pulled a pack of smokes from the breast pocket of his prison–issue short–sleeved green shirt. He put the cigarette pack on the table, then he turned to Hauser, extended his hand.

"I'm George Piersall. You must be the reporter, right?"

"J. P. Hauser," Hauser acknowledged, shaking hands.

"And you?" Piersall asked, shifting his eyes to me. 'You're with Fortunato?"

"Juan Rodriguez," I said. "At your service."

"Where do we start?" Piersall asked.

"You're not contesting the Jersey conviction?" Hauser replied, setting the table.

"No. Not actually. I mean, it wasn't at all like they said in the indictment, but the plea offer was so good I just couldn't pass it up. I don't care about this one— I'll be going out on it quick enough. The thing is, they already dropped a detainer on me. Instead of parole, they'll just load me into a van to start another bit."

"The woman in New York?" Hauser asked. "The one on University Place? You said you— "

"Doris," Piersall interrupted. "Her name was Doris."

"Okay, Doris," Hauser agreed. "You said you…knew her. Before it…happened?"

"I did. I mean, not like we were friends or anything. I met her in a bar. We got to talking. And we went back to her place. After that, I called her a couple of times, or she'd call me. If neither of us was busy, we'd get together. You know, no big deal…But I liked her, you know what I'm saying? She was a nice kid— no reason for anyone to get rough with her."

"You think that's what happened?" I asked him, leaning in to catch his eye. "Somebody played too rough?"

"It could be," Piersall said quietly, staying right on my face. "She liked to play a little hard. Not over–the–top stuff, you know…"

"Spell it out," I said.

"Just little games. A slap in the face, grab her by the shoulders, hold her hands down while we did it. That's all."

"Somebody spotted you leaving…the night she was killed?" Hauser asked.

"Yeah. I'm not denying that. But even the autopsy report said she could of been murdered anytime— from just before I left to almost twenty–four hours later."

"Any possibility she was married? Or had a jealous boyfriend?" I asked him.

"Who knows?" He shrugged. "A girl like that, picking up guys in bars— it was probably just a matter of time anyway.

"So you figure she asked for it?" Hauser put in, the faintest undertone to his voice.

Piersall caught the undertone. Recognized it and batted it back over the net in one smooth move. "Not… that," he said, "God forbid," ducking his head slightly, like a man trying for composure. "I mean, she was asking for trouble, okay?" he said. "Not to be killed. What I was trying to say, she was taking some risks, see?"

"So what it comes down to," I said, "is you didn't do it. That's no help. You got anything else?"

"No," Piersall said, his face open and frank. "I wish I did. What we have to do, we have to find the guy who did do it— that's my only hope."

"We'll find him, George," Belinda said, her voice calm and certain. "I know, baby," Piersall told her, reaching for her hand, squeezing it for a second. He leaned back in his chair, finally lit the cigarette he'd had in front of him since we started talking.

"This is too crowded," I said, standing up. "With all of us pumping questions at you, we're not gonna get anywhere."

"I can— " Belinda started to say.

"No, it's okay. You and J.P. run through it. I'll step out for a while. I got some paperwork to look over anyway.

"Good to have met you," Piersall said, standing up to shake hands.

"Likewise," I told him.

"Kamau Rhodes," the loudspeaker barked. I walked over to the side room marked VISITORS.

"Got more than one client in here, huh, counselor?" a fat guard commented.

"It's a living," I said.

I walked into a long, narrow room, sat down on a round stool bolted to the floor, and looked into the murky Plexiglas, its surface smudged beyond redemption by generations of handprints— the only way to say hello or goodbye in that room, hands touching each other's through the barrier. I picked up the phone on my side of the barrier. Across from me was the muscular black man who'd been in the Contact Visit Room. We stared at each other for a long minute.

"Dragon," I said.

"Burke," he replied.

A long minute passed.

"I got your kite," he finally said. "Was that him?"

"Yeah," I said. "What's the word?"

"He's in PC," the black man said. "Been there for almost a week."

"He selling tickets?"

"No."

"Turn rat?"

"No. It wasn't like that. He's not pussy either— it wasn't a voluntary."

"Tell me."

"Somebody tried to take him out. A hammer job, with a shank for backup. His luck was running good— four cops were just rolling down the corridor— routine surprise shakedown— they saw it happening. All your guy got was a knot on his head."

"They pop anyone for it?"

"No. They were pros— hoods and gloves, long sleeves. Half a dozen other guys got between them and the cops— they got clean away."

"So why'd they lock Piersall up? Was it a race thing?"

"No. And it wasn't about a debt or a diss— it was a stone–cold paid–for hit. Word is, the RB was on the job."

RB. The Real Brotherhood. A white warrior gang with branches in max joints all over the country. Like the black and Latino gangs, all race did was get you in the door— what kept you there was performance. Some of them would stab you for stepping onto the wrong part of the yard, but most of them were businessmen— it would take something important to get them homicidal. Something like the prison drug concession, or a piece of the sports book. They also did debt collection and contract–kill work— inside the walls, there isn't much difference.

The RB is small, so it has to play very hard to get respect. It only takes a few seconds to kill a man, but a reputation is forever. If they took money to drop Piersall, they'd get it done, no matter how long it took.

I knew them. Some of them, anyway. If the prison administration doped it out the same way Kamau was telling me, they'd keep–lock Piersall until he was discharged.

"You got anything else?" I asked him.

"He don't mix much. Kind of standoffish. He don't play an attitude, but he don't back down either. He's short, anyway, from what I hear."

"Short here," I told him. "A full–book detainer's waiting on him, though."

"Oh. He don't act much like that. Walks soft— like he don't want to blow his go–home."

"Okay. You sure he wasn't messing with the RB?"

"Dead sure. That happens, they leave word all over the blocks…so when they take him out it's a message. Wasn't nothing like that this time. He was just strolling the block when they jumped him."

"He's got money on the books," I said. "Can't you still buy— ?"

"Not from the RB," he said. "There ain't enough money in here to bodyguard a man on their hit parade. There's no win— they'd never forget. Your man's gotta stay in lock–down until his hearing. If the RB's got a contract out on him, he can't walk the yard anyway. I don't like his chances, even in PC. You know how that works."

I did. "Protective Custody" is a joke— a little plastic squeeze–bottle full of cleaning fluid, a match…and nobody hears the screams. He still had to eat, too. And they let them out an hour a day for exercise. All of them at once.

"Thanks," I said. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Tell the Prof I send my respects," the black man said.

Back outside, in the waiting room, I left a hundred dollars on the books for Dragon. The guard gave me a look. I gave him one back— anything else would have made him suspicious.

In another few minutes, Hauser ambled out. He spotted me, sat down on the bench.

"I think— "

"How'd you get Press plates on that truck?" I interrupted, not wanting him to do any talking there. "I thought they never gave them out to freelancers."

"I'm a reporter, just like anyone else," Hauser replied, his jaw set. "That stuff is blatant discrimination. Took me a few appeals, but they finally gave it up."

"Right on," I said.

He searched my face for sarcasm, didn't find any. Said "Yeah!" under his breath, still pumped from the memory of that battle.

It was another half–hour or so before Belinda came out, her face tight and determined. I caught her eye. She came over to us. We all walked out together.

Everyone was silent with their own thoughts until we got back on the Turnpike. Belinda took off her seat belt, shifted her body so she was facing sideways. "Did you understand what George was saying?" she asked, directing the question at Hauser, turning just enough so she was including me in the answer.

"About what?" Hauser replied.

"About serial killers. Like George said, the one thing you have plenty of time to do in there is read."

"I've read that stuff too," Hauser said. "It sounds like a motley collection of guesswork."

"But what about the part…where he said the killer would have to keep doing it?"

"Even if that is right, how's that going to help?" Hauser asked her. "According to you, the police already know there's a maniac out there. And they haven't charged Piersall with any of the crimes."

"That's just the point," she said. "They know if they charged him they'd look stupid. What better alibi could a man have than to be in prison when it happened?"

"And it's not a copycat either," Hauser said. "There was nothing in the papers about that 'signature' thing. Nothing."

"But you know about it," Belinda said. "And once you print it, the pressure's gonna be on."

"I don't know about it," Hauser said. "Don't get me wrong— I'm not saying it wasn't like that. But I can't print a rumor— that's for guys with their own columns. Or the ones who take pipe jobs from friendly cops. I'm going to poke around on my own, see if I can find someone to corroborate your information."

"But you're gonna stay on it…?"

"To the end," Hauser promised.

"What about you?" Belinda asked, looking right at me. "Till the end of the week," I said. "Like we agreed."

Belinda wanted to be dropped off at the courthouse on Centre. We did that, then headed uptown.

"Something's real wrong," Hauser said suddenly.

"Pull over somewhere," I told him, seeing how tense he was, not wanting to wait to hear it.

Hauser found a spot just past Canal. He docked the four–by in one sweet smooth sweep. Parallel parking in a rig like that was no easy feat— I guess he could drive good enough when he wasn't talking.

I hit my window switch, lit a smoke. "Go," I said.

"I think she's involved with him," Hauser said. "I think it's personal."

"Because…?"

"Just little things, at first. The way she looked at him, certain things they said….like it was a coded language. And she wanted some time alone, at the end."

"So?"

"So I hung around. They went into the Conference Room— the one she was telling us about, for lawyers."

"And…?"

"And I got to talking with one of the guards. About this profile of corrections officers I'm planning to do for People magazine."

"That's a nice assignment," I said.

"Yeah." Hauser smiled. "Wish I had it. Anyway, I got a nice look inside that Conference Room. There was only the two of them in there…and they were going at it pretty hot and heavy"

"Hot and heavy— that means different things to different folks. Maybe they were just kissing goodbye."

"They were kissing all right," Hauser said. "And her hand was inside his pants. Somebody paid the guard….At least that's the way it looked. The one who let me take a look— he knew what I was going to see."

"There's a couple of ways that scans," I told him. "Maybe she started out working, then got herself all excited. Serial killers turn some women's cranks. Most of those freaks get more fan mail than rock stars. Ted Bundy, he got married on Death Row. Even that slime, the one who tortured kids to death out in Washington State, he had some women all worked up. You see it all the time— prison bars make some people hot. Cops fall for a suspect, guards risk their jobs for a prisoner. It happens."

"And the other way is…?" Hauser asked.

"That she knew him before, on the quiet."

"Either way— "

"Yeah," I interrupted. "Either way, she could be the one."

"Doing the… killings?"

"It wouldn't be a first," I told him. "Remember that guy Bianchi? He was half of a team— the Hillside Strangler, right? Wasn't there some crazy woman who tried a copycat murder to spring him?"

"Jesus."

"Yeah. Jesus. Me, I don't know. But it adds up, right? What do you think?"

"I think it's still a great story," Hauser said, his mouth set in a grim flat line.

"There's another player in the game," I told him. "When you get time, look through this." I handed him the copy of Morales' psych report.

He scanned it quickly. "This is…?"

"The cop who's been dogging my steps ever since I got on this one."

"You think…?"

"Read it for yourself," I told him, opening the door to get out.

When I called in late that afternoon, Mama told me Fortunato was looking for me. I didn't bother with telephones— it was easier to go over there. I grabbed the subway at Canal. My legendary luck held— a derelict was planted in one corner of the car I boarded, doing a great imitation of a time–release stench bomb. Every time he shifted position, a new wave of sickening odors wafted over everybody else. Everybody changed cars at the next stop, preferring the cattle–car crowding to the alternative. I went them one better— I changed trains.

Waiting for the F train at the West Fourth Street station is a group activity around rush hour. I drifted down toward the end of the platform, figuring I'd get a newspaper. The newsstand had a vast collection of porno magazines on display behind some yellowing Plexiglas. I looked them over, thinking that maybe Vyra was right. The magazines weren't about women at all, they were about body parts—Juggs, Big Butt, Gash — reminded me of those charts of cows they have in butcher shops, the ones with dotted lines separating brisket from tenderloin.

Because I didn't give a damn how long I waited, the F train rolled through smoothly, precisely on time, dropping me off at Forty–second and Sixth. I spent the ride admiring a new look— a black man with a perfectly sculpted short natural was wearing a robin's–egg blue tuxedo jacket over a pleated–front white shirt and knife–edged jeans, but that wasn't what was attracting all the attention. Instead of laces, his gleaming black shoes were held together by a row of gold collar bars— he just threaded them through the eyelets and screwed on each individual cap. Half a dozen teenagers were scoping the man's style. By tonight, avant–garde would be five minutes ago.

I climbed out of the subway and walked over to Fortunato's office, still taking my time. The receptionist took my name, picked up the phone, and buzzed me in a few seconds later.

Fortunato was at his big desk, a cigar already in his hand. I walked in, sat down. "You're looking for me?" I said.

"Yes. I wanted to…straighten some things out. Between us, I mean."

"What things?"

"Look, you may have gotten the wrong impression from our last conversation. Or I may have spoken out of turn. If I did…or if you took it that way, I apologize. I just wanted you to know that Julio always spoke highly of you. And when I said we knew who…was responsible for his death, I was speaking generically."

"What's that mean?" I asked, playing my role.

"It means we know where it came from, that's all. The direction it came from, not the actual person. And that's old business. Old, finished business. Are you following me?"

"I don't follow people unless I get paid," I told him. "And I don't like them following me."

He took a puff on his cigar. His hand was shaking, just a shade past a tremor, but easy enough to see— if you were looking for it. "I'd like you to stay on the case," he said. "George likes you. I do too. You've only got friends here, understand?

"Uh–huh."

"What do you say to two more weeks, same rate?" Fortunato asked. "No reports, no checking in…just nose around, see what you can find out. Do we have a deal?"

"When I get paid," I told him.

Soon as I saw his shadow, I knew I was in the wrong part of town— I'd never make it back across the border in time for a call to Mama to do me any good. I cut south on Park, working my way east, hoping to pick up the IRT local, give me a few options with each new station. I never got there— Morales caught up with me on Fortieth, wrapping a thick arm around my shoulders, chesting me into a parking lot, against the wall. His face was all blotchy, red and white— his eyes were swirling. I could hardly hear him talking through clenched teeth.

"You're in the big time now, huh, cocksucker?" he snarled, his face right in mine.

"What?"

"Don't you fuck me around!" he said, ready–to–snap tight. "Don't you play with me. Push me, just keep pushing me, I'll take your heart! Understand me? Got that fucking straight now?"

"Say what you got to say," I told him, as calm as he was crazed, the way you gentle your voice when a dog growls at you— a big dog, off–leash.

He nostriled a deep breath, mouth not moving. "Now you work for Raymond Fortunato, huh? You playing with gangsters, punk? Or, maybe, you're working on a special case? Am I getting close?"

"You'll never be close, Morales. For that, you'd have to have a clue."

"Oh, I got a clue all right, pussy. I got more than one. I know who hired you. And I know what for. Here's a free one— on the house. Walk away. Walk away fast, and don't look back, understand? You ain't a real player, Burke— you're just a fucking poker chip. Not even a blue one. Me, I'm gonna sweep the fucking table, see? Everything goes. You stay in it, you go too."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said quietly. "You're spooking at shadows. Maybe you oughta see a shrink."

I thought that last crack had done it. His eyes narrowed down so far I could only see a little piece of liquid in the folds of the sockets. A thick, violent vein pulsed in his neck. I could hear his teeth grind. Saw his right hand twitch, clenching and unclenching. I knew his pistol was close— I could feel how bad he wanted it.

A long three seconds passed. His hand came up so fast I didn't see it, an open–handed slap to the left side of my face. It rocked me— my hands came up on their own. Morales stepped back, an ugly smile on his face. "Come on, chiquita," he whispered. "Make it easy."

I dropped my hands.

"Maricón," he sneered. "I knew you was nothing but a no–balls cocksucking fucking faggot piece of shit."

I just watched him, back inside myself again. Back inside, where nobody could hurt me. I was good at it by now— I'd had plenty of practice when I was a kid.

I held Morales' glare, breathing shallow through my nose, calming myself in case he came at me again. If he did, I'd take it.

He hawked up a thick glob, spit it at my feet. Then he grabbed at his crotch, said "Pussy!" one more time and walked away.

I went down to Jersey to see Frankie fight that Friday— I got a ride down with Hauser.

"I didn't know you were interested in prizefighting," I said when he first mentioned it.

"I got to go down in that area anyway," he said mysteriously. "If you're sure you can get back on your own, no problem."

On the drive down, Hauser was uncharacteristically silent, not even rising to the bait when I tried to get him to speculate about Belinda.

I left the side window open, smoked in silence. We passed right by the Trenton exit, but it wasn't close enough to feel the heat.

We picked up the tickets the Prof had left at the door, found our seats just past the Golden Circle, where chumps get to sit at little tables and get called "sir" by the hostess the same way they do in the casinos.

Frankie was first on the card. I told Hauser I'd be right back, then I walked around to the locker room. Frankie was lying down on a table, face–up, a towel over his eyes. The Prof was talking a mile a minute. Clarence sat quietly on a bench.

"When he walks away, he's gotta pay, understand?" the Prof said. "Take what he gives you. He plays that way, break his back, Jack!"

"What's that all about?" I asked Clarence.

"This guy we are going to fight, he is very cute, mahn. He has this trick he used all the time in the amateurs. What he does, when it gets tough, he just turns his back and walks away….Then he spins and throws a right hand over his left shoulder. He has hurt many fighters with that move. My father, he wants our gladiator to chase him, stay very close, see?"

"Yeah. Frankie's in good shape? His mind is right?"

"His spirit is strong, mahn."

I walked out, leaving all three of them in the same positions as when I came in: Frankie lying back, the Prof whispering his incantations, Clarence watching. And watchful.

It was another forty minutes before they got it on. Frankie came into the ring first, wearing his black–and–white convict's stripes. He stood still, waiting, but I could see he'd already broken a good sweat. The Cuban's corner made Frankie wait, but they couldn't drag it out too long— Montez may have been undefeated, but he wasn't ranked— didn't even hold one of those cheesy belts they give out for showing up enough times in some states.

When he climbed through the ropes I could see he was much bigger than Frankie, looking even bigger in a white satin robe with glitter dust on the wide lapels. The announcer called out his weight at two twenty–nine, but he looked fifteen over that to me.

At the bell, Frankie came out faster than he had before, almost at a trot. He bounced into a crouch, came up firing with the right hand. Montez spun, catching it on the biceps. He stepped to the side, smoked a fast left jab a couple of times, then backed off. Frankie pursued, like he always did, but he was moving sharper now, more focused. He pinned the Cuban against the ropes, but the bigger man clinched and the ref took his time breaking them.

They got back together in the center of the ring, and Frankie went right back to work, throwing murderous hooks, his hips torquing every blow. Montez suddenly stopped, turned and just walked away….Frankie charged after him, throwing a long right that caught the Cuban in the back of his head. Montez put both hands on his head and tried walking away again— Frankie rammed a vicious shot to his liver, and Montez went down. Some of the spectators booed and hissed, but the ref started the count.

Montez never got up.

The ref raised Frankie's hand. Two of the Cuban's handlers jumped into the ring and started for Frankie….Frankie whirled to face them, a ghastly smile on his face. They stopped in their tracks.

"That's why it says Protect Yourself at All Times," the ref said to the Cuban's corner, loud enough for everyone to hear. "He turns his back, it's on him. There's no disqualification."

The crowd boiled a little bit, then simmered down.

"It's all right to do that? Hit someone in the back?" Hauser asked me.

"If they turn their back, sure. Otherwise, you could buy a breather anytime you wanted one…like calling a time–out."

"Okay," Hauser said, whatever sense of morality he had about the whole thing appeased. "I'm going to take off now— I'll get in touch with you in a couple of days. You know where to reach me if anything jumps."

"Same here," I said, signing off.

When I went back to the lockers, Frankie was already in the showers. I didn't see the guy he KO'ed anywhere around. That was good— sometimes boxers don't want to leave the fight in the ring.

"We smoked the dope," the Prof crowed. "We downed the clown. We got one, maybe two more to do, then we ride, Clyde."

"He looked good," I acknowledged. "Seems like he's faster too. Or sharper, maybe."

"It's all focus,"the Prof confided. "Frankie's on the case, Ace. He's gonna play that tune straight to the moon, I can feel it."

"Me too," I said.

"What's wrong, schoolboy?"

"Who said— ?"

"You don't need to say nothing, Burke— I can read your cards like they face–up."

I took a deep breath. Let it out. Spun it a couple of times in my mind. Then I said, "Here's what I know…so far," and told him the truth.

The ride back to the city was relaxed. Almost sweet with certainty, with triumphs assured. A future for Frankie…maybe one for us too. The Rover hummed through the night, Clarence at the wheel, the Prof riding shotgun. I was in the back with Frankie.

"I wish it would never be over," Frankie said.

"Tonight?" I asked him.

"Not that fight. I mean, not any particular fight. Just…fighting. I feel…right doing it. Like it's what I'm supposed to do."

"You can't fight forever," I told him. "You stay too long at the fair, you know what happens."

"Schoolboy's right," the Prof said, leaning over the back of the bucket seat. "This is about money, honey. We get the green, then we split the scene."

"I…guess so," the kid said. "I suppose I don't need to worry about it until the time comes, right?"

"Right," I assured him.

Saturday morning, I got up early. It was still dark out when I loaded Pansy into the Plymouth, figuring I'd give her a chance to run around a bit. I had plenty of time stretching out ahead of me— I was happy enough to take Fortunato's money, Piersall's actually, I supposed— but I wasn't going to do anything for it.

"Walk away," Morales had told me, so crazy–wild with rage that I couldn't even ask him what he meant.

But when the Prof weighed in on the same side, I knew it was the right one. "Some mysteries don't need solving, schoolboy," he said. "If the price is too high, just roll on by— with that stone–crazy motherfucker Morales in it, somebody's gonna die."

That's the thing about dynamite— once you got it lit, you better throw it away…fast.

I drove in a gentle, leisurely loop, checking the mirrors for tags, not surprised to find them empty. I went east on Houston, then south on Forsyth. I spotted a glowing dot of red. Refocusing, I could make out a pair of young men on one of the stoops. Very alert young men, sending off a signal as clear as a neon street sign flashing in the night— Keep Moving.

I drove the length of Allen Street. A hooker in black hot pants and yellow spike heels stepped off the curve, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and shot a hip at me in a halfhearted attempt to make one more score before it got daylight. At least a half–dozen working girls had been taken off that same block. Got into cars, got dropped off in the river. Streetside hooking, it's like playing roulette, with only the double zero paying off— the reason you don't see too many old hookers isn't because they lose their looks.

An old Chinese woman crossed in front of us at a light, a long pole across her shoulders with a bag suspended from each end. Like the yoke her ancestors had probably used in the fields— only this one helped her carry two giant clear plastic bags full of abandoned bottles. She was heading for the recycling center, where she could turn her harvest into cash.

I looked to my left. The cement railing next to me was topped with a line of wine bottles, carefully arranged like a menorah with the sacred Night Train as the center candle. The old woman passed them by without a glance— those bottles weren't any more recyclable than the losers who left them there.

Central Park had more room, but there had just been another bunch of rapes there. At that hour, it would be lousy with cops. Or should be, anyway. Besides, Pansy was a perimeter dog— she never ran far, even off the leash.

I took a left on Delancey, then cut left again on Chrystie, heading for this vacant lot next to the Manhattan Bridge. It used to be a hobo jungle, home to the homeless. A pair of activists had even pitched a big tepee there and lived in it— walking the walk, you had to give them that. But then some low–level drug dealer thought he'd been burned by one of the homeless guys. He came back at night with a few gallons of gas, did some burning of his own. One of the residents died. The city tore everything down, then bulldozed it. The evacuation was peaceful— the only way the cops would shoot to kill would be if the homeless occupied the stadium where they held the U.S. Open— sacred ground to our last pitiful excuse for a mayor. We got a new mayor now. The city's the same.

I parked on Chrystie and climbed out. Ahead was a stop sign. The only way you could turn was right— to the left was a one–way discharge road for traffic exiting the Manhattan Bridge. A good spot— perfect sight–lines in all directions. I snapped the lead on Pansy's collar and crossed Canal Street to the vacant lot. Pansy's huge head whipped back and forth, a low rumble came from somewhere inside of her.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked her.

She just growled some more. Looking down, I could see the fur standing up at the back of her neck. I swept the street with my eyes. It wasn't empty— it never is— but there wasn't anything spooky around.

Once we got across the street, I unsnapped Pansy's lead. She loped away from me, moving in wide figure–eight loops, checking out the territory. Legend has it that Neapolitan mastiffs came over the Alps with Hannibal— if they were all as clumsy as Pansy, I'm surprised they didn't flatten the mountains. She crashed through piles of litter with abandon, occasionally scaring up a rat. She wasn't fast enough to catch one, and none of them were stupid enough to hang around, so every bout ended in a draw.

I leaned against what was left of a metal railing, lit a smoke, watching the morning light break over the top of the tenements to the east. Pansy appeared and disappeared over and over again in the shadows, her dark–gray coat blending perfectly. I heard the motorcycle before I saw it, the unmistakable sound of a Harley backing off through its pipes. The rider didn't even slow at the stop sign, just downshifted and turned left, going against one–way traffic, heading right for me. The driver's head was covered with a dark helmet and full face shield, but I knew who it was.

Morales pulled up to the curb. Sat on his bike watching me through the face shield for a long minute before he turned off the engine. He climbed off the bike slowly, pulled the helmet off his head with both hands. He kept those hands empty as he closed the ground between us, moving with the confidence of a man who could handle anything he was likely to run across. Which told me one thing for sure— he hadn't seen Pansy.

But I had. The big dog started to amble over to me. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay"— she stopped dead in her tracks, rooted and alert.

I turned to face him, keeping my hands well away from my body. He came closer, pulling down the front zipper of his leather jacket, taking his time.

"What?" I asked, opening my hands wide in the sign language for that question.

He halted a few feet away from me, grabbed his left wrist with his right hand, spread his legs wide to brace himself. "You're slicker than I thought," he said, his voice strangely calm.

So are you, I thought— tailing me on a motorcycle was smarter than I gave him credit for. "I can't keep doing this," I told him aloud. "Guessing what you're talking about every time."

"That's okay, punk," he said. "I'll do the math for you. I can't be in two places at once, you already figured that out for yourself. And you know I'm working solo too, right? You're a slippery sonofabitch, I'll give you that. You know I'm on you, so you use me for an alibi. I had the roles reversed— I guess you knew that too. I thought you were doing the work. Now I know better."

"You don't know anything better, Morales. Why don't you just lay it out, give me a chance to set you straight?"

"I'm already straight," he said, still relaxed. "It took me a while to put it together, but now I got it. And I'm gonna leave you on the street until I finish it. Leave you out here, dangling in the wind. Either you're running this whole thing or else you're just a tool. Don't matter to me— anytime I want, you're going down."

"You're out of control," I told him. "I don't know what you got your nose open about, but it isn't me. I'm not in it."

"It's gonna be real easy," he said. "Anytime I want. Just find you alone— like now. You wouldn't be the first ex–con who resisted arrest."

I made a waving motion with my right hand. Pansy broke out of the shadows and started walking toward me, rolling her shoulders, moving with more confidence than Morales could ever put out, a "You talking to me?" expression on her face. Morales' head spun on his thick neck. "What the— !"

Pansy kept coming, padding forward noiselessly. Not playing anymore— working. I pointed to my left, keeping my hand stiff. Pansy hit the spot, turned to face Morales.

"You better keep him back," Morales said, his right hand flickering against the zipper to his leather jacket.

"She," I told him. "Pansy's a girl."

"Pansy? Looks like you and the dog got your names switched. You sure her real name ain't Burke?" Morales sneered. Not giving ground, playing by jailhouse rules— you turn your back, you get stabbed. Or fucked.

"She's my girl," I said. "You see how it is. Don't do anything stupid."

"You better back her off," he warned. "She'd never make it…"

I stepped to my right, putting more distance between me and Pansy, widening the triangle, letting him see the truth. "I'm gonna say something to her," I told Morales. "Don't listen to the word— it don't mean what you think. She's gonna lie down, understand? Just relax…"

Morales took a step back with his right foot, ready to draw, but he didn't say anything.

"Pansy, jump!" I snapped.

The huge Neo dropped to the ground, but her eyes stayed on target, pinning Morales. She looked pretty harmless lying down, but I knew the truth— Pansy could launch out of that position as fast as a badger charging out of a burrow.

"You see how it is?" I asked Morales. "No way you get both of us. Not quietly, anyway. And it's gonna cost you something if you try."

Morales slipped his hand inside his jacket. Slow, watching Pansy, ignoring me. The pistol slid out. He held it against his waist, barrel pointing to the side. A semi–auto, not a revolver— I'd forgotten that they let NYPD boys carry nines now. "Take your best shot," he said. He was calm saying it— a hundred eighty degrees from the maniac I met in the parking lot a few days ago. Crazy then, calm now. Dangerous always.

"There is no shot," I said. "Like you said…another time, right?"

"I can get you alone. Anytime. Get you where there aren't any witnesses."

"That's what the Rodney King cops thought too," I said.

A thin smile played over his lips, but his ball–bearing eyes pinned me as tight as Pansy's pinned him. "I don't know how dirty you are," he said. "I don't know exactly what you done. So I'm gonna do you a solid— for old times' sake. Drop this shit, Burke. Drop it now. Stand aside. Don't get in my way."

"You want me to stay away from this Piersall thing, you got it," I told him. "I wasn't really gonna— "

"You know what I mean," he said. "Don't pull my chain. You chumped me off, but you can't middle me. There is no motherfucking middle on this one, understand?"

"Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Do the right thing," he said in his piano–wire voice. "Do the right thing. Or else, the next time you see me, you're gone, understand?"

"No," I told him, as honest as I'd ever been with a cop in my whole life.

"Then you're a dead man," Morales said, backing away.

I snapped my fingers. Pansy came to her feet, walked over to stand beside me. Morales straddled the bike, switched on the engine. He pulled on his helmet, watched us through the face shield for a while. Pansy watched back, immobile as stone. Morales suddenly twisted the throttle and the bike shot off, still going the wrong way on a one–way street.

Maybe I was too.

I picked up a Daily News on the way back to my office, read it through while Pansy was up on her roof, looking for coverage of last night's fight. Not a line— I'd have to wait for a later edition.

Morales said he'd been my alibi. All I could make of that was that he must have been at the fights. Didn't make sense. He could tail me around lower Manhattan early in the day easy enough, especially if he didn't care about red lights or one–way streets. He had my car pegged. But so what? Even if he ran the plates, he'd only come up with Juan Rodriguez, the guy who lends me his car whenever I want. Juan Rodriguez is a hell of a citizen. Pays his taxes, stays out of trouble.

I'm Juan Rodriguez. It's not illegal to change your name if there's no intent to defraud. I did it a long time ago. Got a lawyer, did it right. You fill out this petition, explain why you want the name change. Then you publish a public notice that you're doing it, so if any creditors are out there they can move on you.

Actors do it all the time. Some people just don't like their names. Jews used to do it so they could get jobs. Irish guys did it so their mothers wouldn't know they were prizefighters instead of dock–workers. It's no big deal. Costs a few hundred bucks and then you're done.

When I filled out my petition, I said I wanted to honor the foster family who took me in when I was a kid. The judge liked that— it showed respect.

The foster parents I had when I was a kid, their name wasn't Rodriguez. And if I ever found them, I'd pay my respects all right…show them how well I learned what they taught me.

So I changed my name. From Anderson to Rodriguez. The only place I ever saw "Burke" written down was on my birth certificate. Baby Boy Burke, it said.

A train of lies, running on a crooked track. When I ran from that foster home, they locked me up. They kept doing it until I learned how to survive out here. Learned from the Prof, mostly.

"Stay low, bro— low and slow. Walk light, keep out of sight," he'd told me. I did just that, switching names, switching games. I'd used up the Anderson name years ago— too many people wanted to know how to find him. Rodriguez was the next step.

There'd be others. I know how to do it now.

Morales could find all that out if he did the work, but it wouldn't bring him any closer.

No way he had me on 24–7. He'd told the truth about working solo. He didn't have a partner anymore— the psych report would have chilled that for sure. And even if he was on the rubber–gun squad, he'd have plenty of free time. And his own collection of unregistered pieces too.

I'd met Hauser near his office. Took the subway there. And I didn't come back with him. Unless Morales had a partner— hell, lots of partners— he couldn't have done it. When you take a subway and have a car waiting at the last stop, the trail goes cold.

So he knew about Frankie. That was the only way. He could have stumbled across it, just following me, but I didn't think so. It had to be something else. We didn't have a written contract with Frankie— it was a handshake deal. I couldn't work it through, how Morales would have figured it out. But he had to know— so that's the way I'd play it.

It was a little past noon when I walked over to Mama's. I didn't much care if Morales picked up my trail from there. In fact, part of me wished he would…something about that "alibi" crack he'd made earlier. For once in my criminal life, I'd be happy for some surveillance

On that Saturday afternoon in late September, I was as legit as I'd ever been. All paid up— clean, sober, and square. Dead even. Unless you looked back into my life— then I was dead wrong.

Before all this started, I thought I knew Morales. Not the way you know a man, the way you know an animal, know their limits. Dogs could be vicious or they could be sweet…but they could never fly. That's the way I knew Morales. He was an over–the–top, head–breaking, bend–the–rules, shake–and–flake, never–take, blue–badged dinosaur street–beast. He might shoot drug dealers in the back, but he wouldn't take money from them. "He's so honest he squeaks," McGowan told me once. "Those IAD quislings don't even give you a look, you're partnered with a guy like that— they know he'd arrest you his own strange self."

Could I see Morales as a killer? Sure. In spades. He was high–tension taut, so tight he was brittle. It wouldn't take that much to snap him out, send him off.

It wasn't just the psych report. When he'd braced me in the past, it was always a game. Macho–posturing, make–my–day crap. He was hostile, but always on the safe side of rage. In that parking lot in Midtown, he was stressed way past full boil. Before, he'd been calm. Not centered, the way Max is, but still within himself.

Nobody could switch like that. Unless…I threw it out as fast as it came up. Morales was no multiple personality— near as I could tell, he didn't even have one.

The white–dragon tapestry was flying in Mama's window. I went in the front door, just in case Morales was watching. Mama wasn't at her register— her post was covered by Immaculata, dressed in one of those Mondrian silk dresses she wears every once in a while.

"What's up, Mac?" I asked her.

"Mama is in the back," she said. "With Flower. Teaching her. I can do my work anywhere," she said, flicking a long–nailed hand at a stack of paper, probably case–summary reports on some of her clients. "So I told her I wouldn't mind taking the front."

"How's business?" I asked her.

"Booming," she replied. "Unfortunately. Hard times only increase stress— a lot of marginal families lose it when the money gets too hard to find."

Immaculata works with abused children and, sometimes, their families. "Mama's business, I meant," I told her, not wanting to get into Immaculata's stuff.

"Who knows Mama's business?" She smiled.

I walked into the back, looking for Mama. Nothing. I asked a couple of her so–called cooks— they gave me blank looks in exchange. I started for the basement. One of the cooks held up a "Stop!" hand. The guy by the back door said something in Cantonese. The cook halting me stepped aside.

At the bottom of the steps, I spotted them. They were seated at a black lacquer table that was much higher on Mama's side than the child's. The table didn't slope— it had been built with a stagger in the middle, like a stair step. I walked over quietly, not wanting to disturb the clear silence. Mama's part of the table held only a black vase with a single white lily standing. She rested one elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her hand, watching Flower. The little girl's tabletop had a stone inkpot, a pad of blotters, and some sheets of heavy, textured paper. Her hand held an ivory stylus. They both looked up as I approached and I could see they were dressed alike, in matching kimonos of plum–colored silk with a black design on the left chest wrapping around to the sleeve.

"I apologize for disturbing you," I said, bowing slightly

"It is okay," Mama said, nodding her head in acknowledgment. "Almost time to rest. Have tea, yes?"

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank you,"Flower said, giggling. "My hand hurts."

"What are you working on?" I asked the child, squatting down so my face was level with hers. I could see both Immaculata and Max in her face— and I gave silent thanks that she was clearly going to favor her mother.

"Calligraphy," Flower said gravely, pronouncing the word with all the assurance of her seven years.

"Very important," Mama said. "First others', then your own— that is the way."

"I don't get it," I told her.

"We are learning haiku," Mama told me. "Very good discipline. Very important for balance. We practice the old ways, to master them,"

"When I learn to write properly, I can write my own words," Flower said, repeating a past lesson with pride.

"Yes," Mama said. "Haiku is search for perfection. Each person has his own. All life, you work on it. Perfection is not what you ever get…"

"…it is what you reach for," Flower finished for her, a grin on her little face.

"Yes!" Mama said, returning the child's smile.

"I thought haiku was Japanese," I said to Mama.

"Copy," Mama hissed. "Copy like they copy everything else. All root knowledge is from Chinese— they only copy."

"I understand," I said quietly, switching off the subject before Mama got wound up. Stupid of me to forget Mama's prejudices. It took me years to understand that tribalism was stronger than racism could ever be, I learned it in Africa, but sometimes I forget. "What haiku are you doing?" I asked the child, looking over her shoulder at the meticulous characters she had drawn, surprised to see them in English.

"I am just practicing now," Flower said gravely. "So that the pen becomes my thoughts."

"This very old haiku," Mama said, pointing to the original from which Flower was copying. "Haiku is precise. Always five, seven, five. Syllables. In English, must be the same."

I looked over her shoulder. The words were written on rice paper that looked older than me. Written in a sharp–edged calligraphic hand. Mama's?

the ferret, hunting,

eyes on the ground, never hears

footsteps of the hawk

"You understand?" Mama asked, watching my face.

I stood there a long time, watching the haiku until it turned liquid in my vision. "Yes," I told her, bowing.

Getting what I came for.

Upstairs, we all sat at my table in the back. Mama brought tea for everyone. She knows I hate the stuff, but I sipped it anyway, not wanting Flower to learn anything bad from me. Immaculata smiled slightly, raising her eyebrows as I sipped.

"Very good lesson today," Mama said to Immaculata.

"Thank you, Mama," Immaculata said. "Max and I are very grateful for what you teach our daughter."

"My daughter too," Mama said. "Granddaughter, yes?" It wasn't a question— she didn't expect an answer.

"Max teaches you too?" I asked Flower.

"Yes. My father is a wonderful teacher," she said, quickly glancing sideways at Mama to see if she'd accidentally offended the dragon lady— it was easy enough to do.

"He teaches you to fight?" I asked her.

"Everybody fights," Immaculata put in. "Max is teaching her one way to do it. Understand?"

"Yes," I said, nodding my head. I'd never been a champ at talking to women, but three generations in one sitting was making me blunder even more than usual.

"Flower teaches too," Immaculata said. "She taught Max some signs."

"How could— ?" I started to say.

"When she was just a little baby," Immaculata went on as if I hadn't spoken, "when she would cry to be picked up, she would always wave her little hands. I thought it was just random movement, but, one day, she moved her hands when she wasn't crying. And Max went right over and picked her up. She knew. He did too. She has all kinds of signs now. Signs of her own. Only she and her father use them. I am very proud," Immaculata said formally, her eyes wet.

Flower reached across and held her mother's hand— it wasn't just Max's signs she could read.

I spent the rest of that Saturday in my office, hunting in my head. No matter how I spun it out, I came up empty.

When I looked up, it was dark. I split whatever was left in the refrigerator with Pansy, smoked a cigarette to settle my stomach and lay back on the couch, eyes closed.

There's a few light–years' distance between fantasy and replay— the distance between imagination and imagery. Doc once told me about a guy he had in the max–max loony bin Upstate. A big black guy named Norman. This Norman, he stabbed a lot of people— that was his thing. They put a half–dozen diagnoses on him, with medication to match— nothing worked. So Doc detoxed him— brought him off the chemicals slow so he wouldn't crash.

And without the drugs, Norman was a real sweetheart— just kicked back in his cell all day long, a gentle smile on his face. It had all the shrinks puzzled. So Doc asks him, What's going on in there?

Norman tells Doc he goes to this planet every day. Time–travels inside his head. This planet, Ludar, he called it, it's a beautiful, peaceful place. The sky is rose–colored, and the grass is white, pure white, like snow. Everybody does something on Ludar. Norman, he was a farmer— he raised gold— it grows out of the ground on Ludar. Norman has a wife there. Some kids too. It's a perfect, holy place. Nobody starves, nobody's homeless. Nobody even gets mad.

So Norman's not really in his cell, see. He's on Ludar. He only eats twice a day. For fuel, so he can go back to where he wants to be.

Doc told me Norman really went there. He had so much detail that it had to be real. In his head, real. Doc told me he asked Norman, it sounded so perfect, could he go there too? Norman got real sad behind that. He really liked Doc, and he wished he could have given him better news…but most people couldn't go to Ludar— that's just the way it was.

So Doc started to trace it back, find out where Norman got his flight plan to Ludar. They had Norman when he was a kid, the same way they had so many of us. In one of the places they put him, Norman picked up a knife and started stabbing. That was to protect himself— even the guards knew that. Some of those kiddie camps, it comes down to the same two choices as prison.

So they started him on medication then— to gentle him down, keep him quiet. But it never worked. Sooner or later, Norman would start stabbing again.

Doc didn't bother too much with those paper–and–pencil tests— he just asked Norman flat–out: How come you stab so many people? Norman said they were keeping him from going to Ludar. They had no right to do that— he wasn't hurting anybody going there. That's when Doc put it all together. It wasn't people keeping Norman off Ludar, it was the medication. When the dose got too strong, Norman couldn't teleport himself off this lousy planet. So he started slicing and dicing. Then they'd switch his medication, and, for a while, he could go home. Doc wrote NO MEDS! on Norman's chart. And Norman, he never stabbed anyone again. He never got out of prison either, but it didn't matter. Norman was off medication. And on Ludar.

Fantasy is something you wish would happen. Flashbacks are something you wish never had. I didn't need an imagination to be somewhere else— I'd been there. All I had to do was remember, play the images out on my own screen.

I went there, stayed a long time. When I opened my eyes, it was early Sunday morning. I had nothing to show for my trip inside my head. And my back felt as cold as the killer's trail.

I went out to resupply. Came back with a pint of ice cream, a bag full of warm bagels, a thick wedge of cream cheese, and a quarter–pound of Nova lox. Pansy loves the stuff. Maybe she's West Indian in her heart and Jewish in her soul…although Mama insists she's a giant Shar–Pei.

I stepped out on the fire escape, standing well back in the building's shadow, invisible from the ground at that hour. When I finished the last bagel, I punched Mama's number into the cellular phone.

"It's me," I said.

"Two calls," she answered. "One man say his name J.P. The other was that woman."

"Either one say it was important?"

"Both say."

"Thanks, Mama. I'll call later."

"Watch the sky," she said, hanging up.

On the street, I looked around for a pay phone before I tried Belinda.

"What's up?" I asked her when she answered on the first ring.

"You don't know?"

"No. I don't fucking know. You wanna tell me?"

"Oh Jesus. Not on the phone. Can you meet me— ?"

"I don't have a car anymore," I told her.

"That's all right," she said. "I have one. You know…Wait! Are you on a safe phone?"

"In the street," I said.

"Yeah…okay. You know Benson Street? The alley behind the— ?"

"I know it," I told her. "What time?"

"Midnight, okay?"

"Okay."

I rode the underground to Midtown, got off a few blocks from Hauser's office. I tried a pay phone on him too.

"It's me."

"Where the hell have you been?" he barked, an urgent undertone in his voice. "Can you meet me— ?"

"Say where and when."

"My office," he replied. "ASAP."

The door to his office was slightly ajar. I pushed it open the rest of the way and crossed the threshold, rapping gently on the door at the same time. Hauser's eyes were on some papers on his desk— he jerked his head up sharply. "What'd you do, fly?" he asked.

"I was in the neighborhood," I told him. "What have you got?"

"Sit down," Hauser said, standing up himself. "This could take a while."

I took the seat he offered, lit a smoke, settled in. Hauser was pacing back and forth behind his desk. "Go," I told him.

"Those psych reports— the ones on this cop, Morales. You read them carefully?"

"Carefully as I could," I said, wary now.

"He's a Catholic. Did you see that?"

"Yeah, So what? There's all kinds of Catholics."

"Hispanic Catholics, they generally don't stray as far from the church as others."

"Nobody generally slaughters women either," I said. "Is that your idea of a connection?"

"You see where he doesn't have any kids?" Hauser went on like I hadn't spoken.

"Yeah. And if you're gonna tell me maybe he's gay and can't deal with it, I'm already on that trail."

"He's not gay," Hauser said, a dead certainty in his voice. "Did you look at the cross–references on the report?"

"There weren't any," I told him flatly. "I gave you everything she gave me."

"Yeah, there were," he said. "Look at the bottom of the last page."

I ran my eyes over the paper. All I could see was a small box outlined in black, like an obit:

VS = 1

LOD79–I = 2

HOSP80–Dx81–Rx = 3

"What's all that supposed to mean?" I asked him.

"The first reference is to vital statistics. Date of birth, parents' names, like that. Next is line–of–duty injuries. The last one is all hospitalizations, communicable diseases— any inpatient stays, including the E–Ward."

"Yeah, okay. But what good's that do us? Belinda never gave us— "

"She probably never had it," Hauser interrupted. "But there's more than one way to get documents out of One Police Plaza. Here, take a look for yourself." He handed over a long printout on thermal paper, like a continuous feed from a fax machine.

I ran my eyes over it, still coming up empty–handed. "Okay, so he was born in 1956 in Camden, New Jersey. And he had an operation to fix a hernia once."

"In the same place," Hauser said.

"In Camden? So what? Maybe he just likes the home–town doctors."

"I don't think so," Hauser said quietly. "I went down there myself. The next morning, after the fight. It wasn't a hernia operation he had in that hospital— it was a vasectomy."

"Okay. So?"

"So it was in 1982. After he was out of the Army— did you know he was an MP there?— and while he was on the cops. If it was an old hernia, the VA would have paid for it. And the cops damn sure would have— NYPD's got the best health–insurance plan in the world. So why would he go all the way down there?"

"Just to keep it a secret?" I asked him, puzzled. "What's the big deal about a vasectomy? I had one myself. It only takes a few— "

"He's a Catholic, Burke," Hauser said again, impatience showing around the edges of his voice. "A practicing Catholic. A vasectomy, that's birth control big–time. Permanent. Probably a Mortal fucking Sin, for all I know."

"So he's playing hide–and–seek with the church," I said. "How does that connect to what we— ?"

"How could he be gay?" Hauser asked, a tight urgency to his voice. "If he's not having sex with women, why would he worry about pregnancy? A vasectomy would stop him from making babies— it wouldn't have anything to do with protecting yourself against AIDS. There's no other reason to have one, right?"

Okay, so much for that brilliant theory, I thought to myself. "That's real interesting," I said out loud. "But I don't…"

"There was no DNA in the bodies of the murdered women, right?" Hauser said, excited now, his volume knob cranked up toward the high end. "And we figured, Piersall probably wore a condom…for the one on University Place. But the others, while he was in jail, there was no sperm in any of them either. A vasectomy would do that."

"You mean…?"

"DNA only works on nucleated material," Hauser said. "I checked it out. Blood, sperm, skin tissue— that'd all do it. But there's no DNA in seminal fluid, understand? Even with a vasectomy, you still discharge, don't you?"

"Sure," I said. "You just shoot blanks."

"And they can't get DNA from that. So…it could be she's right. It could be that Morales is our guy."

"Our guy for the other murders?"

"Our guy for this one," Hauser said, tossing a copy of the Sunday News at me. I looked down at the headline he'd circled in red:

The headline said something about a "Society Murder" but I didn't linger on it, just flashed down to the facts. Loretta Barclay, wife of shipping magnate Robert Barclay, was found in the pool house of her Scarsdale mansion by the maintenance man early Saturday morning. She'd been killed sometime late the night before, while her husband was in Bermuda, finalizing some international deal. She'd been stabbed repeatedly, well past what it would have taken to kill her. There were "signs consistent with a sexual assault," according to the cop they quoted. Nothing of value had been taken from the house or grounds. The police had no suspects.

"What makes you think Morales— "

"I got a friend up there in Westchester. A friend, not a source, understand? A state trooper. They think it was someone from the woman's past…something about another identity. But that's a blind alley, I think. There's something they found— something that didn't make the papers."

He stepped closer to me, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. "They found a red ribbon," he said. "Inside the body."

I ran back to my cave, double–backing twice, making certain–sure I wasn't followed. Pansy could tell something was wrong. I spent a few minutes gentling her down— I wanted to work in quiet.

I should have figured it— Hauser is notorious for persistence. I know he ran a marathon once— no training, just did it. Took him almost five hours to finish, and a hell of a lot more time before the chiropractor was finished with him …but he did it. I had the right horse for the course, but my hand wasn't holding the reins— Hauser was going to run wherever he wanted. And as fast.

That's what I needed to do too— run. No matter how strong your backup, true surviving is always a do–it–yourself project.

I did the same thing I used to do when I was a locked–up kid— ran away in my mind. Not to Ludar— I was never that crazy— but to a place where they couldn't hurt me. I would look at a spot on the wall until it was all I could see. It would get bigger and bigger, then it would go deep, like it was three–dimensional. The first bunch of times I did that, it was like diving into a clear, deep pool, but one I could breathe in. As long as I stayed down, they couldn't hurt me. After a while, I realized I could do things down there. Think–things, mostly I could hold a question in my hands before I dived into the pool. Sometimes, when I came up, I had the answer.

Morales couldn't have done the murder up in Westchester County. He was watching the fights in Atlantic City. Watching me. He said he was my alibi— that he had watched the wrong man. So he must be thinking I was in on it, somehow. Maybe my job was to draw him away…get him off the scent?

No, that was stupid— I didn't know he was following me. And I damn sure couldn't rely on it.

So maybe Morales was telling me I was off the hook. He knew I couldn't have done the killing— he was right there with me— the timing couldn't work.

Was he doing me a favor, warning me off?

Why would he?

It didn't make sense— didn't add up.

Unless…?

I sat in front of a mirror, looking into the red circle I'd painted on it years ago. The spot widened, got deeper. I took that Unless in my hands and dived in.

The answer came— so fast and hard that it knocked me right back to the surface.

Unless Morales had never been in Atlantic City at all.

Unless he was sharper than I ever thought— planting the lie deep.

Unless I was his alibi.

I took the subway to within a few blocks of a taxi garage in the Village. Luck was with me— the dispatcher I usually deal with was on duty. I showed him my Juan Rodriguez hack license. He nodded, not saying a word. I handed him four fifties— he handed me an off–the–books cab. The deal was always the same: I'd keep the cab for twenty–four hours or less. When I returned it, I'd also hand over whatever was on –the meter. The dispatcher would keep that, plus the two bills. An expensive rental, but a perfectly anonymous, untraceable one— in this city, a yellow cab is invisible.

I pulled out of the garage and was waved down almost immediately. A guy and his girl wanted to go to an address in the East Nineties. I dropped them off, said "Thank you, sir," for the nice tip, and grabbed the FDR for the Willis Avenue Bridge.

Soon as I hit the Bronx, I flicked the "Off Duty" overhead lights on. That wouldn't surprise anyone— a Yellow Cab might…sometimes…take a fare to the South Bronx, but it would never pick one up there. If you were a Yellow Cab driver, getting back into Manhattan was all you thought about— the Bronx was for gypsy cabs.

I parked in front of the gym, locked it up and went inside.

"Greetings, my friend," Clarence said, peacocking in a tangerine linen jacket over an emerald green silk shirt.

"The Prof inside?" I asked him.

"Only temporarily, mahn. The workout is over. We will all be leaving soon."

"I'll wait out here," I said.

"You are troubled?" the young man asked. "Can I— ?"

"No, it's okay, Clarence. I just need to ask the Prof something."

"If it is a question, my father will have the answer," he said confidently.

I heard the Prof before I saw him, rattling on about the next fight. When he spotted me, he dropped the rhyme–time patter, closing the space between us quickly.

"What is it, Burke?"

"I gotta talk to you," I told him. "This thing…it's getting out of control."

"Come on," he said, gesturing to Frankie and Clarence to follow The Prof led the way outside to the loading dock. He and Frankie sat down, Clarence stood, not wanting to risk a blot on his outfit. I gave the Prof a look, sliding my eyes just slightly to the right, where Frankie was sitting.

"He's with us," the Prof said, saying it all.

"I need some cover," I told him. "Tonight. In the Benson Street alley, behind the Family Court downtown. I'm supposed to meet her at midnight. And the wheels are coming off."

"Coming off what, schoolboy?"

"Morales has been on me—dead on me— for a long time now. There was another killing, up in Westchester. Same night as the fight, but real late, after midnight. I didn't know about it— it didn't make the papers, not the early ones anyway. Morales moved on me Saturday morning. He said he was at Frankie's fight. Watching me, all right? He said I was gaming him— that he was my alibi for the killing."

"He thinks you…?"

"Prof, I don't know what the fuck he thinks. First I thought he was accusing me of being in on it…like this Belinda was my partner or something. He warned me off…said everyone around would be going down."

"Cop's doing you a favor?" Prof sneered. "That's a natural–born lie."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. Except that…up in Westchester, the killer left the signature…the red ribbon inside the body. No way Piersall did it, so it had to be Belinda, right?"

"Or this guy Piersall, he's really innocent…" the Prof mused.

"Sure," I said. "He pulls some hooker out of a truck stop in Jersey, cuts her up for the sex–fun of it— few weeks later, he's rehabilitated? No way— it has to be Belinda. She's got something going with Piersall— Hauser saw it."

"If you're sure, then— "

"But what if it was Morales?" I said, confusing myself even more than the Prof. "What if he's skating? What if he wasn't down in Atlantic City at all? He could be setting me up to be his fucking alibi, right?"

"If that's true, he has to know about Frankie," the Prof said. "Unless he's got partners, he couldn't— "

"He's got no partners," I said. "I'm sure of it— he's out there by himself."

The Prof regarded me steadily, his dark–brown eyes gentle on mine. "This ain't us," he said. "I got no beef with an honest thief. You want to rob, it's just a job. You can steal, still be for real. But when you hurt folks for fun, it's time to run or gun, son."

"I'm with you," I said. "And I'm all for running. But I'm not gonna do it blind. Whoever it is, they got their eyes on me. There's no sense in getting out of town. I'm safer here— more places to slip into. There's a big piece missing. I find it, I can get lost, understand?"

"Okay, we do it today," the Prof said. "Let's get rolling. You want Clarence to stay with— ?"

"No, I'm okay," I said. "That cab over there's mine— for a while, anyway. If you can do the other thing, cover me tonight— "

"You're covered, homeboy," the Prof said, leaping lightly off the loading dock to the ground.

"I'm in too," Frankie said.

"You don't know what this is about," I told him.

"I know about taking a partner's back," the kid said. "I mean, I heard about it. I never saw it myself, not till you guys came along." His eyes cut off the ring, holding me in place. "I'm in," he finished in a flat no–argument voice.

The Prof nodded. Frankie jumped to the ground. We stood together in the shadow of the building, not talking. It felt like the prison yard: standing around, huddling against the chill that was always there, even in the summertime. Gun towers somewhere above us, the real danger right there on the ground, surrounding us even tighter than the filthy stone walls.

I cupped my hands to light a cigarette, using the few seconds to scan, an old prison–yard habit. The match flickered bright red in my hands. A different flash in the corner of my eyes, silver. What the…"Down!" I yelled, driving my shoulder into Frankie's chest, taking him down with me. His body spun just as I hit him, a split–second before I heard the shot. I stayed on him, trying to flatten against the ground. Chips flew from the brick wall over our head. A quick burst of shots rang out, so close they blocked my eardrums. Clarence, lying prone, his pistol held between two hands braced on his elbows. Sounds of a car peeling out.

Then it was quiet.

"High on the shoulder," the Prof said, kneeling over Frankie. "In and out," he said, pointing to Frankie's leather jacket.

"I'm…okay," Frankie said, biting into his lower lip.

"You see them?" I asked Clarence.

"No, mahn. Just the car. A dark car. Sedan. I may have hit it— I don't know."

"Let's get him to the hospital," I said. "Quick, before the cops come."

"In this neighborhood?" the Prof sneered. "Don't worry about it. We'll get him over to Lincoln, tell the Man it was a drive–by. Kids in a Jeep, random fire— you know how it goes. Get in the wind: we'll be there tonight."

Nobody had said anything, but we all knew— Frankie wasn't the target. Somebody out there had me in their sights— somebody way past threats. Whoever it was, they knew about Frankie. Knew about the gym. Maybe knew about Atlantic City.

Homicide fixes things. I used to believe in it, like a religion. But when you deliver a murder, it always comes wrapped in razor–wire— you handle it wrong and it cuts deep. And any mistake you make is the only one you get.

Guns are too easy. They make it too easy. Squeeze a trigger, take a life.

Even if I could make myself do it, I'd be guessing. It could be Belinda. It could be Morales.

And if I guessed wrong, I'd be dead twice.

There's a special curse reserved for Children of the Secret. We decide to survive, to pay whatever that costs. Some of us turn dangerous, but that's not the real curse. The real curse is friendly fire— when your hate turns your aim wild and you cut down anyone who tries to be on your side.

I never thought I'd do that. I would rather die than hurt anyone in my family— my true family. A family of truth, not of biology.

I never had a parent until the State took me. And what they did to me, I will never forgive. If the State was a person, I would have killed it a long time ago. Killed it or died trying, I have that much hate in me.

Sometimes it spills over. I don't feel anything about those killings in the Bronx years ago. I don't feel anything about going into that house. I don't pretend anymore— I don't pretend I went in there to save a kid. I went in there for me, focusing my hate down so narrow it lasered right through the darkness. When I was done, a dead kid was in the pile of bodies I'd made.

Ever since, I've been trying to blame the State for that too. But I knew better. And maybe Morales did too.

About eleven that night, I was still thinking about it. I have guns. Cold guns, impossible to back–track to the source. Fine guns, in perfect working condition. And I know where to get more, That used to be a feat in this city, but any punk can get one now— it's a fashion accessory, part of the Look.

Don't get me wrong. New York has gun–control laws. Real tight ones too. You want to carry a pistol, you have to have a damn good reason— like being a rent collector for a slumlord or needing something to show off at penthouse parties. If you work in a dangerous neighborhood, you can probably carry a piece legit. But if you live in one of those neighborhoods, that's too fucking bad, Jack.

Getting my hands on a gun was no problem. But I couldn't do it. Not out of guilt, out of fear. Afraid of what I might do…start fixing things with bullets. I had tried that. Tried real hard. But the only thing I could kill with guns was people.

And not the people who had hurt me so deep when I was a kid, only secondhand substitutes.

I took a long piece of razor–edged dull–gray plastic out of my desk drawer. One end was wrapped in friction tape, double–sided so it would be sticky wherever I grabbed it. The way you use it, you stab deep, then you twist it, hard. The plastic will cut into anything, but it snaps real easy— you leave a big chunk inside.

I took my old army field jacket down from a hook. It's a burglar's special, custom–made by a tailor I know over on Broome Street— the old man's been making them for years. It's got a Kevlar lining, several thin layers— for bullets. The sleeves are heavily padded, with a layer of chain mesh inside. That's for dogs— no matter how well they're trained, most of them will take a sleeve if it's offered. The inside pockets are perfect for stashing stuff like jewelry or cash. But it wouldn't hold a stereo or a TV set— an outfit like this isn't for amateurs.

I slipped the plastic knife into the left sleeve, anchored it in place with a piece of Velcro loop. The jacket is designed to get past any street cop's pat–down— no bulges. The knife didn't show. Neither did the speed key for handcuffs resting flat just under the back panel.

There's a place for a set of lock picks, another for a couple of pairs of surgeon's gloves with the talcum powder already dusted on their insides. I left the lock picks, kept the gloves.

I climbed into a pair of chinos, pulled them down over a pair of work boots. Not for construction work, for my work— thick crepe for the soles, steel caps for the toes.

You see kids dressing this way all the time now: big baggy pants, torn sweatshirts, clunky lace–up boots. Industrial–look gear, it's the in thing now. Makes sense when you think about it. Kids copy the life style, not the life. A while back the boys were all sporting thick gold–chain ropes, four–finger rings, ultra sunglasses. Even fake beepers. All to look like drug dealers, the ultimate ghetto role model. Those kids didn't deal drugs— and the ones modeling industrial gear this year don't work jobs either.

In America, the more useless it is, the more we love it. Those monfucious 88 Double–D cups you see on some of those poor little bitches who went way over the top with the implants so they could be headliners in the strip bars— you think they're there so those girls can nurse entire litters?

Amateur criminals are like thrill–killers. All they really get out of crime is a sick little buzz— that's their pathetic loot. You show me some geek night–stalking in a Ninja outfit, I'll show you a full–race disturbo. The first rule of stalking is to blend. When I walked out the door that night, I looked like just another ex–soldier in the army of disconnected men who pound the pavement until they merge with it.

Me, I was going to work.

It takes a different head to use a knife. Guns, they're a video game you play in your head. A knife is personal.

If it was Belinda, if tonight was when it happened, the knife would have to do. Harder to make a mistake when you're working close.

I walked up Broadway in the opposite direction from the traffic flow, stopping in doorways to scan behind me. It looked clear. Felt that way too.

I made the right into Leonard Street, staying on the south side of the block so I could see into the alley. No cars. Just the usual soggy piles of litter around the pair of big blue Dumpsters awaiting the early–morning pickup.

Leonard Street runs past the Criminal Court on Centre, then crosses Lafayette past the Family Court. It's a one–way street. Most folks could say the same thing about the courts.

I watched the alley mouth. Usually you could see right through to Franklin Street on the other side, but the view was blocked by a pair of semis, backed in side–by–side, like they were waiting for the off–loaders. I wasn't going in there until I saw her. With the semis parked at one end, it was even more of a box than usual— it'd be too easy to block the opening and just hose it down.

I could make out the outline of a homeless man. He was lying on a bed of flattened cartons, shrouded by a tattered old parka, about ten feet away from the alley's entrance. Couldn't tell if it was the Prof, but I figured that for his best spot. I watched the man steady for a few minutes— he didn't move.

It was quiet in the street. All the action was a few blocks away in either direction. To the east, night arraignments at the Criminal Court— a dull–gray mass that squeezed everyone tight, sometimes extruding a lucky chump, mostly just grinding, grinding. To the west, the whole bullshit "downtown" scene, with its grunge–dressed club kids all looking exactly the same different.

A few minutes before midnight, a white compact— Toyota? Honda? no way to tell— nosed its way around the corner from Lafayette. The car slowed, came to a stop just past the alley, then reversed and backed in. Backed in deep— if you passed by the alley, it would be hard to spot. The headlights blinked off. The driver's door opened. The interior light came on. One person inside— or maybe just one person visible above the windshield line.

Someone got out, wearing a bulky jacket and a slouch hat. Belinda? Hard to tell in that light— I gave it a little more time. Whoever it was took off their jacket, then bent forward and leaned on the car's front fender. Then they extended one leg backward, flexed it. Did the same to the other. Like warm–up exercises for a race. When my night vision kicked in, I could see it was her. When she turned sideways and stretched, reaching her hands way over her head, I was sure.

I slipped out of the doorway, walked back up the block, crossed the street and started back down. When I got to the alley, I turned and walked in.

"Hi!" she said when she spotted me, pulling the hat off her head and waving it like I might have to pick her out of a crowd. It would work just as well as a signal to someone across the street, but I was already committed…had to trust my own backup.

I kept walking, closing the distance between us.

"Thanks for coming," she said, her voice a little higher–pitched than usual.

"Like I promised," I said in reply.

"You want to sit inside?" she asked. "It's getting a little nippy out here."

I didn't answer, just walked over to her car and opened the door. The light went on inside— the car was empty. "You leave the keys in the ignition?" I asked.

"Sure. How come…?"